Monday, December 8, 2014

A Tale of Two Screwdrivers

The other evening I had an Ordeal. Emphasis on the capital O.

It was a Thursday and I was in a rush trying to get ready between work and my husband's Christmas party. It's that harried process of transforming from a gremlin to Cinderella in under an hour.

As most women do, I have a very specific order of getting ready. Shower, half my make-up, hair, the rest of my make-up, get dressed. All without the help of musical mice. Darn the luck.

The first half of my make-up involves doing all of my eyes and then putting on my concealer like war paint. I leave it this way so it can dry a little while I'm doing my hair.

I was at this point in the process when I turned on my hair dryer, and all my lights when out.

Well. Crap.

I hobbled around in the dark, found a flashlight, and grabbed the first pair of shoes I stumbled across (they happened to be high heels). I teetered outside, checked the fuse box and was perplexed to find all the switches in the right place. That is the extent of my electrical knowledge.

A series of frustrating calls followed, one to my friend who is an electrician who helped me figure out that I had a bad breaker that needed replacing. Between his pep talk and the magic of Youtube I felt empowered to fix the problem myself.

At this point I had managed to find a pair of pajama pants, a neon yellow sports bra, and a sparkly tank top to complete my outfit of high heels and concealer warpaint (since I decided that attempting to do this outside at night in a towel was not my best plan).

I'm standing in the rocks, looking good, with a flashlight in my armpit and two screwdrivers in my hands and I successfully wiggle the old breaker out (the plan was to take it to Ace to get the right replacement).

"I got you, you wee little beastie! Success! Huh. How am I going to get my car out of the garage without the power on?"*

* I'm very external in my interactions with life. Exhibit A: The look my dog gave me as I was yelling at the TV (on an unrelated night)... this is what dog shaming actually looks like.

Anyway, there I stand wondering if I can turn my power back on without becoming an episode of CSI and decide to call my friend back instead of guessing.

I'm pivoting, arm pinned to side holding the flashlight, trying to juggle my screwdrivers, and I knock my phone to the ground (no pockets in my pajama pants so it was sitting on my meter).


I rearrange all my accessories and pick up my phone. I didn't just drop and crack it, as is prone to happen in the smart phone day and age, I apparently dropped it into Mount Doom inadvertently. The screen was splintered into roughly a bajillion pieces. The parts of the screen I could see were green and black and pulsing.


I now have no phone, no power, and no way to get my car out.

I admit defeat. I toddle to my neighbors house, crying because that's what I do, and ask to use her phone. I call my husband and he zips home to save me, Christmas party being one of the many casualties of the evening.

We go to Verizon, cry (me), get new phone, we go to ace, cry (still me), get a new breaker, and go home.

John looks at me and says he'll finish fixing the breaker.

Like hell. Move over buddy. This is my epic battle, I shall not be defeated.

We go back to the breaker, this time he holds the flashlight (that's a game changer), I wiggle it back in, connect all the dillywops, flip all the little a-hole switches, and step back.

Deep breath. Walk around the house.

Angels start singing, because I'll be darned, my bedroom light is on.

I fling my arms wide and crow (I get you Peter Pan, crowing is an appropriate expression of joy).

"I DID IT! LOOK!! I DID IT!! AAAHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!" Double fist pump. Happy butt wiggle. Eighties side jump.

John looks at me and says, "Very nice. I have to pee." Man of few words. I respect that, it takes a lot of patience to be married to me. It did not slow down my front yard victory boogying.


Forget being a counselor, I'm going to be an electrician.  

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Anna Is Unimpressed

Today is a black letter day. I got a B on a major project.

Now, if you know me, you know I HATE getting anything but a solid A. It fills me with angst.

Especially when I have poured my soul in to a project, for an elective class, and felt like I rocked it. I mean really. It felt like my crowning achievement in graduate school, AND I GOT A B. 


Frequently, when I'm unimpressed I text my friend " -_____________________-" - this is my unimpressed whale face. As I was talking to her this afternoon, I realized I frequently make this face internally. Like daily. 

Some examples just from this week. It's Tuesday.

Example A: My cube mate, Thistle (you may remember her - she wants to make me into a skin coat), listens to her radio at an unfriendly level. And she likes to whistle along. Loudly (my boss has IMed me from across the room to ask if that is really Thistle whistling that she can hear. It is. It always is). Especially to Adele. I'll set fire to your rain. 

Example B: I got half way to my internship yesterday when I realized I wasn't wearing shoes. I wish I could say I was shocked and embarrassed. I wasn't. This is a frequent occurrence. I was irritated I had to drive home to get some, but alas, it would not be incredibly inspiring to walk in for counseling just to see your counselor sitting there with no shoes. I have a bright future.

Example C: I had to get a flu shot on Sunday so I can work at a hospital. Demanding jerks, it's like they care about their patients or something. The guy who was helping me was slow. So slow. Painfully, want to shake him violently, slow. Thirty minutes after I got to the pharmacy (I was helped right away), THIRTY MINUTES, I sat down to get my shot. Considering the standard Mr. Slowpoke had set I figured it would take him another fifteen to actually give me the shot. I was rolling my sleeve up, turning to ask him some inane question to prolong the exhausting small talk, and BAM he ninja chopped me in the shoulder with the shot. All the blood wooshed into my ears and I toppled over. Really, now is the appropriate time to morph in to Sonic?  

Basically what I have realized today is that my internal expressions are made up of memes. Sigh. 


Tuesday, November 18, 2014

I use to be a Hooker

When I was 16 I started playing the most glorious sport in the world - rugby. Pardon me while I wax poetic for a moment. Rugby has the endurance and pace of soccer, the brutality of football, and the agility of basketball. It is all things that are good. It is wonderful.

Not to mention that if you are the All Blacks you start every game with aggressive dancing. Dancing in short shorts and it's scary as all get out? Only in rugby. (I'm in no way making fun of the haka, i think it's awesome)

Every day I drive past one of our old practice fields from high school on my way to work (I also played in college, but Waco is not part of my daily drive) and this morning, as I basked in the glory of the good old days, I realized that rugby and graduate school have a lot in common.

