This post is for everyone who thinks my life is all glamour and rainbows. (In other words, there's really no one who should be reading this.)

I stink.

No, seriously. Not in a "wow, I really suck" kinda way. But in a "wow, I am really offending myself with the stench that is sort of surrounding me a in a cloud of funk" kinda way.

I stayed home sick today. Did all the things you do when you're home sick: laid in bed, watched daytime tv, napped, woke up, watched more daytime tv, got out of bed, looked for food, and planted myself on the couch.

I also did none of the things you wouldn't do when you're home sick: like, shower, brush my hair, brush my teeth, get changed. (btw? there are too many conflicting negatives in that opening sentence. I am confused.)

Another bad MS day, you ask?

NO!

Psh.... MS I can handle. MS is my bitch by now. In fact, MS is played out.

You guys? I have a serious fucking phlegm filled head cold. AND I AM ABOUT FED UP WITH IT.

I have been sick for almost two weeks. It started with laryngitis, which really? Not funny when you talk as much as I do. Then there was the cough. Then the phlegm. Oh for the love of all things holy, the phlegm..... And now it just won't go away.

I haven't slept in days because I can't stop coughing. And I can't stop blowing my nose. And I can't breathe. But really? Why stop there?

Now, the issue has become my nose.... it won't. stop. running. And yet? It's constantly clogged. But now it hurts from all the blowing. So I switched to tissues with "lotion". Which means my nose is slightly less angry-red-looking, but feels like it's slimy all the time. (Okay, slimier than the snot dripping orifice it has become.)

And better yet?? I have this let's-not-jump-right-to-calling-it-OCD thing about washing my hands. It's not a germ thing. It's a my-hands-don't-feel-clean-if-they-feel-like-there's-ick-on-them thing. And tissues - with lotion - that are immediately overwhelmed by phlegm at first blow? Leave my hands with that not-so-fresh-feeling. So now I am going through paper towels almost as fast as tissues and my hands are drier than usual.

So yeah, I burned a sick day for this. A phlegm filled day of not-showering, offending myself, nose-blowing, and hand-washing.

My life is truly a cabaret.

I am exhausted. And on my second drink. And exhausted. (this post likely won't make any sense.)

It's been two weeks since I left Valley Forge.

(There, I can say it now: Valley. Forge. or VF. or VFMA.)

((I am sure there are many less polite names for it as well.))

For as much as I bitched about it - and believe me, I did way more bitching in real life than I did on here - I managed to never mention the school by name.

(seriously, go back and look. I'll wait.)

((see???))

And now that I can mention it, I can say: I miss it.

I mean, I knew I would. I knew I would miss my guys and my coworkers - you may or may not have gathered that from my last post - but I didn't realize quite how much.

(hint: it's a lot.)

I guess I expected that some of the blow of being separated from my work family would be softened by getting to know my new work family. Problem is, they don't feel much like family. ("they" being the new school.... who will just be refered to as "not Valley Forge".... or NVF, for short.) And even if they were, I am clearly the misfit foster child.

Because seriously? I do *not* fit in.

I always knew I was a little outspoken. Maybe a little too honest. Never really had a filter. Definitely too snarky. And generally a little bit of the rule-breaker, boundry-pusher, I-don't-give-a-shit-what-your-policy-is-if-I-don't-think-it's-in-the-best-interest-of-my-student type of employee. The thing is: that worked out okay at VF.

I had my own little band of misfits who - apparently - understood the misfit in me as well. I didn't have to explain myself. (most of the time.) I didn't have to apologize. (okay, I chose to a few times though.) And I could drop the f-bomb in front of my boss. (who would then drop it in return. (true story.))

Where else do you find that?

(second hint: not at a public school.)

The thing is: I am a damn good counselor. I work hard. I go the extra mile. (or ten or ten thousand - whatever it takes.) I care.

But I am also a snarky, foul-mouthed, rule-breaking bitch.

(I say that in the best way possible.)

I can't help it! I can't be appropriate! I can't be professional! I'm just not effective that way.... think Carrot Top without the props....

Wait.

No.

No one should have to think of Carrot Top.

But really, it's who I am. I know it's unconventional, but unconventional doesn't mean ineffective. For me, it's quite the opposite.

And yet, they have me tucked away in this little cell of an old-school office.


(for real.)

And is that a "motivational" poster hanging on the wall....?



