TGIT

TGIT!



Good: We. have. a. pool.
Great: They are prepping it for summah!
TGIT: We will be sipping vodka sodas poolside in two weeks. Maybe you can join if you are really nice! I'm talking to you, Charlestown boys.

Exh-awww-sted

Well my medical tests are back, and there is actually nothing [medically] wrong with me.

This is good, right? Wrong.

This only further proves that there is nothing medically relevant that can explain why I am constantly exhausted, thus proving I am indeed a mental nutcase, as if we needed more proof.

Regardless, my [slightly neurotic, slightly hypochondriac] self has re-diagnosed my problem.

I am suffering from allergies. Yes, while all this time I thought it was my thyroid acting up, it is actually little angry particles of pollen, determined to make me forever tired.

This is my final conclusion, until it is otherwise disproved.

Its so reassuring that it takes hours of poking, prodding, fainting, and doctor anxiety to find out there is nothing wrong with me. Its like the Swine test, all over again. Lets do this again in four months!

My day in randoms...

• no matter what context “the situation” is used in, I always route back to Jersey Shore. Shaaatttts
• Chuck Norris Jokes met my Twitter newsfeed, and they weren’t funny. Example: Chuck Norris doesn't have an iPhone App. The App Store built itself around him. This is why comedy and technology should not mix.
• I like the smell of gasoline; this probably explains everything.
• I still cannot believe that the two most popular American baby names are Jacob and Isabella. Yes, I still refuse to read the book(s).
• Why do I look like a 5 year old, dance recital ready, when I try to wear bright red lipstick, but the diva prancing around Whole Foods looks like the next Twiggy. Ugh!
• Someday I will be able to drive normally again, sans white knuckles.
• Tailgating me will only cause me to go slower. Sass and I are recovering from a major car accident, asshole!
• I voted today, and visited our 45357 year old town hall. Still smells like Republican Victory to me! (Go, Scott, Go!)
• I like nude nail polish, and I don't care if the nalasians (nail lady asians) tell me that I like "Old women colors"
• I have been mentally preparing a list of things my SLU friends need to do while they relive our glory days at graduation

"I just cant get you outta my head"- Kylie Minogue

I am a walking jukebox. There are always pop/rock/country/80’s divas in my head and they won’t leave. Today I learned that it is apparently abnormal to constantly have a song stuck in my head. I must say, I am a bit shocked, and I am not sure if I buy into it quite yet.

Regardless, much like my thyroid condition, I am stuck with “constantsonginheaditis” for the rest of my life. I have accepted it and [mostly] learned to live with it; however, there are certain situations when I cannot handle having this [dis]ability.

When its not appropriate to have a song stuck in your head:

1. At work. Much to my dismay, I have become the girl who sings to herself. In an attempt to salvage whatever dignity I may have (you can’t come back from that), I began telling everyone what song was stuck in my head, in hopes to remove it. Not only does this removal option not work, but you still look like a weirdo. Further, I also laugh to myself, which doesn’t help my cause.
2. At family functions in public places. Example: yesterday, at our Mother’s Day dinner, at the fine establishment that is Lotus Blossum, I apparently decided to otherwise entertain myself while the other nine people around the table were participating in conversation. How? I decided to sing the hymn “Up From the Grave He Arose,” and didn’t realize I was doing so until I caught a confused, but slightly annoyed look from my mother. I am 23.7 years old, wouldn’t you think I would be able to control these things? Evidently not 100% of the time.
3. While trying to fall asleep. For all you non-brain-singers, it is impossible to relax when you have Beyonce on the brain. I need to consciously switch my mental pre-set from Kiss108 to Magic106.7. Every. Night. I go from rave to slow dance instantaneously. Sometimes I catch my subconscious switching it back to the dance party, led by Chumbawumba, only to then need to mentally change it back. Essentially, I play a game of clicker commando with myself every night, prior to falling asleep.
4. Nannying. College summers were years of song censoring, as there were several times where I caught myself humming “Crazy Bitch” whilst at the pool with the kiddos. Luckily, my subconscious swear patrol caught my internal song, thus reducing it to a hum, and not full-on-song.
5. When traveling. Don’t be the girl that mouths songs to herself while standing in the airport security line, Kristin…that most likely raises red, terrorist flags.

Oh, what's playing in my head right now, you ask? I am jamming to Shania Twain's "Man, I Feel Like A Woman."

TGIT

TGIT!

