Life Lessons That Make You Say YOWZA.

I worked at an OB/GYN for awhile and no matter what kind of admin/desk/call center job you've had, it does not compare to the things you hear and see while working at the ladybits' doctor. I've decided to share some valuable life lessons I learned.

- If you are dropping off any kind of bodily fluid at your doctor's office the following containers are never okay - ziplock bag, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter container, and/or Tropicana bottle.

Yeeeessshhhh. Some things you can't unsee and boy howdy is it hard to keep a straight face and not say - "what the heck is wrong with you?? I can believe it's not butter, what I can't believe is that this was your only viable option for collection."

- While there is very little ramification to treating employees of your doctor's office like garbage, you can bet your bottom dollar they will call you by a mean nickname. And possibly blog about said mean nickname because they can't get over what a jerk you are, YOU BIG MEANIE. ::cough:: Sorry.  

"Who are you guys talking about?"

"Buttface."

"Oh ew, I hate her."

- When you call your doctor's office, it is NOT a medical professional who answers.

Me: "Thank you for calling women's service, this is Anna, how can I help you?

Random, Angry Woman: "It's red, it burns, and it hurts like a son of a -"

Me: "Auugh! LET ME TRANSFER YOU."

- When someone at your doctor's office says, "Oh no, not a problem, this happens all the time." They are lying. The level of shrillness in a person's voice is a good indicator of how much they are lying.

Lady hands me her 24 hour urine sample (which is a jar full of a day's worth of pee - pregnancy is so much more complicated than I ever guessed) and it explodes everywhere.

Lady starts apologizing frantically.

Me: "oh no, not a problem, this happens all the time" so high pitched that only dogs can hear me as I back away rapidly to find reinforcements before I completely spaz out.

- And finally, based on my favorite story from my time at the lady doctor, don't answer the phone when your doctor's office calls, you may not get sound information.

When nurses call with test results, they can't leave them a voicemail. Instead they have a schpeil they leave about calling them back.

One day, sitting by a nurse who was getting ready to leave a voicemail, the patient answers the phone on the last ring effectively frazzling the poor nurse, I hear the following:

Nurse: "Oh hi, yes, I'm calling from blah blah's office and I just wanted to let you know that you have just a little bit of herpes."

She gets off the phone.

Me: "Um, I'm sorry, did you just tell someone they have just a little bit of herpes?"

Nurse: "I was flustered! I thought I was going to leave a message!"

So, the moral of the story... I don't have a moral. I'm just easily entertained.

That time I fell down a Himalaya.

At the tender age of twenty I spent the summer in India. It was a trip that was so full of awesomeness and awfulness, that I could probably write a book about it. There is one story in particular that needs to be told, and I feel like today is the day.

In the middle of the trip we went to a part of the Himalayas and went backpacking up a herding path to visit with a nomadic, water buffalo herding people group for a few days. It was truly incredible. The people were amazing, the scenery was unbelievably gorgeous, everything was just spectacular.

Towards the end of the camping trip, three of us had to leave early to return back to the city to go through a training program. In addition, a fourth person had Giardia and needed to come back with us to get medication.

So, three clumsy people, one guide, and a vomiting girl strapped to a donkey set off in the pouring rain to climb down a buffalo herding path. Recipe for success.

Now, a key part of this visual is that the rain had turned all of the centuries of dried, hardened buffalo poop back into it's similar to original, mushy state. Not only was it disgusting, it made things wildly slippery.

When you are walking down a poop covered path, in the pouring rain, and you are not part mountain goat, you fall. A lot. The first few times you fight it and bust out the ninja-gymnast moves to try and break your fall and save your clothes. After about the tenth fall, you experience a grudging acceptance that you are going to get some poop on you and try to refine your technique to the fastest way of getting up so you can just get to the end.

Around fall number 25 you start to laugh. Once you top 50, and you are so soaked in poop that you don't recognize the people you are with, you are laughing and crying so hard that you pee your pants. How do I know this is a universal experience? Because I was not the only person in that group that peed my pants.

All of this slipping and sliding was punctured by our guide, leading the donkey, yelling, "step where I step. Step where I step! Why you fall down? STEP WHERE I STEP!!" as he frolicked down the mountain without getting a speck on him.

"Mmhmm. Yes. I hear you, but every time I try to step where you step I get more buffalo dung up my nose when I land on my face."