*vomit*

Why yes, yes it is.

*sigh*

(this place needs so much work.)

I'm still feeling pretty out of my element here. Not professionally - I can handle whatever shit they want to throw my way - but I have met very few of my coworkers. I get the feeling with the structure of the day here, I probably won't interact with many of them.

Which kind of sucks.

(Although, who knows, maybe they're all tools anyway.)

((and do they even speak "snark"?? Doubtful. They're too busy being all professional and such.))

My immediate coworkers - meaning the other counselors (because those are the only people I know) - are nice enough, but no one really seems to get me. I'm actually not sure why there were so many people at VF who did.... huh.... weird. But, it does make me miss the relationships I had there even more.

Maybe I am just way too unprofessional for the public system. Which means I have to either put up a better professional front.... or I have to bring the entire system down to my level.

Yeah, clearly I will be going with the latter.

On a lighter note though, I made some uber-girly ghetto curtains:

(and got rid of the motivational poster.... because really? don't insult me with your perky wholesome optimism.)

Plus, I tacked up a shit ton of pictures and clippings and things that generally make me feel a little more at home:

*sigh*

(this place still needs a lot of work.)

((it needs some cadets.... and misfit coworkers....))

But, in the meantime, I did happen to overhear one of the counselors sling a well timed jab at the administrative assistant and she replied with a quick "you dirty whore..."

I collapsed in a fit of giggles. Like the consummate professional I am.

(who knows, maybe there's hope for NVF after all.)

I wish I had something funny to say.

So, I'm sitting here and I can't stop this wretched leaking from the eyes.

(What the fuck eyes, knock. it. off. You're making the nose get in on the action too and that is just.... well, gross.)

In two days I leave the job I've been at for the last two years. And as much as I thought I wanted to leave? As much as I know I have to leave? As much as I know I am making the right choice? Wow. I never thought it would be so hard.

You know how you like to think that without you things would just fall apart and people would feel your absence like a palpable ache in their chest even though you know that's not going to be the case and in actuality you're the only one who's hurting?

Oh, just me then?

Believe me, I have left jobs that I have worked at for much longer than 2 years. I closed a business that I still have dreams about and awake with pangs of displacement that feel like I left something crucial behind while packing for a permanent vacation. But this place.... these last two years.... to say they have been the most intense of my life might be an overstatement... but not by much.

The unfortunate thing is that all my emotions about this place and these people are mixed up with all the emotions and reality of coming to terms with MS. Never will I be able to think about these last two years without the one being inextricably entwined with the other. And never will I be rid of the MS. It's just a big old pile of good and bad and happy and sad and funny and painful memories.... all balled up together.

Two years ago, I walked into this place without a diagnosis. MS was just a possible cause for some unexpected, and conveniently being ignored, MRI results. No, I was not sick. I was sinking my teeth into my first "real" counseling position and it was a challenge. The boys were needy, the parents were demanding and occasionally irrational, many of my coworkers were just as green as me. I was challenged. I didn't falter. I thrived.

However, I couldn't live in feigned ignorance forever. And the diagnosis came. Followed in swift fashion by the medications. And supplements. And symptoms. And side effects. And emotions. And insanity. And fear.

But the boys were just as needy, the parents just as out of touch with reality, and the coworkers had become friends. In some ways, a needed lifeline. To sanity. To strength. To humor. To perseverance. Because no matter how I was feeling? The days marched on. And I was needed, so I was there. I came to need all of them as much as they needed me. Maybe more. Probably more. I'm the one with the palpable ache, after all.

(seriously eyes, give it a rest! do you have any idea how hard it is to type in the dark and while crying?)

((answer: really hard.))

Now, two years later, I am leaving this place.... a changed person. A stronger person. A weaker person. A better counselor. (Actually, a damn good counselor.) A needier person. A snarkier person. A more real person. A scared and sad person. I am leaving all that forged me into this changed person and trying out the fit at a new place. Without support. Untethered. Unneeded. Afraid.

There are so many goodbyes I need to say. So many things I can't say without coming completely unglued. So little time to say them in, if I could.

So I will say them here, anonymously, and hope they find the people meant to see them.