1. It does permanent damage.


I sustained a significant amount of injuries playing rugby, which gives me deep sympathy for Wes 'Crazy Eyes' Welker. During a neurological exam the following conversation happened:

"Have you ever had a concussion?" - Doctor

"Yes, from rugby." - Me

"Your right shoulder is significantly separated." - Doctor

"Yeah, that was rugby too. It was brutal." - Me

"Wow, what caused the compartment syndrome in your leg." - Doctor

"I don't want to say. Fine. Rugby. Again." - Me

"Huh. Did your parents hate you and show it by letting you play?" - Doctor

Graduate school:

"Have you gained weight? Wow, where did those dark circles from? Do you ever bathe anymore? Is that a bald patch?!" - Others

"Yeah, graduate school. It's brutal." - Me

2. Just when you've got the hang of it, the rules change.


Most of my first year was spent playing the position of Prop.  A Prop is on the edge of the scrum, and your job is to hold it up, ram into the other team, and support the Hooker in trying to steal the ball from the other team with only their feet. It is glorious grunt work.

One day, in the middle of a game, I was scampering onto the field after shoving Vaseline up my nose to stop the bleeding (you haven't lived until you've tried running with a mouth guard and a nose full of petroleum jelly) when my coach yelled after me , "by the way you are playing Hooker*." I stopped running so abruptly that my dad said I looked like a cartoon character.

*Despite my concern of playing a position I had never even practiced, I ended up loving playing Hooker and played that position more often than Prop. Forget being a grunt, give me brutal finesse any day!

This is a scrum. #3 on the white side is a Prop, #2 is the Hooker (it looks similar, it's not)

Graduate school:

"Write in APA. Now in Turabian. Five points off for indenting instead of using five spaces. Five points off for using five spaces instead of indenting. Great job, you really nailed this paper!" Huh? How? What do you want from me??

3. You get to know your teammates better than you ever wanted to.


Look at the above picture. Take it in. When you play rugby,especially as part of the tight five, you get incredibly close to other people - literally. And let me tell you, it can get stinky. So stinky. Yeuchhhh.

Graduate school:

The things I've heard in school. It gets stinky. So stinky. Yeuchhhh.

"Thanks for your vulnerability, but I don't think the class needed to know that you have those kinds of feelings for your bunny slippers."

4. A significant amount of shit is involved.


One day (and many subsequent days) during my first season our practice field was covered in fresh snow. Now our field was not maintained by the school, because we weren't a sanctioned sport. This meant that our field was also covered in goose poop. Lots and lots and lots of poop. Covered in wet snow. Mud, poop, snow. Awesome. We stood in a huddle before practicing bemoaning the fact we would probably have to get really wet and cold during practice, but hoping it could be avoided. Our coach marched out, took one look at the field, heard one bit of our complaining, and told us to run and slide around in it until we were ready to actually practice without being big whiny babies.

I quickly learned that after games and practices in conditions like that, I would get so gross that my mom would make me strip down outside before she let me in the house.

Graduate school:

"Write a paper about your brokenness. Now one about the brokenness of your brokenness. And maybe one on the brokenness of the brokenness of the brokenness. Tell me about how that makes you feel. No really, how you really feel. Really role around in it. Like you mean it!"

Maybe I should invent a hose that can wash of emotional goose poop.

5. It might make me a better person. 

I will never forget the worst game of my life. It was blizzarding and in response to asking if we could wear our sweatshirts under our jerseys the referee said, "what are you, soccer players?!' (I have no problem with soccer as it is my husband's true love, but that is not totally true for all rugby players). We were running around aimlessly, unable to see other players, let alone the try line. When you get tackled into ground that is frozen solid you find the will to get up abandoning quickly. We all cried. Every single player. And we were a tough bunch. AWFUL.

But, it is one of my favorite games to think back on. I didn't know I could dig that deep, I didn't know I could keep getting up again and again and again in a blizzard and keep playing. I didn't know I could play through the tears. And, the big thing, no game was ever that bad again. And, all the goose poop was frozen!

Graduate school is making me dig deep. Real deep. Deeper than I thought was possible. I know I can keep going through the tears. I will keep getting up again and again and again in the blizzard of clients, assignments, self-reflection, and analysis. I'll know that things can only go up.

And at least the poop is frozen.

Bunch of aholes. 
via; via; via

Monday, November 3, 2014

My Subconscious Has Great Taste in Music

I'm recently returned from an amazing, whirlwind vacation. The hope is that after you've spent a week soaking in the magic and wonder of Disney and Universal you come back ready to rock through the rest of the semester/rest of graduate school full of pep and zeal.

Alas, that is not the case. 

I'm currently sitting in class debating between flinging myself on the ground and/or jumping out the window - possibly a particularly dramatic fling, followed by a tuck and roll, followed by a dive out the window? (Don't worry, it's on the first floor, I'd be fine). I'm full of irritation and apathy. 

Obviously, this means I need a pep talk. 

I was going to whinningly post on Facebook, requesting everyone who has love for me to give me a pep talk. However, I really try to keep my Facebook entertaining and, honestly, I know I can do this, I know I'm following God's plan for my life, I know how great I am. Blah blah blah, fooey. 

What's a girl with a bad attitude and a wretched case of the post-vacation blues, who needs tough love and a smack upside the head supposed to do? Give herself a pep talk.

"Okay Anna McCrankypants, listen up. Here are some helpful facts about your life that should make you feel better:

1. At this point, the world is not going to run out of wine and coffee before you finish school.

2. You don't have the bubonic plague. 

3. If being a counselor does not work out, you have a solid back up plan of being a professional tight rope walker.

4. You have terrible balance, so point three shows how full of dreams you are. Bright eyed optimism will get you far.

5. It's not too late, maybe Hogwarts has an adult learner program. 

6. You aren't at the dentist right now, so your day is already better than some peoples'. 

Lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go, you only get on shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime.

You saw the sign it opened up your eyes, you saw the sign. Life is demanding without understanding.

Don't stop believing.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better."

Um. Thanks inner voice. I think that pep talk got away from you, but none the less, I feel better. 

My subconscious does make party appearances, ask me about pricing.  

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride

The movie Bridesmaids makes me laugh. Every time. I realized this morning that my week can be summed up in quotes from it and I decided to embrace it.


I was walking up the stairs with my incredibly, dorky, after-school-special-warning-heavy backpack when I tripped and slow motion started falling. I was doing the awkward windmill, grab at anything, going to save this move (and winning!), when my backpack started sliding up my back and over my head. The added weight pushed the battle in favor of gravity, and I found myself pinned to the stairs. The way I landed resulted in my having an epic five minute struggle to get out form under the pack.