Needless to say, by the time we got to the village at the bottom of the trail we looked like creatures emerging from the crap lagoon. Here is photographic proof of how horrifying this all was: me after I have tried to clean up and stood in the rain, in a river, for half an hour.

How I wish I had pictures of the villagers' faces as we walked down the middle of the main road. A resoundingly, stunned silence surrounded us as we dragged our weary, disgusting selves down the lane looking for the car that was suppose to pick up us up and take us back to the city.

"We have problem, but I fix!" Not comforting words to hear from your guide. Our transportation was MIA.

He bounded back after finding said missing car, and quickly stated "we have problem, but I fix!" The car, while now located, was broken down on the outskirts. Our guide quickly found us alternative transportation.

Why there was a neon orange, Indian party bus in a village hundreds of miles from the nearest city I may never know, but we would have ridden alligators down the mountain at this point in the story so we clamored on to the bus.

Moments later, our guide popped on to the bus. "We have problem, but I fix!" Of course we do. We needed to take the broken down car with us, but the party bus, while heavy on flashing lights was lacking in tow chains.

The car ended up being tied to the party bus with a piece of rope. After securing the car, our guide bid us good bye and four drivers loaded on to the bus on the front bench seat and we were off.

Music a blaring, lights a flaring, poor sick girl a vomiting, hope of survival a dying, we careened down the Himalaya. Suddenly, the car was rolling past us. Turns out, rope, not a great tow chain. We stopped. All four drivers got out, retied the car, got back in, and off we went again. This happened multiple times, and each time we had a different driver when we started moving again.

Finally, all of the drivers decided that rope was not working. Thus commenced an impromptu scavenger hunt on the side of the mountain. The result? Barbwire. Let me repeat. BARBWIRE.

Seriously. This picture: the party bus, the broken down car, the multitude of drivers, the barbwire:

 Fun fact: when barbwire is used to lash a car to a bus every few moments there is a bone jolting jump as the car slips down a notch on the barbwire. It was a really nice addition to the ride.

Eventually, we made it down the mountain. At the "auto shop" fifteen people came out of a tent all carrying a different tool to work on the car. Shockingly, it actually started and we made it back to where we were staying and we all survived.



  

America's Most Wanted

Last night I got pulled over while driving home from school, which is on the top ten list of worst feelings ever. This is exceptionally true for me because I, a) have weird authority issues and instacry when I'm in trouble, and b) I have an incredibly on edge nervous system that makes it hard for me to think rationally in stressful situations...

I'm waiting at a red light when I notice that a policeman has pulled up behind me. Instant thought process, even though the lights are not even on yet - oh man, cops make me nervous. I need to drive super carefully now. I hope I haven't already done something wrong. I hope I don't have some unknown arrest warrant out for me for some unknown crime I don't remember committing. Oh man. I don't want to go to jail, I don't look good in orange. Oh man. Oh man. The light turns green, and I turn left. Now, most times this is when the policeman will drive around you and go about his merry way protecting society from evil doers. He stayed behind me.

I changed lanes.

He changed lanes.

Oh crap. Oh crap. He is going to pull me over. I don't even know what I did. Why? Why me? WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?!

His lights come on.

BEATRICE WE ARE GETTING PULLED OVER. PULLED OVER. BY THE POLICE. WE'RE TOO PRETTY TO DIE!! (this part may have been said out loud...)

At this point, the afore mentioned hyper sensitive nervous system has careened to 100% instantaneously. I start shaking so bad that my seatbelt locks up and I start flailing about because I am stuck. This also goes hand in hand with my brain short circuiting, as I imagine how my family will go on without me while I rot away in prison.

The incredibly nice cop walks over and I just stare at him shaking like a Chihuahua.

"I'm Officer so and so with the blah blah police department and I pulled you over tonight because you ran the stop sign back at the seminary."

Blink. Blink. "Oh. Okay. Yes." Stare some more.

"Well, I need your license, insurance, and registration."

Blink. Shake. Twitch. Blink. Panicky, rapid fire voice. "I, um, don't have, um my driver's license. It's in my trunk. She's a very small car, it can be hard to find places to put things like purses. But obviously I should have put it on my seat. But I didn't. It's in my trunk. I don't have it."

"How about your insurance and registration?"