I will miss you.
I will always love you.
I hope I am wrong.
I am so proud of you. (No, more proud than you realize.)
I will never forget you.
Thank you.
I will miss you.
Thank you.
You are stronger than you know.
I'm sorry.
We had fun, didn't we?
Good luck.
Your hug? made the whole year worthwhile.
Thank you.
I'm sorry we didn't have more time.
You always made me smile.
"What the fuck, Doyle?"
I wish things were different.
This is not the end.
Thank you.
I will miss you.
I will miss you.
I will miss you.

I will miss you.

I guess it's time to see how this new me fits - MS and all - in a new environment. But I will never forget the place and people that helped me figure out what this new MS version of me meant.

(not that I am 100% clear on that yet either... it's an ongoing process I suppose.)

((but it's time anyway.))

Sometimes one morning can be like a metaphor for my whole life.

hmmmm.... maybe I should wear a dress today. It's nice to look nice every once in a awhile. How are my legs...? Oh, yeah, going to need to shave.

Okay, legs shaved, yay me! Better moisturize.... hairy legs? bad. dry scaly legs? not much better.

Okay, legs moisturized, yay me! Let's go for the black dress. Black is slimming. Slimming is good.

Yay black dress! Let's go check this out in the mirror..... wait a.... wait.... what?

what. the. fuck.

I am not four months pregnant. The last time I wore this dress, I am pretty sure I didn't *look* four months pregnant. Why do I look four months pregnant?!??

(Sidenote, because I feel the need to clarify: This was not a "gee, the way this dress is all empire waisted makes it look like a maternity dress." This was a "the way this dress is clinging to my bloated midsection makes me look FOUR MONTHS PREGNANT!!!")

((Note to self: Invest in some spanx. Soon. Like, now.))

Okay, new outfit..... shit..... what am I going to wear? What doesn't make me look pregnant? Let's start with black pants then. Black is slimming. In theory. Slimming is still good. In theory.

Dammit! These underwear do *not* go with pants....

hmmmm.... okay, cute little black and white top with a black crop sweater...... whoaaaaaa..... too much cleavage. Cute little black and white top *with* a black camisole *and* a black crop sweater..... a black camisole that apparently can double as a sports bra...... ugh. Uni-boob. I might as well have an ass crack coming up out of the top of the schizophrenic camisole.

But.... I do like this sweater....

So, what can I wear with this bla.... wait, what's this thread here...? AAAAGGGHHHH! No! Stop unraveling!!! SHIT!!!! Stop pulling the thread!!!

Okay.... no time to sew the sweater..... or would that be knit the sweater....? darn the sweater....? Fuck it, if I don't know which it is, I don't know how to fix it..... unless.....

Ah yes, there, that staple is holding nicely.... and you can almost not see the silvery glint.... I mean, if you didn't know it was there..... hmmmm..... does this solution make me clever and resourceful....? Or just white trash....? No time to worry about it, I need a new shirt.....

This shirt...? Maybe....? Let me just.... go.... look....

*sigh*

Does this overly blousey midsection make me look pregnant....?

Fuck it. I'm going to work.

(Seriously? It's like I shaved my legs for nothing people.)

I like to feel pretty. Sue me.

So I am preparing to leave my current place of employment for another, less glamorous, position. Yes, yes, I know... what's so glamorous about a boys-only military school? Um, well, not much really. It perpetually smells like boy funk. And really? There's a fine coating of spit over every single floor, walkway, stairwell, etc. I won't even get started on the penis drawings in the bathroom.

(Wouldn't you think, being boys, they would draw, oh, I don't know.... boobs?)

Um, you'd be wrong. I call this piece "Penis in Water on Sidewalk." It's quite inspired, really. I'm just not sure what the thing above it is.... a turtle maybe? a beetle? Who knows. Maybe I don't want to know.

My point is, a school full of teenage boys = not so glamorous, I know. But.... it made me feel glamorous.

See? here's the thing. In a public school, there are an absurd number of teenage girls to make me feel simultaneously old/fat/wrinkly/incredibly smart. (hey, not everything about getting older is bad. just sayin.) Plus, there is a TON more faculty. The chances of my ranking among the "good-looking" of said faculty goes down the higher numbers I am competing with.

(yes, I said "competing".... this is my post, just let me explain.)

((I swear I have a point.))

At.... my current place of employment.... (I think I have avoided actually using their name anywhere on here previously and I'd like to continue in that vein.) I was pretty!! Or, at least, I was considered so.

How do I know?

Because I had to sit various boys down at different times throughout my first year there and explain what was appropriate, what was not, and that, though I may be nice, I will just as soon claw their eyes out if they didn't learn some respect.

