Because I’m the most helpful person ever

My cousin in 23 years old.

And she’s never been to Vegas. (I know. It’s hard to believe we’re related)

Actually, the funny thing is that of my younger cousins, she is the MOST LIKE ME. 

Anyways. She IMs me on Facebook. I know. A lot of my cousins IM me on Facebook. Which I find to be weird. But what are you gonna do? Family.

She tells me that she wants to go to Vegas for her birthday. In JANUARY. I think her exact words were ” Be there, or never be spoken to again…or something” So, uh…yeah. TWIST MY ARM, I’ll be there. And then I say, “Hey, me and your cousins will be there in April, B2V is coming. Blah blah blah…. they’ll be running/volunteering; I’ll be drinking on the sidelines… blah blah blah….And the weather is perfect…blah blah…. Ditch Fridays at the Palms”

And then after she grilled me about Ditch Fridays, she said that she was scrapping Vegas in January plans. 

Me: Well, you can always have a HALF birthday. JUST SAYING.

So in case you were ever wondering, I AM sorta helpful. Depending on what you want help with.

 

How sick is sick?

Blah blah blah, surgery

Blah blah blah A WHOLE MONTH OFF TO RECUPERATE.

A. WHOLE. MONTH.

The funny thing is, when I first got my disability information for surgery I was like, ” THE FUCK they mean a whole month? What exactly are they doing that I’m going to be off for that amount of time?!”  I started envisioning frankenboob with tubes and such, and me lying in bed in horrible agony because why else would I have so much time off to heal?

And then I had surgery. Which, you know… was surgery. The first day, @laprimera hand delivered these babies from @emmiej and @undomesticdiva. Which I …and The Man, enjoyed. I even tweeted about them. High on Vicodin, because I HAD SURGERY GUYS. I’m not a machine.

But then I felt weird because I had surgery. I am SUPPOSED to be in agonizing pain, right?  Too hurt to do anything but pop pills and sleep. Too broken to send daily (okay, every other day) emails for Black History Month? Which, I also send to my manager, WHO KNOWS THAT I’M OUT FOR A MONTH.

Nope.

I’m in pain, don’t get me wrong. But not it’s debilitating. I am capable tweeting and tumbling my heart out. I can have visitors; I can still walk around.

I’m in purgatory: Too sick to really do anything, but too well to sit around on my ass all day. It sucks. Because I want to do more, but I can’t really. Or at least I can’t without being in pain.

I had a doctor’s appointment today. That I went to alone, like a big girl. I drove myself, and reported back to The Man because he had to work. And then I had to go to class because I can sit in the back of the class and zone out just as well as I can sit and stare into space at home.

Yes, in case you were interested, I’m in some pain. NO, I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna kill me. Though to be honest, I wouldn’t mind some ice on it and some tylenol. But I’ll be home in hour. And when I get there I will pop a pain pill and settle into bed for a nap.

And until then, I’m going to assume that whoever thought a month was how long it was going to take me to feel like myself knew what the fuck they were doing, and stop feeling guilty for the things that I *do* feel well enough to do.

Hopefully this will include Jack Daniels soon enough.

 

Obligatory Birthday Post

On the way home, we were discussing all of the birthdays in October. Aside from The Brat and I doing some birthday bowling, we had been invited to several birthday parties just this weekend.

Me: Well, there are a lot of birthdays in October. January is a cold month.

Brat: Yeah. I’m Daddy’s birthday present.

Me: What? You’re MY birthday present. I got to come home from the hospital with you on MY birthday.

Brat: Nope. I am EXACTLY 9 months from Daddy’s birthday.

The Man: …

Me: [please insert loud, hysterical laughter here] [and here] [and here]

Because she is. EXACTLY.

I’m sure 16-ish years ago, they told me when I conceived. And I probably laughed then too, realizing that it meant that our birthday sex gave us both a birthday baby.

I just never really thought that SHE* had realized it too.

Who says you never use math in real life?

*Gah! “Sweet 16”, my ass.

I can never resist a challenge

So last fall, I decided that taking a class on a Sunday was a GOOD IDEA. Which, in reality, it should have been. I would have had all week to do homework, no rushing home from work to change into something more comfy (read: sweats/flip flops), no stuffing my face with food on the way to class before already being tired before class even started.

EVERYTHING about this seemed like a good idea.

Except.

Except, EVERY SUNDAY was FOOTBALL SUNDAY. So every Sunday, The Man and his friends would host football at their home. From the morning game to the last game. Every weekend they rotated houses. But. It was every Sunday. Without fail. This means, food, and football, and refreshments. And by refreshments, I mean beer. And whiskey. And sometimes even wine. (But not for me. Wine does not EVER go with football.)

And I didn’t want to miss out on the fun.

So.

Class starts at 2pm? No problem. I would catch the first few games, eat, have a drink and go to class. EVERY. WEEK. I will even admit to being dropped off at school a time or two because sometimes, I didn’t stop at the one drink. I’m pretty sure the other students in the class thought I had a drinking problem. Whatever. I got an A in the class, because even slightly buzzed, I can bullshit my way through an exam comprised solely of essay questions with the best of them any day of the week. Especially on Sunday, apparently.

I did swear that I would never take a class that was on football sundays again. And I haven’t. I have a Thursday class.

Would you like to know what fun and exciting things are happening on Thursdays?

I can look at it as the universe conspiring against me. OR A CHALLENGE.
Guess which one I’m choosing.