I frantically fling myself to my glove compartment and start throwing things out of it. "I have no idea where anything is. She's a new car to me and I don't know my way around, but I do have insurance and I promise she's registered to me. I promise. Hold on. Promise." I'm shaking so bad at this point that all of the papers in my little folder holder thing are rattling. I end up handing him the whole folder. "I'm sorry, I'm just too nervous and I don't know where anything is, but you do this all the time so I'm sure you know what papers you are looking for, so I'm just going to hand you this whole folder."

"Uh huh. Alright. Well. I'll be right back"

So then I sit. And sit. And sit. Yup. Yup. I'm going to jail. No way around it.  He probably things I'm a criminal. Maybe I am a criminal. Well, it's been a good run cruel world.  And then the tears I've been fighting explode every where. By the time he walks back, I have make-up and snot all over my face, and I am doing that shuttering, lip quivering, try-to-pull myself together move.

"Uh. Are you ok?" Sniveling nod, while I wipe my eyes.  "I am just going to give you a warning, next time pay attention to all stop signs."
 
"Oh. Thank goodness. I'm so sorry. It's really Beatrice's fault, she's just so zippy."

He just stares at me. Hands me my folder. Walks away.

I feel 95% sure I didn't get a ticket because he was worried about my sanity. And also why I usually get out of tickets, with gems like so:

"I hate the DMV. That's why I still have a Colorado license. Don't you hate the DMV? DON'T YOU? DON'T YOU?!? I CAN'T GO BACK TO THAT PLACE." - Didn't get a ticket.

After a cop pulled me over for honking my horn for like 2 minutes at another driver and asked me if it had been totally necessary: "How do you define necessary? I don't think it would have killed me not to honk my horn so intensely, but I was really, really mad and sometimes I have bad coping mechanisms. Kind of like when I get pulled over and I start crying. See? Here comes the crying." - Didn't get a ticket.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT CLASS I AM GOING TO BECAUSE YOU'VE JUST RUINED MY LIFE FOREVER. LIFE RUINER!!!!" - Didn't get a ticket (all though I was forced to walk around until I calmed down)

"Oh, I am so sorry" and other calm, polite replies. Got a ticket.

Smile Like You Mean It

I have a co-worker who would not have the word "tact" used to describe her on any planet, ever. Well, maybe on Pluto, since I hear he's a little angry anyway, and probably thinks highly of people who say things like, "oh my, what are you wearing little miss?" and "oh my, did you color your hair that shade on purpose?"

Today the statement was, "oh my, you smile like Goldie Hawn!" Now, on the surface that might seem like a compliment if you think of Goldie circa "Overboard." But. I know better. Anytime I hear those two hateful words, "oh my," there is not a compliment involved. And how do I know that we aren't talking about Goldie in her golden days of yesteryear? Because this was her on the Oscar's last night, as another co-worker so lovingly pointed out via e-mail when I told her about the Goldie-smile-comment:

Oh my, indeed.

No offense to Goldie! I don't even know her! My point is not to make fun of her, but myself, so hang in there with me to the end of this post.

That picture prompted me to send this picture back to my co-worker with the caption "I didn't know I had so many celebrity look a likes:"

And much cackling ensued, until I realized that last night this picture was taken of me:

Goldie Hawn - 1, Toothless - 1, Snarky Co-worker -1, Anna - 0.

 

The F Word - Fat Fat Fatty Fat

***WARNING: this post will not be fun or light, and the language used may be offensive to some, but is necessary for me to write authentically on this topic. It's also a little word vomity...***

Despite the name of my blog, I have really avoided writing about my weight, because that is not even a little bit fun. But, alas, the time has come.

Some background: I have struggled with my weight and self-esteem issues for as long as I can remember. I gained a significant chunk in college, and then a REALLY significant chunk post-college. This is me, a year and a half ago, at my heaviest:

I literally have no words for how damn hard it is for me to post that picture.

Close to when that picture was taken I decided my life needed a dramatic change, for my health and sanity, and I started at Slimgenics. Over the last year I've lost weight with Slimgenics, had major life crises that derailed my weight loss, and rejoined Slimgenics. At the end of the day, I can now say that since that picture was taken I am 55 pounds lighter, like so:

Huzzah! I'm proud of myself. Let's bask in that for a moment.