(the talks went something like that anyway.)

By the second year, I only had to have one sit down.... but.... I have to say..... nothing better than using embarrassment as a learning tool. (You want to say what about me to your friends? Okay, say it to my face.) So, I would say my first year of numerous talks paid dividends in the second year.

However, only in a place that is so without female influence would I be considered a hot piece. (along with my few other female coworkers, some of whom I know endured inappropriate comments as well.) You see, in my head, this is what I look like:


In a female deprived environment? it was easier to go along with this delusion.

I will miss this delusion.

You see, in the real world - by comparison to the masses - this is more what I actually look like:

(that's right, you work it Rosie... I do that same thing to make it look like you can kinda-sorta-in-the-right-lighting see my cheekbones. RuPaul would be proud. Or appalled. Actually, I have no idea how he would feel, so never mind.)

So, now I'm heading back into a public school. Back into an environment that just begs to remind me of that awkward insecure teenager I was. Back into an environment where I have to rely solely on my charm, snark, intelligence, personality, talent....

Oh....

Wait....

I'll be fine.

;-)

(but, I will miss feeling pretty.)

MS is fucked up, you guys. Seriously.

(I am exhausting.)






Okay, so after bursting into tears not once but twice today (at work) over absolutely nothing, (which came shortly after comparing our office to a group of Power Rangers) I felt the need to apologize to our director:

Email: Sorry I am all basketcase-y today. I swear, my mood is swinging so wildly I should be medicated... oh, wait, I am... hmmm...

Know what’s helping though?

Candy.

Yep, someday I will be emotionally stable, but I will weigh 600 lbs.

Yep, that's just the type of thing I should be sending over the work email servers. I figure when they collect enough evidence to fire me, I will sue for predjudice against crazy people and/or grossly obese people. You know, depending on how long this carries on for.

So then, I got home and the fun times just kept rolling.

First, I'm reading this story and thinking, "what. the. fuck. I never find treasures buried anywhere!" Of course, it then occured to me that not only do I not walk around with a metal detector, but I don't even own a metal detector. So I can't really bitch.

However, kudos to the guy who did. Now, not only can legitimately defend himself to his wife, who constantly bitches about his "hobby" to anyone who will listen, (yeah, I know, total leap of faith there that he's even married... but you know if he is, she's bitching... trust me.) but he also turned over his find to archeologists to allow the coins to be excavated in proper fashion.

My ass would have been digging that whole damn thing up and carrying the coins back in every available pocket.

Maybe that's why I don't find stuff. My karma is definitely not worthy of 350 pounds of ancient gold coins. I mean, I rarely even come across change on the sidewalks. And that should tell you something.

(I did step in some gum the other day though. True story.)

Next, I'm reading through some blogs that I follow, and I come to this one.... which is freaking hysterical.... perhaps a little more hysterical because of my retarded dog, but still, funny nonetheless. However, I doubt it is as funny as I was finding it to be.

I could not. stop. laughing.

Next thing I know, I am laughing so hard that I burst into tears.

Tears!

Not like, "whew! that was funny!" tears running from your eyes, but like actual crying!

(I can't even go back and read it again.... because it will happen all over again....)

((but seriously..... so funny..... go read it.... but only after you're done reading this.... because it's so funny you won't want to come back here anymore.))

I had to look at my husband and explain that that is simply what today has been like. A roller coaster that no one in their right mind would ever choose to get on.

(Good thing I'm clearly not in my right mind.)

"Wheeeeeeeeee!!!!!"

I think they're just fucking with me.

River
Lake
Shore
Rock
Home
Meat
Silence
Concept
Pleasure
Book
Window
Life

MS tests are weird, you guys. I don’t know any better way to put it than that. Apparently though, I am really good with words. Not so good with numbers. Let me set the scene for you.

I was down at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania (HUP from now on, because I will not be typing that more than I need to) for my initial screening to see if I would qualify for a drug trial. (long story short there, I qualify; I have MS. Yay? I dunno, let’s just call it a second opinion and move on.) Part of the initial visits is a battery of cognitive tests. The initial ones are just “practice” so that you are familiar with the format... helps eliminate the “learning curve”, so that the “real” test can be compared with future tests over the next two years.

Fine. Let’s do this.