I had a rough week of cancellations with clients, and went in to "I need these hours else I can't ever graduate, and I have to get out of here!!" panic mode. My fifth cancellation prompted a flurry of calling referrals and packing my schedule to the point of bursting. Want the last hour of the day? Sure! The butt crack of morning? Awesome! Five in a row? Of course! Over compensation at it's finest!


This morning I was in the midst of an existential crisis fueled by regret, Ebola, insecurity, and indigestion. I filled in two of my closest friends. The one in Texas sent me the sweetest, most affirming text extolling my virtues, and the other said, "pft, it's fine, you'll be fine." Both approaches were needed, helpful, and affirming!


I have a co-worker, "Thistle," who hates me. A few months ago she mentioned to another co-worker, "Princess Consuela," that she didn't send me a fundraiser item because she didn't think I could afford it. Now, I've never spoken with Thistle about my finances. Ever. So that was weird. Today, Princess Consuela told Thistle that we all owed a certain (incredibly reasonable) amount of money for something.

Thistle: "That's really expensive."
Princess Consuela: "Not really, considering."
Thistle: "Well, I mean, how is Anna going to afford it?
Princess Consuela: "What world do you live in."

So apparently I just exude poverty. Maybe I should brush my hair more.


If you know me at all, you know I have an unhealthy love of Dazbog. I LOVE IT. There is one right by my work and I am a frequent patron. Like Stan from Cheers frequent. Yesterday, Princess Consuela texted me, "I have to tell you something. You're not going to be happy. Our Dazbog has broken away from the franchise and rebranded." I didn't take it well.

As a side note, another friend at work when Princess Consuela mentioned to her that Dazbog was changing said, "oh man, how are you going to tell Anna?"

So this morning I walked in, and sure enough it's not a Dazbog anymore. I threw up my hands and yelled, "you guys! What is happening?!?" All four baristas proceeded to tell me all the reasons it was good, they gave me free coffee, and told me I was doing really well.

I grumpily, and skeptically, took my coffee and drove to work.

"Locally roasted small batch beans. Nice. Nice touch. Holy crap. This is good. Damnit. I mean really good." 

Dazbog who?

*All pictures via pinterest. 

Monday, October 6, 2014

Anna the Prophetess

Last week I wrote about how recently my life has started looking like a ridiculous, endless, somewhat painful musical. 

I was writing metaphorically and feeling quite proud of myself for putting a positive spin on a chaotic phase in my life. 

And then. 

My life actually became a musical.

As a caveat, I'm often an active participant in attempting to make my life into a giant musical number. Just this weekend alone, I sang Grease on the light rail with my boss (complete with wide-eyed, alarmed observers), I sang Cake with my friends during a football game, and I did the entire Moulin Rouge elephant love medley in my kitchen with my dog. She was moved, it was magical. 

But, twice this week my life became a musical completely outside of my doing.    

Musical Number 1

I was sitting in Dazbog reading for school, minding my own business, when an older man walked in and asked if he could use the bathroom to change. I took notice because I thought that was a weird request. He was dressed in head to toe nondescript, black and carrying a large bag. He disappeared and I immediately forgot he was back there.

Fast forward a significant amount of time (like really forgot he was back there amount of time). On the speakers at the coffee shop The Police were playing, "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" (get it Sting, eighties music moves me) and out walks the man.

 Dressed in a head to toe wizard costume. 

Like so. BUT SO MUCH MORE. I swear his robe was made of glitter, magic, and the dreams of fairies. In my mind he also was walking slow motion into a wind machine. TO THE POLICE. 

Even if he was walking regular paced, he really was in a glorious robe and Sting really was singing and my jaw LITERALLY (not using the word literally not meaning literally, I MEAN LITERALLY) dropped open. And then he winked at me and left. No one else even looked at him. 

I'm pretty sure this means I've finally been accepted to Hogwarts and it's going to by musically wonderful.

Musical Number 2

When I'm in the car alone, I listen to a popular top 40 radio station. I was sitting at a light by my house, bopping along when I noticed outside that a sign spinner was also bopping. To the exact same beat. And by bopping, I mean that the sign spinner was aggressively dancing. 

Like, swiveling hips, rapid fire feet, sign in the air like he just didn't care aggressive. It was very obvious that he was listening to the same station I was because his moves were on point. It was like the big scene where everyone around the main character starts jazz handing in support.

And then I realized that the sign spinner was working for a costume shop. And was wearing a carrot costume. And a Dracula costume. At the same time


PLUS THIS (complete with make up)

As I was digesting this costume and all of it's part, my thought wasn't, "wow, that's a really weird combination." 

It was, "well of course the back up dancer to my life would be a carrot in a Dracula costume."

What are you going to be for Halloween and can it top a carrot vampire?

All pictures via

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

My Angsty Musical

"What if you had one year to live, what would you do?"

I read this question on the internets today and initially heard a lot of crickets in my brain in response.

Chirp chirp.

And then a thought started in the back of my brain and wound it's way forward, despite a valiant attempt by the rest of my brain to stop it - "not this."

Not. This.

My initial response to my initial response (are we confused yet?) was, "shut up Back Brain (the technical, medical term), life is great."

Which is true.

I have a job where on Friday a co-worker followed me around playing the theme song to Chariots of Fire on her phone while I slow motion ran.

I have a husband who makes me nests and doesn't judge me when I sit in them and watch Doctor Who until my brain melts.

I am working on a degree that makes me feel alive and like I might have a purpose on earth one day, and that I'm pretty damn good at.

I have friends and family who are so supportive, it's almost painful for all involved.

...But... (AHH! The dreaded Back Brain But!)

 My first thought was crickets, followed quickly by "Not. This."


I'm tired. I have no time. Every week I have four 12+ hour days, and zero days with no commitments. I often feel like I'm putting on a show for an invisible audience.

Worker. Student. Counselor. Wife. Worker. Student. Worker. Counselor. Wife. Student. Friend . WORKER. SISTER. STUDENT. FRIEND. COUNSELOR. STUDENT. WIFE. DAUGHTER. Kick ball change! ONCE MORE WITH FEEEEEEEEELLLLLLING!!!!!!

Cha cha cha! JAZZ HANDS!

It's like that episode of Buffy where they are in danger of dancing to death (funnily enough, called, "Once More with Feeling"). My feet are smoking and I can't stop.