Basking aside, I still have about 30 pounds to lose. And this last 30 pounds SUCKS. It is an epic, clawing battle every single day. Some days I do awesome and some days I set myself back, but I'm still fighting. Emphasis on the word fight.

Last night at Slimgenics I had an experience that really rattled my brain. One of the "counselors" (my irritation for them using that word is a whole separate blog), who is a friend and genuinely cares about me, got very upset with me. Monday I ate some nachos at school and my weight was two pounds up. Yeah, that sucks, but I still went in and wanted to talk about moving forward. To summarize, this is what he told me - "I'm just so worried about you because you still have so much weight to lose and you are so young to be out of control of your weight and I don't think you will ever be healthy if you can't win this battle and I don't think you care about losing weight or your health." There were more points made along these lines, but you get the gist. By the time I left, I was hysterically crying.

Side note: I'm a big crier, so that doesn't actual mean a ton.

I could NOT pull myself together. I sat in my car for twenty minuets bawling before I could even drive home. I then proceeded to cry for two hours while writing a paper, and then two more hours while I sat in the bathtub. I was so upset that I couldn't even tell my husband why I was crying because the words kept sticking in my throat.

"GOOD HEAVENS. What the heck am I so upset about??" - that's the question I tossed and turned about all night.     

There was truth in what he  had said (and he was truly trying to speak in love) - I still do have a long road ahead of me and I have been more complacent recently.

But I'm finally beginning to process why I was so devastated, and it was not from the truth in his words.

First of all, it does not acknowledge the hard work that I've done. My last 30 pounds are more because of appearances than health. My pulse and blood pressure are at an all time low. My glucose levels are fantastic. My waist is smaller than the recommended 35 inches for gut health. My cholesterol has dropped 100 points. I am healthy, especially when compared to where I came from.

Second, and more importantly, shame is not a motivator. Being overweight for most of my life, I've shamed myself until it's part of my constant inner dialogue. Common place thoughts I have/had because of my body:

"No one could truly love you when you look like a whale."
"You are disgusting and not worthy of anyone's time, you will never make anything of yourself in life."
"What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a useless piece of fat shit."
"All of your friends are thin, and then there's you, you nasty pile of garbage."

And honestly these are the nicer thoughts. And where do these shameful thoughts come from? Satan. He's an asshole. He wants me to dwell on my weight and body, and to feel like scum all the time. How can I be glorifying God when I'm busy obsessing over how I look and feel?

As I've started to feel better about myself he has to use new tactics to get me down, bringing in people with good intentions to make me feel like a failure and worthless. Last night I let him win. I cried in my bathroom and spent hours thinking about how I suck at everything and I will never make anything of myself, all because I ate some nachos.

But. He isn't the winner. Christ is. Christ died for me and loves me so much. ALL OF ME. Even when I was the girl in that first picture, he loved me just as much as he loves me today, and just as much as he will love me when I get to my goal weight. I carry his spirit in my. I am made in his image. That doesn't change with my appearance, ever. I will continue to work on being healthy, not because I want to wear a certain size, but because my body is a temple and I want to honor God in all aspects of my life.

And sometimes, I will eat nachos. And it'll be glorious, not shameful.

God created me. Christ died for me. The Holy Spirit is in me. I WIN SATAN, HA! As one of my all time favorite lines in a song says, "'...I've told you once - you son of a bitch - I'm the best that's ever been!"

When I grow up I want to be Tolkien. Or a potato. It's hard to tell.

Getting my master's degree in counseling has thus far involved a painful amount of personal reflection, self-examination,  deep thinking, analyzing all emotional baggage, frequent torture, occasional exorcisms... ::cough:: ... anyway, it's been quite an adventure. I'm pretty much a hobbit with a ring on a death march to an evil volcano, but sassier.

On this perilous journey, I have to take a large amount of standardized tests that examine different parts of my personhood, ponder on the results, and thoughtfully write about what I have learned and how it will help me be the best counselor I can be... Frodo is lucky he only had to face Mordor, Orcs have nothing on falling outside the standard deviation.

A picture of my soul in it's current state.

One such test I took this past semester was about what careers would be best for me. My number one was mental health counselor. Blech. How boring. I hate being predictable.

Reflecting on my completely unshocking answers, I couldn't help but think that the test would be much more exciting if the suggested careers were less... attainable? That's just a nice way of me saying imaginary and/or delusional.

