Told You So! Again!

Today I had a moment of clarity.

My allergy to pine nuts, milk, and an active ingredient in chapstick [which I think is eucalyptus, but who actually knows] all evoke different reactions from my body.

I will spare the explanation of the first two, you are welcome, but instead want to discuss the uncomfortably that I call “contact with chapstick.”

It is really a sensation hard to describe, one that my family has accidently misdiagnosed as Poison Ivy, Poison Sumac, Staph infections, or my personal favorite, hypochondria. While I am not saying that I haven’t had any, or all, of these rights of passage, I do believe that had we found this allergy sooner, many a restless night could have been, well, more rested and many a disgusting “solutions” avoided.

A few minutes after my first contact, my lips [or wherever else you might put chapstick…] become extremely dry. This is a dry that no bottled concoction/fire hose can take care of. Think of it as a combination of wind/sun/cold burn combined into one perfectly painful package.

Then, since I would no doubt cake on the chapstick, thinking it would aid my chapped lips, my lips would start to get small bumps in conjunction with an itchy sensation and an odd surface moisture. Think mosquito bite meets dry skin meets small milk mustache. So, we now have a uniquely painful, itchy, bumpy, and moist pair of lips.

Add swelling, extreme redness, and the inability to smile to complete the look, and presto, you have my complete allergic reaction. [Pretty, isn’t it?]

The attempted solutions were calamine lotion, antihistamines, antibiotics, Lanolin [yes, the same lanolin used to aid breast pain of nursing mothers] and a good old “stop complaining, there is nothing wrong with you” all failed and left me alone to answer one of life’s newest unanswerable questions.

Eventually, things would clear up on their own, with little to no explanation as to why. Fantastic.

After I was discussing my [odd, not confirmed, completely real] allergies with a co-worker, I stumbled across an old memory of me, a bottle of that new, cool, spray sunscreen [circa 1995], “sun poisoning,” and my mother.

How could I have never made this connection before?!

Back track. Scene: Summer, 1995.

I was ten and suffering. I had just returned from a lake front weekend with my best friend, per usual, and was experiencing the same symptoms as above.

I was allergic to the sunscreen. I knew it. I insisted. But, alas, it was sun poisoning my mother said. Perhaps we should have put on more sunscreen, my little sun cancer seeker?

No, I was certain it was the sunscreen, but being the naïve, no idea what I was talking about, often talked back, and always-had-to-be-right 9 year old I was, aided in my loss in this battle. [Sound familiar?]

My mother was not convinced. I was forced to play the waiting game to get rid of my mystery disease.

This childhood experience has lead to my extreme phobia of all spray sunscreens, particularly those with orange and blue bottles.

Back to the coworker.

Today after talking to work friend, I ran up the stairs [because mind you I gave up the elevator for lent] and plopped onto my desk chair and started researching.

The connection?

Both chapstick and the type of sunscreen I used have the same active ingrediants.

I told you I was allergic to the sunscreen. God, I was a smart nine year old.

TGIT

Okay I know I already posted, but really this is the first time I have been able to breathe in, oh three weeks, so I am sharing all of my TGITs from the last few weeks with you, right now, for your viewing pleasure.

As you can see, we are a bunch of visual learners at my parents house.

All typed notes are my mother’s doing. Usually, you can read the note and almost hear her reading it to you. If she is angry, majority of her note appears IN ALL CAPS BOLDED, GET THE MESSAGE YOU HOODLEMS.

All sticky notes are from my father. Usually short and sweet and also in all caps, but only due to the fact that my dad only writes in caps.

This is an image of what our kitchen typically looks like. Note the note from both parental units.

Why is this my TGIT?

Because last week I woke up to new sticky notes a la Dad, and I worry that we get a bit carried away with said sticky notes.

Here is a close up, just to drive the point home....



Ill be sure to update you once everything in our house has a label. You know, incase some of us get confused.

*on a completely unrelated, but a bit related, note: the above pictures are labeled as "crack"on my office computer. Smart idea? Most likely not....

March "I Have No Idea What I'm Talking About"ness

Well, it is that time of year again. March Madness.

The time of year where I print out a bracket and blindly fill it in, in hopes of beating my equally basketball inept father in a sports competition neither of us couldn’t care less about.

Why do we do it, you may ask? Well, its simple. Winner buys breakfast.

As the current champion, with four consecutive victories under my belt, I am overwhelmingly favored by the [equally basketball uneducated] judge, my mother.

So here is the bracket I predict to bring me to my fifth victory.

My Madness picks wouldn’t be complete without including some of my “there is absolutely no logic in my picks whatsoever” thought process.