Now, I'm not writing to pout (all though I realize it looks suspiciously like that, whoopsy daisy!)

I'm writing because regardless of what's happening, how many dance numbers I have, how fast my feet are, I don't ever want to live a life where my first thought is "not this."

SO! This brings us to the point of today's rambling post!

Little things that have made me happy (in no particular order) in the midst of this batch of chaos:

1. Smushing my face into my puppy.
2. Clean underwear.
3. Office dance party to "Fancy".
4. The feeling of taking shoes and socks off after wearing them all day.
5. Smushing my face into my husband's back.
6. Hot, fresh Dazbog coffee.
7. Reading crappy young adult fiction.
8. My new hipster scarf.
9. Homemade dressing from my mom.
10. Cotton candy pink hair.

So. After some refocusing and mental furniture rearranging, I think I can change my initial thought to that question to - "not this forever, but for now it's good."

Yes. I KNOW the question was based on the premise of time being finite, in this case 365 day, but that's not the point I'm addressing. If it was my answer would be: become a wizard, travel the world with my new found wizardy abilities (oh hey never having to get out of bed to turn off the light!), eat a TON of cheese, have tea with the Queen, tousle David Tennant's hair, race a kangaroo, and enter/win a backgammon tournament.    

And to wrap all this up - TAKE IT AWAY JAMES MARSTERS! #teamspikeforlife

How about you - what little things help you counter the Back Brain But?

Monday, September 22, 2014

One Fish, Two Fish, Cat Fish, Moo Fish

While working on this post, I was using the internets to find weird animals. The things I've seen today. Yowza. YOW-ZA. If you ever need a jolt to your nervous system, go ahead and take a gander at the search results from that topic (be warned that despite the adorable name of "Star Nosed Mole," IT IS THE THING OF NIGHTMARES. It cannot be unseen. Shudder).

With that said, I have tried to pick animals that are more on the "cute" side than the "auuuuGHHAAAGGHHHH!!" side.

When I started my incredibly scientific research of strange animals, the end goal was to help my loyal readers discover their spirit animal, because I care. AND THEN I decided that I would help you discover what your Patronus would be, because everyone wants to know that.

If you don't know what a Patronus is, I have to say I'm highly disappointed in you. Again without going to deep into the science of this process, all you need to know is that this is a Patronus and OF COURSE you want to know what form yours would take (and honestly, go watch Harry Potter, go. We'll wait):


Obviously, I will not be helping you find out if your Patronus is an adorable Otter or a regal Stag, because that's no fun and I have a strong suspicion that my Patronus would not fall under the category of "normal" and I have no qualms of dragging you down to my level.

By now I know you are pumped to get started, so please pick a cluster of characteristics (this is a technical process, but hang in there, it's worth it).

1. Easy going, fun loving, life of the party. Potential traditional Patronus: fluffy bunny, golden retriever, or ferret in a toilet paper roll.

2. Aggressive, driven, get 'er done attitude. Potential traditional Patronus: panther, stallion, or honey badger.

3. Serious, intense, rule follower. Potential traditional Patronus: wood pecker, beaver, or eagle (bald or with hair, your choice).

4. Steady, reasonable, calm. Potential traditional Patronus: plow horse, koala, or pre-hibernation polar bear.  

Did you pick one?

Okay. Next step. There is no next step. See the number below with a picture of your Patronus. You are welcome for this insight.





So, what would your Patronus be? What would it be if I wasn't in charge of the choices?

Pics: via, via, via, via

Monday, September 15, 2014

Neurosurgeons LOVE Me. Obvs.

Once upon a time I worked in a Neurology department at a hospital. The timing of this story was soon after I had transferred from OB/GYN (which had it's own share of painful stories), and I was in the throes of trying to make a good impression.

Some important stereotypes, that are relevant to this story*:

1. Neurosurgeons believe that they are gods. They want what they want when they want it. STAT.

2. Results are important to them, not good intentions. If you've been a reader for any amount of time then you know that I am chalk full of good intentions. Results.... not as much.

3. Communication from them can be incredibly minimal, which can lead to a significant amount of room for interpretation.

In this particular department there were administrative/front desk people (me!) and medical assistants (not me!) that sat in the common areas. We had admin people sitting at the front desk (the check-in area) and one admin person sitting at the back desk (for check-out) in the midst of the clinical staff. The back desk was smack in the middle of the clinic and was the area that doctors would pop over to if they needed anything. STAT.

On my second (ish) day I was sitting at the back desk, perky and helpful, ready to conquer any problems to come my way. And boy howdy was a problem coming my way.

The surgeon standing before me was not young and not smiling. He had a startling resemblance to Grumpy Cat and the Emperor. 

He gave zero flips about my peppiness.

It was like facing a dementor. I immediately had all happiness sucked out of me. I'm pretty sure the room darkened and silenced, except for slightly ominous music. It's possible a tumbleweed blew by.

"H-h-h-h-how can I h-h-h-help you? S-s-s-s-sir?" Oh man. Oh man. There's no way I am going to be able to help him and then he is going to use the force to murder me.

"Staple remover." STAT (unsaid, implied).

Blink. Blink. Oh. OH! I CAN DO THAT! 

Everyone knows what a staple remover is!!

Death stare. 

Frantic digging in the drawers around me, flinging of any objects that were in my way, realistic impression of a confused golden retriever. 

"Here you go! Anything else you need, I'm your girl!" No need to be afraid, he just needs a staple remover! I bet it's  because his fingernails are insured or something. 

Holding up staple remover, beaming triumphantly, clicking it like you do tongs when you are testing them after you pick them up. Best moment of my hospital career. Click click click click. 

Death stare. Click click click. 

Smile starts fading. What's happening? Is it the wrong color? Am I suppose to remove the staples for him? Do I need to find a pillow to present it on? Should I bow? Click click click click. STOP CLICKING. 

"I need a staple remover for human skin." STAT. Click click click. 

Still holding up staple remover, now with a pained, frozen smile. I. I. Don't understand. Is that a threat? IS HE GOING TO SKIN ME?!?! Click.

At that moment one of the MAs reached around me and handed him a staple remover. For human flesh. That's a thing. 

I need to get out more. VIA

Still holding up my staple remover. Click click click. I start hysterically laughing. Painful, loud, abrasive laughter accompanied by obsessive clicking.

