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.

Rugby:

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.

Rugby:

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.

Rugby:

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.

Rugby:

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

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.  

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.

5. 

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.

4.

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!

3. 

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!

2.

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.

1.

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. 

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

THIS:

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. 

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."

Why?

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?

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):

OOOOO! AAAAA! via

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.

1. IRRAWADDY DOLPHIN 

2. FOSSA

3. PEACOCK MANTIS SHRIMP

4. GIANT SOFT SHELL TURTLE

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

Pics: via, via, via, via

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.