Good: This is Annie’s Boston Bucket List. Looks like we’re going to have a lot of fun before Annie moves back to the other [less fun, least cool] coast.

Great: lots of said events involve drinking!

TGIT: #24. August is going to be a hard month.

When life gives your burbans...

...parallel park them.

Exhibit A: The suburban I parallel parked on the first try. Yes, I am just as shocked as you are.

Forget about how Cynthia, my wonderful, and fellow “slightly Type A” friend, trusted me enough to put behind the wheel of her car, even after hearing about and seeing Sass, and for a moment focus on the fact that I successfully parked this beast on.the.first.try.

This may not seem like anything extraordinary, but coming from a girl who purposely scheduled her driver's test at a location that didn't require parallel parking, this is quite an achievement

Please pause for a brief moment, as I bask in my parallel parking Goddess glory.

...and no, this is not my TGIT; I just couldn't help but share.

Fight or Faint

It all started yesterday in that God awful chair. You know, the stiff ER chair that they stick you in right before they stick you, literally. There I was, nervously laughing and chatting away, waiting for the nurse to stick me with a needle and take 435356 vials of my blood.

Problem? I am a fainter, and have been since my very first blood test (yes, I have had my fair share.) Being the habitual fainter that I am, I have gone through all of the necessary stages to accepting my illness.

Shock came with my first fainting spell, right after the first time I had blood taken. I had never fainted before, and did what any young kid would do after waking up on the floor, having no idea how I got there. I cried. Then, soon after my rendezvous with the floor, I hit stage two: guilt. I felt badly that I had inconvenienced the poke-ologist and fallen to the floor on her watch. How inconsiderate of me.

My teenage years came, as did lots of tests and lots of ‘tude. This is where denial came into play. I decided, being the independent “adult” that I was, that I was not a fainter, but rather that I was a victim to my own mental disposition. Fainting was not a physical reaction, but rather a mental one. I decided that I would not tell physicians that I was a fainter, as if I could convince myself that I wasn’t, I ultimately wouldn’t faint. Wrong. Not explaining that you are a fainter doesn’t mean that you wont faint, it just means that when you do faint, it will be more dramatic and painful. Anger set in immediately after denial wore off, as now there was no escaping it: I was a fainter. Lesson learned.

The embarrassment phase kicked in pre- through post surgery circa 2004, when I needed to tell every poke-ologist, phlebotomist, doctor, specialist, and nurse I encountered that I was a fainter. Yes, I was over the age of ten, and I was required to sit in the “fainting chair.” The embarrassment factor was further heightened when my “regular” clinics would open my e-file, and then look at me with the same old concerned/scared/alarmed/pitying/”Aw, you’re a fainter” look. Apparently the giant, flashing “fainter” alert must be the same from hospital to hospital.

I hit acceptance a few years ago, when a phlebotomist, named Pamela, questioned my fainting abilities. When I told her about my tendencies, instead of embracing me and making me comfortable, she decided to use the tough love approach. Girlfriend made me sit in a normal chair, drew my blood, and then made me look at the vials she had just drawn from me, just to prove it was mental, and nothing more. I came to on the floor, entangled in the highchair she had put me in. I glared at her, stood up, and muttered: “I told you I was a fainter,” and walked away. Don’t worry, being the well spoken, self defending diva I was, I made sure to tell the registration desk that Pamela was an aweful poke-ologist, thank you very much.
I know I am a fainter; I know I can’t fight it. If you are taking blood from me, you will also be dealing with my fainting in some way, shape or form. Prepare yourself now.

Back in the doctor’s office, in my nervous stupor, I somehow forget to tell the [very chatty and distracting] nurse that I am a chronic fainter…for the first time in my life. Woops! Clearly our deep and meaningful conversation on where I lived and what I did for a living must have completely distracted me from the obvious impending doom.

After getting my blood drawn, the sensations came: blurry/pixally vision, sensitivity to light, loss of hearing, cold sweat, dry mouth. I was going to faint. In an attempt to save myself from immediately embarrassing myself at my new doctor’s office, I attempted to fight it off. While my vision was still off, I was still mid-cold sweat, and I had no business walking on my own, I calmly made my way to registration, where I somehow made my next appointment (June 28, remind me when I forget). Here comes the next wave, which I thought I fought off well.
I came to, on the floor, with 6 nurses hovering over me, and an elderly woman awkwardly staring at me open mouthed, I said the only thing that came to mind: “Did I mention I’m a fainter?”

Yet again, I can’t pass up an opportunity to embarrass myself in a group setting.