Death stare.

Snort snort, hiccup. Click click click.

Death stare.

He turns and leaves. Turns around for one more death stare. CLICK CLICK CLICK. I fling myself on the ground and don't move for five minutes while everyone, including patients, laughs around me.

*Yes, I know some great brain surgeons who not only are fantastic practitioners but wonderful, personable people. Miracles do happen. 

Thursday, September 11, 2014

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words, Tough Mudder Style

As proof of what I was talking about last post regarding completing the Tough Mudder, please enjoy these pictures along with my (made-up) commentary of what we were thinking.
As a note, those are ice cubes all over the surface, not little waves.

"Hm. This is not comfortable. I do not think I'm enjoying this."
"Ommmmmmmmm. Mind over matter. I am at the spa."

"Who knew my beard could hold so much water?"


"Huh. I wonder which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"I've always thought that the bigger question is, which came first the taco or the burrito?"

 "Burrito? I could go for a burrito."

"Pft. Forget burritos, look at my awesome form. Left right left right!"

Alexis: "I've go to remember to pick up laundry detergent at the store next time."
Joel: "Yeah, I think I want to go with a more piney scent this time."


Monday, September 8, 2014

Overweight + Tough Mudder = ???

November, 2013, "The Beginning": My dear, sweet, optimistic husband convinces me and our best friends that we should sign up for the Tough Mudder. There is inspiring talk of the training that will ensue to ensure that we kick the crap out of the course. I convince myself that it doesn't matter that I am fat now because I have buckets of time to fix that. Huzzah! Let's do it!

December, 2013 - July, 2014, "Good Intentions": Some halfhearted running. Extensive justification of how much time I have until the Tough Mudder. Significant Netflixing, Pinteresting, and french fry eating.

August 2014, "Manic Avoidance": My subconscious decides that the best possible training I can do is plumping up as much as possible. Panic eating ensues. Convince myself that Jesus will come back before September 6th.

First week of September 2014, "Oh, *expletive of choice*": I'm no longer able to deny that I now know the date of my death, and it's Saturday. Frantic Googling because knowledge is power, duh. I swing back and forth between searching for "can fat people do the Tough Mudder?" and "I need in-depth descriptions of the horrors that might happen during the Tough Mudder." Both topics were moderately enlightening.

After seeing how often the first question is asked on the internets, and how not answered it is, I swore if I lived I'd answer it.

Spoiler alert, I lived, thus this post.

For those of you who do not know what the Tough Mudder is, let me paint you a picture of the one I just dragged my poor, squishy body through. 11 miles, 2,700 feet of elevation, 20 some odd obstacles. Some highlights of the obstacles - a dumpster full of ice water, running through live wires, crawling in sludge under barbwire, so many unnecessary walls, mud on mud on mud, lots of tubes that need to be climbed, shimmied, ducked, etc. Good times!

Also, for those of you who don't know me personally, I'm overweight and out of shape. I really wish I could see in people's minds when I told them I was going to do this. I don't say this to  be self-deprecating, but because if you are genuinely searching for this topic on the world wide web, I want you to know you came to the right place!

So, the big question. Can someone who is overweight survive the Tough Mudder? Yes. You can.

And it sucks.

And it's wonderful.

And heartbreaking.

And inspiring.

Let me explain. I STRUGGLED. Like, get me an ambulance because I'm seeing the white light struggled. What some of my thought process was, "I'm a Comic Con kind of girl, not an obstacle course from hell kind of girl. What am I doing here? I HURT SO BAD MAKE IT END. I didn't even know I had muscles there. Jesus take the wheel. CURSE WORD CURSE WORD CURSE WORD CURSE WORD."

Let me also add, my husband and friends stuck with me. They convinced me that I could survive and that it wasn't my time. They waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. (If you do something like this with me, bring a book). And guess what?

I freaking did it. I'm bruised and battered and seriously can't walk, but I did it. I found strength in myself, and what I couldn't cover my friends did. I honestly think they would have gotten a wagon and dragged me along as opposed to letting me give up.

I will say, next year, I will be in better shape and hopefully up my game. Maybe I'll end up waiting on someone. But there will be a next year.

So if you are fat and find yourself signed up for something like this JUST DO IT. You'll regret if you don't.

You might regret it a little if you do, but I think the electro shock therapy at the end erases some of that. Win Win.

And for entertainment purposes, some of my finer moments from Saturday:

"Oh goodness, the man in the gold hot pants is bending over to stretch. Bad choices."

"Fat people should get bigger medals, because I'm working way hard over here."

"All I want is that headband. PUT IT ON MY HEAD."

"I feel fairly sure that when I go through the electroshock therapy, I'm going to shit my pants."

And on the phone with the pizza guy after the race, "and finally, we would like whatever chicken you feel most strongly about." It had barbecue sauce and bacon, he had good strong feelings.

Friday, August 22, 2014

I Object!

I've been a bit of workaholic since I was a wee little tot. This stems from a weird combination of needing to please people and a fear of instability and destitution that is far too boring to unpack here. The important consequence of this tendency is that days after my 16th birthday I got my first real job and it was at a dry cleaners.


***PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Real live human beings have to sort and clean your clothes when you drop them off at the dry cleaners, SO HAVE SOME SHAME. This means checking your clothes for: your dirty underwear, your cocaine, poop (hopefully yours?), clumps of pubic hair, and if I kept making this list of things that we routinely found, my blog would cease to be family friendly.***


Even without adding my manic mix of peppiness and annoyance that I bring to all my places of work, a dry cleaners is a fascinating and disgusting place to work.

Sometimes you have clients that refuse to give their real name and insist you call them "Mr. X."

Sometimes you have clients show up after closing time at the double glass doors in their underwear screaming about how they have no clothes and you have to let them in.

Sometimes you have clients come in looking for the afore mentioned cocaine and get the entertainment of watching them figure out how to ask if we've seen it without admitting it's theirs.

And sometimes, you are the problem.

It might not come as a surprise that I can be quite chatty and friendly at my place of work. This was especially true at this job, because sorting through and bagging people's dirty clothes is incredibly awkward and nothing brings out my obnoxiousness like feeling awkward.

The customer was a large, scowling, laconic man. Challenge accepted. I'm kind of like a My Little Pony - ignoring social cues in favor of attempting to bring unnecessary amounts of rainbows and butterflies to everyone's world. The less chipperness is wanted, the more it blazes out of me (especially when I was a bright eyed, bushy tailed sixteen year old).

