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. 

VIA

VIA

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! 

"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. 

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.

 

ARCTIC ENEMA:

 

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?"

 

 

"BLEEP BLEEP BLEEPITY BLEEP."

 

KISS OF MUD 

 

 

"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!"

 

WARRIOR CARRY:

 

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."

 

ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY:

 

"ALL TOGETHER NOW - YOWZA!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

Yummy.

***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.***

Delicious.

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:

VIA

VIA



 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.

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.

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.

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.

Glorious

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!