First test: (I don’t remember any of the names of these, so mine will be the more appropriate descriptive names) “Put the pegs in the holes. Take the pegs out of the holes. Quickly!” So yeah, that was basically all that one was. And I didn’t drop any. Guess I passed.

Second test: “Remember a random list of words and repeat them back.” Dude, I owned this test. Seriously. 12 words, I remembered all but three. Second try? I got them all. You have 6 tries total and even if you get them all right, you keep doing it for six times. So then I was mixing it up for my own amusement... can I put them in a different order? Sure I can!

Home
Meat
Rock
Shore
Book
Window
Life
Pleasure
Silence
Concept
Lake
River

I rock. Bring it baby, I’m ready.

Third test: “Checkerboard mind-fuck.” You look at this grid pattern for 10 seconds. On this grid, are 7 black circles. After studying it for 10 seconds, you then have to duplicate the spacing using checkers and a blank grid.

Bam. All 7, right spots.

Do it 3 more times? Okay!

Done.

Done.

And done.

But then, they show you an alternate checkerboard. You sneaky bastards. Study that one for 10 seconds and do the same thing. A little harder this time, as I was consciously trying to forget what I had just committed to memory to remember something else that was similar enough to be confusing.

(that sentence is confusing.)

Still, got it right, first try and the second try. Next?

Replicate the first pattern, without looking at the original prompt.

Whaaaaaaa...?

Fuck. Way to go sneaky cognitive guys. And not funny, messing with the MS girl like that. I don’t know how many I got right. The examiner didn’t tell me. That must be in the instructions somewhere... “If they do well, offer praise. If they do poorly, just quietly put the test away and move on.”

Fourth test: “Chinese water torture.... but with numbers.” Okay, let me try to explain this. There’s this CD, with this annoyingly calm and monotone guy throwing a single digit number at me every 5 seconds. I’m supposed to listen to the number, add it to the previous number, and state the sum out loud, meanwhile bearing in mind the last number, because I will have to add that to the next number.

Sounds simple enough... right?

ACMG: Five....

ACMG: Three....

Me: Eight.

ACMG: Seven....

Me: Ten.

And so on and so on... for sixty numbers. I did okay for the first 30, but by the last 30 I was apparently misadding things and adding the second number to the sum of the last two numbers and all kinds of other things. It only made my brain hurt to a moderate degree.

Apparently that wasn’t the worst of the hell though.

Next, we were going to do the same thing, but with only a 2 second pause between the numbers.... again, for 60 numbers.

ACMG: Six....

ACMG: Two....

Me: Eight!

ACMG: (talking over me, how rude!) Seven....

Me: ....

ACMG: Five....

Me: Nine! No! Wait that wa...

ACMG: Six....

Me: Shit!

ACMG: Four....

Me: Ten!

ACMG: Two....

Me: .....

ACMG: Nine....

Me: Apricot!

ACMG: Three....

Me: ....

ACMG: Two....

Me: FIVE!!

ACMG: One....

Me: GREEN!

ACMG: Seven....

Me: (hands over ears...)

ACMG: One....

Me: stop talking to me!!!!!

Seriously... that’s almost entirely how it went.... except the desire to yell out random words instead of numbers was just filled by deafening silence on my part because I didn’t want the woman conducting the test to think I had tourrettes as well as MS. But I did put my hands over my ears at one point... I couldn’t help myself... I needed to check for blood because I was sure this specific brand of torture was designed just for me... and it was working....

Fifth test: “Are-you-fucking-kidding-me-with-these-twelve-words-again??!?!?” No repeating this time... just me, remembering what they were....

River
Lake
Shore
Rock
Home
Meat
Pleasure
Silence
Book
Window
Concept
Life

HA!!! Take THAT evil cognitive tests master minds!!

(I am, at this point, beginning to drool and my eye was twitching... I’m pretty sure, anyway...)

Sixth test: “SERIOUSLY-with-the-checkers-again???!?!” Yeah... the first pattern, not the second, no prompts... I got 1 out of 7 right.... and I don’t have the faintest clue which one it was....

Seventh test: “Walk in a straight line as quickly as you can.”

....... ?

(Seems rather anticlimactic, doesn’t it?)


UPDATED: After the second battery of "test" tests, the clinicians keep telling me how well I am doing on these cognitive assessments. However, as I was leaving the hospital today, I made a wrong turn and got hopelessly lost. I think that begs to differ people.

Awkwardly Awesome.