Serious Man was NOT interested in any of the blithe conversation I was attempting to make.

He also had an incredible amount of clothes to sort, so my attempts were not short winded or subtle.

Serious Man quickly became Scowling Man, and I in turn ramped up the "charm" to 1,000 kilowatts.

I will make this man smile. I will make him like me. His day WILL BE BETTER.

I was shaking out the last garment (a choir robe), this was my last chance: "Oh cool! I see you're in the church choir! Awesome! I bet that's so much fun! Baritone?"

Seriously? He won't even talk about Jesus? Nothing??

Mega-Scowling Man replied, many painful moments later: "I'm a judge."

Nope. Not a choir robe.

Fine. You win this round.

In my defense:


 EASY MISTAKE. All though I see now that sleeves are much sassier on a Judge. You think Mega-Scowling Man would be happier getting to wear such sassy sleeves. Sheesh.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Let's Talk About Sex

**long ranty post about sex, chalk full of personal information. Since half my readers are my family, you've been dully warned.**

There is a lot of writing about sex. Some of it is informative, some shocking, some of it is sad, some inspiring. Recently, I've noticed a trend of arguing against waiting for marriage to have sex - it's silly, old-fashioned, it's disrespectful to yourself, it sets you up for failure, it creates unrealistic expectations, etc. Some of these articles are persuasive and logical and I read them and I end up feeling like Mowgli from the Jungle Book.

Which is kind of ironic since I'm already married and don't have to struggle with standing by my decision to wait until marriage. It does get me thinking though. Those words and arguments sound so persuasive to me, how do they sound to someone who is in the midst of trying to make a choice about their sex life?

I have nothing new to add to the argument. I don't have a special ability to interpret the Bible in new ways that will wow anyone reading. There's really nothing I can say that will push this argument one way or the other. Despite that, I feel compelled to add my two cents, if nothing else than because this is my blog and I do what I want.

I always felt the need to save myself for my husband. I was taught it as a young child and was lucky enough to have mentors all through high school that taught me a healthy point of view on sex and waiting. It was not done in a dogmatic, legalistic way but in an open and honest conversation. I can tell you all the arguments you've heard before, it's a gift, it's Biblical, etc., but there's no benefit to that. All I can add is my own experience and random thoughts I've gathered over the years.

First off, I don't believe this issue is as black and white as we'd like to think. There is not a magic celibacy belt that is handed out when you make a decision that turns off your sex drive, need for intimacy, desire to be wanted, or the awareness of all the other numerous of benefits that come from sex. Waiting to have sex can be excruciating - physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, ethically, grammatically... I asked myself many times, "why I am even waiting? What's the point." I desire love and intimacy as much as the next person. I'm a warm blooded human that feels lust. I was often "in love" and wanting to express that love. Staying a virgin was a constant choice, and one that often times got hazy and messy and complicated. I completely understand people, despite sound Biblical belief, who have sex.

Having sex outside of marriage can happen because of drunkenness, love, desire to get it over with, and on and on and on. Luckily, I don't think I worship a God who sees that and goes, "Ah well. No happy marriage for you in the future. The end." God is as merciful as He is just. He wants us to wait for us, not because it impacts His quality of life. He doesn't have a jar of virgins that gets emptier when we give up the goods that sends Him into panic mode that it is dwindling. I do think it makes Him sad. Being all knowing, He knows exactly how sex can be best experienced and it must be a big bummer when the children He loves are missing out on that. He knows that each casual sexual event, every heartbreak, each drunken mistake has a toll. It makes things that much more calloused or complicated. BUT, I believe that at any point someone can choose to say, "enough is enough, I want sex in the context it was created for - life long commitment." Our sexuality is no less redeemable than the rest of us.

I have a friend who has a colorful past sexually. We had many long conversations about why I choose to wait and eventually this friend made the decision that sex was off the table until marriage, regardless of the fact that many would say that ship had sailed. There was a dawning awareness that sex, even in serious, loving relationships, was not fulfilling a deep need for intimacy and that each time was actually making that hole bigger and harder to fill. That person is now married and that hole has been filled in a way that was never expected or understood before.

The flip side of that is waiting for marriage is not a magic formula that gives you Hollywood sex. If anything, it makes for a totally crap wedding night. Mine was mildly horrifying. Not because of my husband (who's incredibly sexy) or because of a flaw in our relationship. My body had no idea what it was doing, I was tense and stressed about performing well, and physically it hurt like a son of a gun. It would have been easy to sit in the fancy bathroom of our hotel and cry and wonder why I wasn't experiencing what everyone else obviously is, per the movies. But my thoughts were more along the lines of, "well we only have up to go from here," and "thank heavens I have John to figure this out with, because I sure do love and trust him."

For me, sex was a learning curve. I had to learn what I like, what John likes, what works best for us together, and all kinds of discoveries. I can't imagine taking on that journey with anyone but him. Talk with my girlfriends almost always ends up at some point being about sex (sorry guys, it's just how we work). The question, "what's the best sex you've ever had?" has come up in these conversations. I can honestly say every time I have sex is better than the last. I don't think this is a super special gift I get because I was a virgin when I got married, but I do think it would be impossible without really exploring the gift of sex within the commitment, trust, vulnerability, intimacy, and love of my relationship with John.

I honestly don't have a big concluding point with this post other than I don't regret waiting for marriage, and maybe someone needs that encouragement.

Friday, July 18, 2014

My Most Embarrassing (Not Funny) Moment

The other day I was watching an episode of Friends where Rachel states she doesn't embarrass easily and then Ross makes it his mission to prove her wrong.

As I was watching I couldn't help think that I am the exact opposite, that embarrassment is practically a second skin to me. I can spend days agonizing over something I said or did that no one but me remembers. Oh man, I can't believe that I laughed so hard at the joke that no one else thought was funny, oh heavens to betsy everyone is going to talk about how annoying my laugh is, they're going to think my brain is made of tapioca, oh man. That's what they are going to call me. Tapioca Brain. Can't believe I did that.

Needless to say, I have never been called Tapioca Brain in my life. And honestly, it's kind of an awesome nickname. Anna "Tapioca Brain" Smith. I dig it.

I literally have Googled "How to get over embarrassment."

Who does that?

