i think this is a milestone?

Well well well. Guess who is NAILING her 100th post today? 

CHEERS!!!!!!!!!!!

ME!!!!!!!!! 

Let's not shit ourselves, when I started this little happiness project last November I had no idea I'd make it this far. In fact, I was even supposed to have a coupla co-bloggers. They bailed out as soon as I registered this little sideshow and made it all official-like. 


Dicks.


I mean we're still practically BFF, but I'm not going to pretend like I'm not mad about being deprived of a little photo shoot in cracked-out golf attire for our much anticipated "T'd off Tuesday" feature. The three of us swinging golf clubs at a camera in unison could have been totally dangerous epic.

Whatevs, I'm over it.


I'd be lying if I said that after 100 posts I feel like I know ANYTHING close to what it is I'm doing here, floating around in the blogosphere. But hey, it feels pretty damn good to have a place to use curse words gratuitously and bitch about how much the winter makes me want to hibernate. Plus, no one seems to judge me too hard when I listen to my Bon Iver pandora station a smidgen too long and start ranting and raving about god knows what in my fragile emotional state.

So, thanks Internet.

It's been a beautiful beginning to a lovely friendship. And for realsies you've done wonders for my attitude. Just ask Manfriend, he'd probably have killed me for the life insurance money by now if I didn't have this sturdy little crutch.  

SPEAKING OF THAT GUY.

Guess who got a brand spankin' new suit last night? Yes, my own boyfriend. Since we have four weddings to attend in the near future and all. And guess where my mall-phobic boyf let me drag him?

 H&M!!!! HOLY TRENDSETTERS BATMAN!

 If I could have had a video camera for the moment he opened the dressing room door wearing 'skinny-fit' trousers and a too-small suit jacket, I would have had a chance to bring more joy and laughter to the world. It was truly a sight to see. A hilarious, wondrous sight. We finally settled on a suit that looks snazzy on him and he needed my advice, so he had to stop giving me the silent treatment for making a scene in the dressing room and we jaunted off to our next glamorous destination.

THE STORE THAT SELLS VACUUM BAGS!

Because I'm 25 years old and I still own an old Hoover handed down from my parents. Except it's so old that they don't actually sell the correct vacuum bags anymore and that's when I started to panic.

I must suck all the dog hair into the vacuum on the daily or my lungs say "No Bueno" and give up. Yes, my lungs speak Spanish. I do not.

And you know what Manfriend did? He bought us a brand-new STATE OF THE ART ($$$) vacuum that DOESN'T EVEN NEED BAGS. It's great. You just rinse off the filter. And empty it. (a million times a day if you have a mastiff like we do.) I LOVE BREATHING!  He reaaaaaally doesn't want my life insurance money, apparently.

Plus he even bought me that Michael Kors watch I requested for my birthday. With diamonds. I feel like a magpie staring at it on my wrist all day. I think that means I'm in love. I don't hate it.

Anyway. Thanks for the memories, Internet. And thanks Manfriend for keeping me appeased the rest of the time.

X's and O's!

Sara

dr. e and his magical prescription pad

What the shit is it with old male doctors and not listening to a word that comes out of my mouth?


Could it BE that they legitimately cannot hear me? Perhaps I'm speaking in tongues or something? All I know is that it's becoming increasingly obvious that we're not equipped to communicate with one another effectively.


My allergy specialist is a great doctor, really- As well as a cheerful old man who reminds me of a shorter-bearded Albus Dumbledore... and instead of a wand to magic my ailments away, he has a prescription pad that he uses to give me written legal permission to try all kinds of allergy and asthma medicines and potions. Not as cool as a wand, but I'm hoping it'll miraculously cure me much the same way. Truth be told, I was genuinely looking forward to my appointment, and not just because I needed like 234873874 new prescriptions.


Yesterday though, we just did not click. I don't know what it was. Maybe I was the last appointment of the day, maybe Dr. E really is finally going senile. Whatever it was, I don't like it. I like to trust that health care professionals are actually intelligent and engaged in making me and those I care about feel better. And anyone who is sick, really. I don't like to have to interrupt to get my point across or pull out the "Now you listen to me!" finger, because I find it disrespectful and I'm not trying to piss off someone who potentially holds my health and happiness destiny in their old, gnarled hands.


In fact, I've only really gotten mouthy with A SINGLE nurse in my lifetime. I was in college and not even the patient. Anyway, that hospital blew... coughghettocoughcough.  They admitted my best friend for an appendectomy and it turned out that she had cancerous cervical cysts.


Um, made a major mistake lately? Guessing it's NOT as big as that one was.


Good times.


Back to yesterday.


I get in there and get my shot and wait my turn and sit in the waiting room and then good old Dr. E saunters in and.... I get the distinct impression that this old coot is trying to usher me out the door as quickly as he possibly can.  As in, not asking me the general questions I've grown accustomed to in yearly check-ups, and I happen to have negative answers already prepared. I was going to brace him for the news that I'm living with a Mastiff with a semi-apologetic joke.  I HAVE STUFF TO SAY. I LIVE WITH A GIANT DOG IN A DEATH TRAP AND I LOVE TO GARDEN. THIS ISN'T WORKING. I NEED MORE DRUGS.


So, um, NO, dude we're not rushing this along. We're on my time. You wanted to check-up. Check. Me. Up.