One might think that, in order to plan and host your 15 year high school reunion, you'd have to fall into one of two categories in order to want to tackle such an undertaking:

1. Formerly mega-popular high school class president/cheerleader/prom queen

2. Formerly not mega-popular high school class president/cheerleader/prom queen, but now ridiculously successful and fabulous.

If so, one would be wrong. Case in point? I planned our 15 year high school reunion.

Yeah, that's right, me.

Who was I in high school? Basically no one... I'm pretty sure the invisible people don't get elected prom queen or class president... and really? I had all the grace of a drunken donkey. No one was making a cheerleader out of me.

Who am I now? Well.... that's actually a good question.

I still have the grace of a drunken donkey.... except I am actually drunk.... quite often anyway.... but now I blame all the tripping on the MS. I have one marriage under my belt and I'm now on my second. (though doing quite better with this one, thank you very much) One failed business under my belt as well - totally on to a second (personally fulfilling but poorly paying) career. I have an extra 40 pounds or so, a shit ton of debt and no assets to speak of, a neurological disease, but, a beautiful daughter....

Mix well, serve over ice...

(I mean, true, you have to add a splash of charm and a bit of snark in there... but that's the basic recipe.)

I was so shy in high school. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be pretty. I wanted boys to fall all over themselves over me. I wanted to be smart. I wanted to be funny and charming and graceful. I wanted to be talented.

I was, instead, awkward, self-conscious, and completely unaware. I was smart, but not as naturally brilliant as some of my classmates. I was talented, but not like my incredibly naturally gifted friends. I was pretty, but not in the "guys falling all over themselves" kind of way. I was funny, but always afraid that people were laughing at me, not with me. I was as graceful as a drunken donkey. (but we already covered that...)

However, as each former classmate showed up, I found myself to be not at all self-conscious. I wasn't worried about the 40 extra pounds (or the fact that I was sweating like a whore in church (it was hot as hell you guys!)) as I hugged each one and met their spouse or significant other or children. I chatted with everyone I could, as much as I could, and really enjoyed the whole day that I had managed to pull together, with those who had managed to join me.

The thing was, as I sat among these people, so of whom I can't say I even knew in high school, I realized that none of us were who we were in high school... and, in some cases (maybe most? all?), I don't think we ever even were who we thought we were in high school. (confusing much? yes.) And as much as it mattered then? That was how much it didn't matter now.

I was having flashes of The Breakfast Club playing in my head. (because, really, it's a great movie.... and a welcome change from the Dora the Explorer episodes that seem to play there on a regular basis....)



And what did we learn from The Breakfast Club? That's right:

"Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did *was* wrong. But we think you're crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain... and an athlete... and a basket case... and a princess... and a criminal...

Does that answer your question?... Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club."

And what *else* did we learn from The Breakfast Club? Right again:

The jocks and the bad boys always get the girls. The nerds are just badass writers.... and apparently drink a lot later in life.

Thanks for spending that saturday in detention with me you guys. I look forward to doing it again in 5 years.... or sooner.

I don't know why people even associate with me.

This is a transcript of an email conversation with a friend of mine, following one of my "I'm-trying-to-plan-a-15-year-class-reunion-will-you-cut-me-a-break-and-send-a-freaking-reply?!?!" emails.

Any identifying details will be protected.... because, really? I need to keep the friends I have. Especially those who let me email with them like this.... though I will never understand why.


Friend who will remain nameless (mostly because I doubt she would want to admit association with me):

You are totally killing me with this... ahhhhh.....

And, really: don't you miss me?

Ugh. I am SO put out right now…

A reunion... perfect place to display my newly acquired case of adult acne. Awesome. Maybe the sun will be shining brightly enough to illuminate my gray... or should I say "silver" hairs... as well as my pasty cellulite... I have to work myself up to even RSVP'ing.

We might be moving across the street from *yeah, like I’m going to out someone else on here* :) On *road which I will not be mentioning* ... keep your fingers crossed!


Me:

OMG I miss you so much!!! Did you delete your FB page???

What. The. Fuck.

Come back.

Okay, *same road that I won’t be mentioning, again*? Awesome, you're actually even closer! I approve. We can meet down by the bridge and drink under it. Because really? Isn't that where winos go? Under bridges? Or is that just trolls...? Meh, either way.