Anyway, I started thinking about why I'm like this and I started thinking about the most embarrassing moment in my life and it helped me realize some things. It's not a funny story and at the end of the day I shouldn't be embarrassed, but even thinking about writing this has made my hands shake and my stomach sick - 13 years later. Yowza.

Here's the story. Sigh.

When I moved back to the States after living overseas for the first 14 years of my life I was struggling to fit in (shocker, I know). I only had one friend at first and I was desperate for her to like me. She asked me about boys I liked and dated where I last lived (the topic of 99.9% of teenage girl conversation). Seeing as I was barely a teenager, and really a big weirdo to boot, my number of "boyfriends" was a big, fat 0.

Pause: At 27, I think it's absurd to think about kids that age dating, but at the time I felt like a failure.

I lied. I told her about this guy I had dated and how wonderful it was and blah blah blah.

I can list any number of reasons I lied, and honestly at 14 and in the middle of major transition they are reasonable explanations. But that's not the point of the story, because regardless of right or wrong actions on my part this story has haunted me for tens of years.

 Pause: not only did I lie, I lied about a specific person.

Through a series of unfortunate events, with the aid of the newly blossoming technology at the beginning of the millennium, people at my old school found out about my lie, knowing of course that I was a liar liar pants on fire.

How did I find they knew? I'm glad you asked.

Pause: It is important to note that I moved in the middle of the school year, so the following exchange was with the home room class I had just left behind.

I was sitting one night on AIM (those were the days) when my old teacher IM'ed me and said "I heard you told people that you were dating so and so. Why did you lie about that?" followed by "Don't actually answer, the whole classroom is reading this."

Pause: Time change made it the middle of the school day there.

It's over a decade later and thinking about those messages makes me want to vomit.

I flung myself off of my chair, unplugged the computer, curled up in a ball in the closet, and wailed like a child (which I was). I have amazing coping mechanisms.

I changed my AIM name, my e-mail address, and to this day I hesitate to reconnect with any of the people I went to school with there. All because at 14 I told a lie to try and fit in.  

I might actually die writing this, my blood pressure is at like a bajillion.

SO. Why am I writing this?

A. To be cathartic. This is a terrible story. Yes, it started with a lie. But what that teacher did is appalling. If I ever meet her again I will have some serious questions on her teaching methods. Putting it on the internets for all to see, while probably boring for you is a big relief for me.

B. I realized that I am so embarrassed by this story because I was shamed by someone else. Facing our failures is hard enough when it is not pointed out to us. I have no idea why that teacher wanted to shame me. I have no idea why we shame others at all. But we do. All the time. We do it to loved ones, strangers, co-works, famous people, neighbors, and ourselves. We've all acted like Mean Girls and have mental burn books. And on Wednesdays we wear pink.

C. My problem is not embarrassment. I can set off alarms at the crown jewels or vomit on airplanes and laugh about it. It's when I think I'm being judged or belittled that it haunts me, when I think I am less than.

D. We did it to Jesus. He was shamed on the cross. It's bad enough that we physically destroyed him, but we completely dehumanized him. That's what shame does. It makes you feel less than human, less worthy of love and security. It robs something fundamental to our make up. It makes you feel alone and little. Judging someone is so much more powerful then we typically believe.

E. We all deserve space and grace. From ourselves, and others. We all make mistakes, some justified, some not. What would this world be like if our love was truly unconditional for ourselves and fellow man? If confidence was allowed to grow naturally and based on our inherent worth that we have from being made in the image of God?

So my challenge to us is this: be affirming to yourself and to others. Stop the shame cycle. Stop giving Satan an easy entry in to our brains.

And if your a teacher, don't instant message with your students. It's weird.

And if you are going to call me Tapioca Brain, don't abbreviate it to TB because then I sound diseased.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Steps to Healty Conflict Resolution

Wanting to tie in what I am learning as I work on becoming a counselor with my blog, I decided to start a segment that I was going to call, "Answers from a Professional," AFP for short.

Then I decided that I like it standing for "Anna for President!" better.

So, welcome to the first installment of AFP! (Anna for President!) where I shall share valuable and effective life advice.

A hot topic for the counseling world is conflict resolution. There are no set steps to healthy conflict resolution, so I have synthesized my own (mostly made-up)  five step list:

1. Take time to calm down and be able to speak from a place of logic and consideration for the other parties.

2. Be able to clearly state the problem and it's impact on you.

3. Hear the other parties thoughts and sides.

4. Brainstorm solutions, often times ones that are a happy compromise.

5. Make and implement an action plan.

But of course just having a list without an illustration is not helpful at all!

Let me set the stage. I was in college, it was 2 am, I was the designated driver in a car full of squawking, ridiculous drunk girls. Said group of girls just HAD to go to Whataburger on the way home.

Like an oasis in the desert
In their defense, it is open 24 hours, and after midnight they put chicken and honey butter on a biscuit.

I digress.

Being the full-service driver that I am, we went to Whatburger. Trying to order at the drive through was a mess - "I want that thing with the chicken!" "I want a burger the size of my face!" "I want a number 4, no a number 5, no a number 4!" SQUAWK SQUAWK SQUAWK. Finally, everyone is appeased and I, at the end, order my cheeseburger.

Now understand, I am having ZERO fun at this point. I'm irritated. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger. I've EARNED a cheeseburger. All I am living for at the moment is that cheeseburger.

1. Take time to calm down and be able to speak from a place of logic and consideration for the other parties.

We pull up to pay, I've got my eye on the prize, this will all be worth it when I get that glorious cheeseburger. I pay and look at receipt and see that my burger is missing. SQUAWK SQUAWK SQUAWK. "EVERYONE SHUT UP!!!" Breathing deeply through my nose, with all the loud ladies now cowed into silence, I explain to the cashier that I need to pay for my cheeseburger that I added at the end of the order. She swipes my card and we pull up to the next window to get our food.

2. Be able to clearly state the problem and it's impact on you.

As I am grabbing our food, and the noise level is steadily rising in the car again, I look at the girl in the window and say, "is my burger that I paid separately for in here? I really must have this burger. Are you sure? The burger is in here?" Yes, yes, yes of course it is.

3. Hear the other parties thoughts and sides.

In a cloud of assurances from the girl that my burger is in the bag, I pull forward. I stop to hand out all of the food in hopes that it will have a sedative effect on my passengers. I get to the bottom of the bag. No cheeseburger.