Because you know what? This isn't a exactly a breeze for me, either. I had to endure asking my boss to leave work early (cringe),  drive my hot-box of a car AWAY from air conditioned home to your office, I paid a $250 deductible that I've been dodging since January, I burn a lunch hour every week driving up to your office to get a healthy dose of my own worst allergens shoved into my veins at the cost of $22 a pop, and I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE FOR SHIT.


NO dude, you're going to FIX THIS.


WITH COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF DRUGS.



So, I quickly but firmly showed good old Dr. E the writing on the wall. You know, my hobbies, my symptoms, my living situations, the way the air is killing me slowly, etc.

And you know what he said:

"Oh dear, you're just a disaster. Dear, dear, dear, you're an allergist's nightmare. I need to go make a copy of this form because it's not going to hold all the perscriptions I need to write you. I think it's time to pull out the big guns."

To which I smiled sweetly and nodded.

Fucking right.

Here hoping I'll be feeling much better. Very soon.

Xo Sara

attack of the evil sunscreen.

Yesterday my mom and I decided to venture to the local high school to play some tennis. At one thirty in the afternoon. On the hottest day of the year.

So right now I'm trying to decide if making bad choices, stupidity, or just being unyieldingly stubborn to the realities of the weather runs in the family.

Like the occasionally responsible adult woman that I am, I applied sunscreen to my face prior to sun exposure. This actually turned out to be a horrific idea. You know why?

Because it took about 4.2 seconds for me to start sweating profusely in the 95 degree heat and humidity in the air. I quickly discovered that not only was my sunscreen running directly into my eyeballs on a gushing stream of sweat and burning my eyeballs into a blind and fucking horrendous sensation-of-stabbing-a-billion-times-over-and-over oblivion. But my mom and I have kind of unspoken challenge going during tennis, where it's a battle of wits and the weaker person always stops to get water first.

No way I was going to succumb.

BUT then disaster strikes.

As I continue to sweat and my pores continue to open and the sweat/sunscreen witches brew of DEATH continues to pour itself all over my face, with no respect for internalized battles of stamina and wit,  I discover that I'm actually allergic to this sunscreen. *#$#(*$& allergic.

Apparently having these chemicals seep directly into my skin, pores open like tiny surprised mouths,  in direct and severely harsh sunlight magnified my reaction.

I genuinely felt like I was melting. MELTING.

Needless to say, I caved first. I caved and proceeded to dump an entire water-bottle over my face, create a tent out of a beach towel, and camp my happy ass sprawled-out on the court until I realized that I would be much more comfortable in the air-conditioned car.

Never in my life did I think that placing ice directly into contact with my face would be a good plan.

It was.


My face is still kind of swollen today and feeling a bit sensitive. I have an appointment with the Allergist after work, so he can tell me that I AM in fact allergic to everything under the sun, not that it would be much of a surprise.

Wrinkles can be damned, I'm never wearing sunscreen prior to sweat-session again.

Plus I can always get a little Botox. I hear Groupon has deals for that these day.


(Kidding)

But seriously, if it weren't for modern medicine, evolution totally would have weeded me out.

Hope you had minimal eye burning this weekend!

XO Sare

Practice makes perfect

I almost just died and before I tell you what happened, you should know that my last thought had I died would have been regret at never managing to master personal hygiene.

I was just reminded that I'm a mere mortal in one of the most disturbing ways, ever.

Earlier, around 12:38, when I got back to my little cubicle after lunch, I did my post-lunch routine of taking my vitamin and allergy pill. Only today, I didn't have any sort of liquid to to help wash them down. "No Problem," I thought to myself, "My ability to swallow pills without water is pretty impressive, I'm practically a dry-pill-swallowing Aficionado, this will be no problem whatsoever."

I pysch myself up a little and then go for a kill. I same-time it, hoping for the best.

As planned, the pill swallowing mission was successful and went off without a hitch.

I've mastered this task.

BOOM.

I continue my post-lunch routine of catching up on emails and checking facebook on my phone. I"m fine. Everything is status-quo.

Or so I thought.

I prepare some papers and take them up to the copier to scan to my computer.

I line them up, press scan, and cough.

I cough and then it feels wrong, so I cough again.

This time something unlodges itself from my throat that I didn't even know was lodged in my throat, and makes its way up my esophagus and back into my oral cavity. This is fucking weird. It tastes TERRIBLE, like worse than anything I've ever tasted, and it's not phlegm. I was expecting phlegm; it’s winter, I’m perpetually runny, and I have allergies. I immediately go into a panic sweat. It's literally like every single one of my goddamn pores is opening and expelling sweat at once, for a split second.

WHAT IS THIS CHOKING ME AND APPEARING IN MY MOUTH, UNINVITED?

I realize in that instant that I failed to apply deodorant this morning. I'm an adult, for all intents and purposes, and I can't even manage to put on deodorant in the morning? The HELL? I wonder how many times I've failed to put on deodorant in the time that I've worked here and not even noticed. What if I'm the smelly one? What if my cubicle stinks? OMG, I can't live with the embarrassment.

I'm freaking out about possibly being smelly and also the thing that just appeared in my mouth.

I'm dying.

Focus, Sara.

 I look around to see if anyone is looking at me and I reach into my mouth to investigate.

IT'S MY PILL. My sonofabitch allergy pill. Mushy and chalky and DEFINITELY not successfully swallowed.

I'll probably try again tomorrow.

XO Sare