I present my results of a career inventory, if I was allowed to write standardized tests:

5. Hobbit. I initially wrote this as a joke because this post has become weirdly Lord of the Rings themed but then I realized I like food, sleeping, food, socializing, food, hobbit-holes, food... So, yeah. I totally want to be a hobbit. I might already be one?

4. Pre and Post Anesthesia Pep Talk Giver.  This has nothing to do with wanting to help people or make them feel better. This is based purely on the fact that funniest stories in the whole world stem from anesthesia. It's a win-win. They won't remember at all if I actually do my job (all though I give a heck of a pep talk) and I will just laugh at people all day. With people. Laugh with people. Laughing at them would be rude.

3. Fancy Hotel Tester. There is literally nothing I love more in the world than staying at a hotel. I turn in to a crazy hermit person when a hotel is involved. I use all the tiny toiletries, I wear the robe, I order room service, sometimes I take up ironing (I don't even own an iron at home) because it's there. I'd be the BEST hotel tester ever. Built a new luxury resort? Not sure if it's up to par? Call me! On second thought, all my reviews would be along the lines of, "IT'S AMAZING! BEST EVER! SIXTY-SEVEN GOLD STARS TO ALL OF YOU!"

2. Celebrity Baby Namer. First of all, I've totally named a baby before. A human being is permanently labeled because of my skills. Thus, I'm qualified. I can picture it now - sitting on my naming throne, surrounded by blue and pink storks, famous people lining up to meet me, weeping in gratitude when I pass on my genius... AND, to boot, never again will something like North West happen. You're welcome America.

1. Queen of England. Always and for ever this will be my life goal. The end.

Who Invited Mel Gibson to Christmas?

'Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the fog,

All the creatures were stirring,

Including my dog...

::PAUSE::

This needs an introduction. And less rhyming.

INTRODUCTION: Marriage is wonderful. You get to share everything, you always have someone to make you smile, you get to be a human boot check because your wife is too stupid to get cowboy boots off on her own .... What bliss! Sometimes you are so finely in tune with each other that you don't even need words to communicate, and that beautiful exemplar of matrimonial harmony is where this story is headed.
 

::AND UNPAUSE (minus rewriting any beloved classics)::

It really was the night before Christmas and John and I were packing up the car to head to my parents' house for Christmas Eve festivities. Part of the preparation was me shoving Razzie into a Santa dress with a giant tutu. I am only allowed to dress her up once a year, so I make it count. It's adorable! And mildly abusive! And because I am an equal opportunity humiliater, I had put on my annual Christmas adornment, antlers. Because, antlers.

Anyway, John was upstairs and I walked out the front door with Razzie, in all our festive glory. Alas, as soon as she scampered down the stairs her collar popped off. If you have ever owned a small dog who is part hellhound, you know what moment came next. The frozen-no breathing-praying that she won't notice-shuffling forward-talking in high pitched voice-reaching forward slowly moment. You also know what moment followed. Razzie turned to me, we locked eyes, and then:

She was off like a bat out of hell. Now, Razzie loves to run. And if she is chased IT'STHATMUCHMOREFUNMUSTRUNFASTER!!!! Knowing this, I though to myself, "self, you will never catch her. If you go get John or your car keys you won't know where she went. BUT if you chase her and scream really, really loudly John can figure out what's happening, get in the car, and follow your yelling and flailing and catch her." Genius. Fool proof.

So. I ran. Take a moment to take in the visual: I am wearing antlers, holding a leash with an empty collar, chasing a thirteen pound dog wearing a tutu, and screaming like a maniac. You're welcome.

BUT. THE POINT OF MY STORY. Five minutes later, as I'm gasping for air watching Razzie have a grand old time two blocks away, John drove past me and Razzie got in the car.

The conversation that followed:

John: "You know chasing her just makes her run faster."

Me: "....nerfgghhblar.... heeeeeeegah...."

John: "I heard you screaming and figured out that Razzie had gotten out."

Me: "ghhheee.... graphelgasp."

John: "I finished loading the car since I knew you'd know which way she went and I'd be able to catch her even though you were egging her own. I followed your yelling. You're welcome."

Me: "gasp...that was... a good... plan."

BAM. MARRIAGE.

And to all a good night.