4. Brainstorm solutions, often times ones that are a happy compromise.

No cheeseburger. I specifically ordered it. I paid for it separately. I made the lady at the window sign a blood oath that I had it. NO CHEESEBURGER. SQUAWK SQUAWK SQUAWK. I can't sit in the driver through line again with these people. I get out of the car. The front doors are locked. I NEED THAT CHEESEBURGER.

5. Make and implement an action plan.

Obviously, I have to walk up to the drive-through window. Obviously, there is another car there now. Obviously, that is not going to slow me down.

I climbed on top of the hood of the car, waved at the driver, wedged myself between the wall and car, and bang on the window screaming about my cheeseburger.

I got my cheeseburger. Because. Conflict resolution works when you follow my steps.

Need advice? Ask AFP! (Anna for President!) and it could be answered in my next segment!

Thursday, May 22, 2014

The Origin of the Term A**hat

I am lucky enough to have met two of my closest friends, Alexis and Anthony, fourteen years ago, almost right after I moved back to the United States.

We were really cool
But it's okay, we turned out alright:
But, before we got all growed up and pretty, we were a mess. Okay fine. We are still a mess, we just got better at dressing up.
One story in particular sums up our relationship.
It was an afternoon during winter break and we were bored. Alexis needed to have her cell phone looked at, so the three of us went to the Verizon store. We were wandering around looking at fancy phones we couldn't afford when it happened. Anthony and I were messing around with a display case and we knocked the whole darn thing over. We're talking crashing, breaking, shrieking, knocked over. We looked at each other, and without a word ran out of the Verizon store, leaving Alexis to deal with the fall-out (hah, see what I did there?) of our mess.
Once we were outside, this is the conversation that should have happened:
"Oh man, that was really dumb, we should go back inside and deal with the mess we made instead of leaving it with her to clean up."
This is the conversation that happened:
"Well, that was a mess. Oh! Look! Party City! We should go in."
So, Anthony and I ran into Party City without a second thought. And then instead of feeling bad or worrying about our friend we had just heartlessly abandoned, we did this:
The signs of true friendship: a friend who is always willing to clean up after you and forgives you for running away from responsibility and/or a friend who takes pictures with you in hats at inappropriate times.  

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

27 Going on 90 #someonesavemefrommyself

During a conversation with a  friend at work, I had the epiphany that I am way behind the social media times – I don’t tweet or Instagram or Vine or any of that business, because I am apparently a 90 year-old, cranky woman on the inside. Snap Chat is a new (?) thing I know nothing about. Seriously. It might actually be Snapchat. I have no idea. Huh. Spellcheck recognizes Snapchat as a word. Even my word processor is more hip than me. Dang it.

Anyway. Snapchat, from my extraordinarily limited knowledge, is a program where you take a picture of something, send it to a friend, and it pops up on their phone for a few seconds before deleting itself. You can draw on said picture, for example adding hashtags (which I’m also behind on). Apparently it is often used for taking duck-faced selfies and other exciting updates on life. A real life example:

Picture: a young whippersnapper  from our office posing by a pool with a drink (sent to another person at our office). #biztrip.

When I saw it I couldn’t help but think, man, I must be getting old because that is the most ridiculous use of technology I’ve ever heard of. Biztrip. Who says that.

After a conversation regarding that Snapchat and the silliness of young people today with my friends at work (remember, 90 year-old woman here) I could not help but think about what I would Snapchat if I decided that it was a necessary means of communication.

That afternoon I was sitting in the lady doctor’s office, all hiked up, and thought it’d be funny if I could send them the following:

Picture: my knees and hospital gown. #gyntime.

Which then lead me to think that, that is exactly why adults like me shouldn’t Snapchat.

Picture: me in pajama pants on the couch. #realtiredofthingslikepantsandresponsibility.

Picture: summertime electric bill. #cantbeattheheat.

Picture: clock showing 10:30pm. #ughonlygoingtoget7andahalfhoursofsleep.

Picture: the horrible moment when you first look in the mirror in the morning. #thethingsofnightmares.

Needless to say, I will leave the snapchatting (can it even be used as a verb?) to the young and hip while I look for a rocking chair that will fit on my stoop so I can shake my fist and yell at small children. #getoffmylawnyoulittlepunks.  

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Anesthesia Brings Out the Best in Me

I have no filter, and that is especially true when I am sick. Turns out I'm a loon when medicine, doctors, or hospitals are involved. And kind of a jerk.

When I was four years old I had pneumonia and the nurse was struggling to get an IV in my arm. I was screaming in Japanese and my parents could not understand what I was saying (one of the many joys of third culture parenting). They asked the nurse what I was saying and all she would say was, "All I feel comfortable repeating is that she is very, very angry."

When I was eight I was in the hospital for an unidentified seizure disorder and I ran around the room screaming, "I love this place! I get to play all day and people always bring me presents! BEST DAY EVER!!"

At thirteen I was told that I would need headgear and I threw a full on, on the floor screaming temper tantrum that I'm pretty sure insulted my dentist's competency and possibly his mother (as a side note I did not ever wear headgear).

At fifteen I had my first colonoscopy and as I was coming out of anesthesia I flung myself off the bed, grabbed the nurse, and screamed, "DO YOU LOVE JESUS?!?" Luckily, she did, because I'm pretty sure my technique needed some refining.

I had my appendix out at sixteen, and fun fact, when you have appendicitis they test for it with a CT scan with contrast. The contrast is not put in your veins, but up your bum. Ick. As I was laying on the table clenching with all my might, I turned to the tech and said, "is this really what you do for a living? I bet you get real tired of butts."

Eighteen years-old, after having a surgery on my leg, I groggily convinced the poor nurse they had operated on the wrong leg. They hadn't.

After I had my tonsils out when I was twenty (I enjoy getting rid of superfluous organs) I was asked what my pain was on a scale from 1 to 10. I hacked and cackled about it not being a 10 because I hadn't broken my femur (five thousand bonus points if you know why I said that) and then got incredibly cranky when no one got my joke.

Last year, I was in the emergency room for an ovarian cyst and a resident walked in (you can tell from the manic, bright-eyed smile and the crappy shoes) and I put my hand up and said "nope. No. Go get a real doctor. Nope. No."

Maybe one day I won't act like a crazy person when I'm at the hospital. But where's the fun in that??