Gonzaga vs. St. John’s
Self 1: Gonzaga is a really cool word.
Self 2: Yeah, but St. John’s is a really cool destination spot.
Self 1: True, but Gonzaga is still my favorite of the two. Plus, chances are high that there aren’t a lot of good basketball players from St. Johns.
Self 2: Kristin, you do know that St. Johns is most likely not based on the island of St. John’s, right?
Self 1: whatever, Zaga wins. [Note the additional perk of shortening it to an even cooler nickname.]

End Result: Gonzaga for the win.

There are some obvious advancements that I can make without even reading its competitors.

1. Duke advances. Always. They are taking the win this year. Why? Because a) I have a “Cameron Crazie” tshirt already in my wardrobe, b) because my brother looks like one of the players, c) because they won last year, which I found out after I had completed my bracket. Woops!
   
2. Cuse always makes it to my Elite 8. Why? Because I would be shot by several of my friends if I didn’t express my complete and total faith in the Orange, even if I don’t know a thing about them.
   
3. UConn often advances far in my bracket. Why? Because their women’s team broke some record a while back, and it has stuck in my brain. Yes, I know that there is absolutely no correlation between the men’s and women’s teams, but I do know that I almost went there, so there is a itty bitty tiny allegiance to UConn.
   

Just putting this in yet another public spot so when I win, I have yet another place to prove to my father that I did not cheat.

No, Emily, I Didn't Say "Rabbit Rabbit"

(I thought I posted this yesterday, but evidently my sprained wrist is affecting my brain)

Things that are extremely difficult to do when your wrist is sprained/aching and/or in a motion limiting brace

• typing. You are lucky I am willing enough to write anything (although by the time this entry is finished, it might have taken the better half of 4 days to write it.)
• washing my hair. Wrist and hand movement at the same time? Well, that is just cruel and unusual punishment. My solution? Don’t shower, duh.
• Cutting…like food, not myself. I’ve opted to follow my Neanderthal ancestors, by stabbing my protein with a fork and then ripping bits directly off of it, as opposed to nicely cutting meat into small pieces. You can take me anywhere, promise.
• Texting. Although since we know I am far too dependent on my phone to halt technological communication altogether, I have begun only texting with my right hand.
• Holding or opening anything. Its super fun when I convince myself that I can open something, only to then twist my wrist and remember why it is I am in a brace to begin with.
• Pulling up and/or pulling down my pants. Sounds weird, but when I drink a ridiculous amount of water daily, this affects my hourly bathroom trips. Further, my bathroom anxiety increases exponentially when there is potential for me to make weird/struggling/ohmygodicantgetmypantsup noises while alone in a stall
• Falling asleep.
• Touching/turning/otherwise interacting with my steering wheel. For now, I am a right hand driver only, although I can still use my left hand to throw my “what the eff” hand up in the air [but not the finger, I am far too classy to do that.]

Things that are still relatively easy to do, even with a hurt hand:

• complaining. Luckily for me, my mouth, and lack of filter, is still fully functioning. You are welcome.
• Eating. Unfortunately, my hurt hand doesn’t affect my appetite at all
• Channel changing. Opposable thumbs still work, and I can still rot my brain with crime shows while my wounds heal.
• Holding a [alcoholic] beverage. Empty bevs can be placed in the braced left hand, while full bevys can be placed in the right. Its an idiot proof plan that I fully intend to implement this weekend.

If I die before I wake, I will have incrediably Comfy and Fashionable Pants On

One of the women I work with came in wearing pajama jeans yesterday.

This led me to the following conclusions.
a) I work in a pretty fantastic place, as if I hadn’t known that already…but more importantly b) I absolutely need a pair of them. Notice the emphasis on need, rather than want.

Butt, meet pajama jeans.
Pajama jeans, meet butt.

You are now soul mates and will find yourselves to be completely inseparable for a very long time.

Why?

Let me remind you of the second thing I divulged about myself to this blogging community. Ahem.

“2. I believe it should be socially acceptable to wear pajamas everywhere, including work and in bars.”

Solution? Pajama jeans.

The name explains it all. They are pajamas that pass for jeans, but also jeans that feel like pajamas. How was I not the one to think of this.

Pajamas jeans essentially have combined my top 3 essential articles of clothing, namely jammies, leggings, and jeggings, into one, easily marketable product. Its genius.

Think about it -- these pants must actually sell themselves.

Want to go to the grocery store, but don’t want to change out of those comfy pants? Not a problem with pajama jeans!

Want to trick your coworkers into thinking you are wearing stiff denim, when in reality you are wearing pants that feel like clouds? Exactly, pajama jeans!

Struggling to find comfortable pants that contour the curves of your body and also have a “smooth, butt-lifting design?” Crisis averted with pajama jeans!

The only downfall to pajama jeans? The 4 – 6 week wait time between the time when you placed your order, and the time in which you receive them.

Longest 4 – 6 weeks ever, if you ask me.

TGIT

Sunless Tanner: 1

Kristin: 0

TGIT

TGIT: um. Is. that. grass?!