My adult acne will bond with yours. Seriously. Even my back is broken out. Which is lovely. It's like being a teenager again. Except without the fun stuff about being a teenager. Of course, at least now I can drink (legally) until I feel better about it.

AND, I have not only NOT lost any weight, but I apparently found about 5 pounds that someone else must have misplaced.

Yep, sounds like the perfect time for a reunion! ;-)


My dear sympathetic friend:

We (meaning those of us who try to make lightly of the fact that we can't wear tank tops & must keep our hair long enough to cover blemishes on our backs), call that: Bacne.

And, Yes - I have it: I even recruited some sort of a"tool" to try to pop them: doesn't work. Just makes me look like a meth head tweaker who has poison coming out of their pores all over.

Tweakerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr


Me (I swear to god, I wasn't drinking):

Damn. And I just cut my hair short again. No more tank tops for me. Clearly I do NOT think these things through enough.

In a separate, but somehow related, matter: I completely destroyed my va-jay-jay this morning.

You see, here's how it happened. I got a little over-zealous with the grooming the other day. The result? Crazy, insane, can't-stop-wanting-to-scratch-my-girlie-parts, itching whilst the hair grows back in. My solution? I'm going to try Nair. I mean, really? How much worse could it be?

So. Much. Worse.

Can you say chemical burns? Yeah. So while it left the little bits of hair completely intact, it inflamed everything else surrounding said hair. And still didn't solve the itchy-crotch problem.

So, cut to me in the shower, deciding that I would still shave to rid myself of the hair - again, because clearly I didn't learn the first time, but I seriously can't handle the hair growing back in!

Post shower? Looks like the crater pocked surface of the moon. You know, if the surface of the moon was red and swollen from chemical burns and the craters were filled with blood. BLOOD. Okay, so maybe it looked more like a completely unappetizing strawberry, sans those annoying seeds that always end up getting stuck in your teeth.

Wait, what was I talking about....?

Ugh, it's going to be a long day.


Friend (who is now wondering why she ever replied to me in the first place):

Soooo funny! But… wait; not funny at the same time. I think it's the power plant. Fa real.

Just a heads up: don't even bother trying that infomercial thing that allegedly just "sands" the hair off: it works good for a mustache: but, that's even debatable at this point. Certainly doesn't work on my chin hair: still need to pluck those bitchez.

I am so not hot.

What happened?

And, really: What pants are you wearing today? I am sitting here cracking up (mean, I know) at the thought of the discomfort you must be feeling at work. Hopefully you put a little baby powder ....or Neosporin on the strawberry moon :)


Me (because I take over-sharing to a whole new level):

In all my infinite wisdom? I wore light tan pants. I keep checking for little spots of blood. Which would be bad, clearly, as then I would have to tie my sweater around my waist backwards and try to convince my cadets that it's totally hip. Except I don't think people say "hip" anymore, so they will have no idea what I'm talking about.

Yeah.

I also wore really cute but uncomfortable shoes. Thinking, naturally, that the pain in my feet would distract me from the pain in my panties.

Epic. Fail.


*Post-Script: This email chain was like a month ago. All is well in the nether regions, so you can save your "get well" cards.... though I doubt Hallmark covers these sort of issues. Our class reunion is in two days and I have somehow managed to find another 5 or 7 (okay, fine, 10) pounds. I have a feeling it was hiding in the wine. I am now wondering if I can show up to the party in a burqa without raising too many questions. Hmmm....

Bittersweet.

"It is indeed ironic that we spend our school days yearning to graduate and our remaining days waxing nostalgic about our school days."

~Isabel Waxman

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

~Attributed to Mark Twain, unconfirmed

"I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read and all the friends I want to see."
~John Burroughs

"Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these."

~Susan B. Anthony

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while you could miss it."

~From the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off

"You can't live a perfect day without doing something for someone who will never be able to repay you."

~John Wooden

"To change one's life: Start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. No exceptions."

~William James

"The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade you do not expect to sit."

~Nelson Henderson

"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."
~e.e. cummings

"Do not follow where the path may lead. Go, instead, where there is no path and leave a trail."

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember."

~Seneca

"The rung of a ladder was never meant to rest upon, but only to hold a man's foot long enough to enable him to put the other somewhat higher."

~Thomas Henry Huxley

"The language of friendship is not words but meanings."

~Henry David Thoreau

"Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for a while, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same."

~Flavia Weedn

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next."

~Gilda Radner

(good luck, my boys.)