Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

The people we bought our house from had little feet. And because of their little feet-ed-ness, I can no longer lay on my left side because my ear rocks are knocked loose. The end.

Perhaps I should back up.

So. The people we bought our house from had small feet. And since they had little feet, the three very steep but shallow (does that even make sense?) stairs into our garage have been a source of terror for me since we moved in. You see, only about HALF of my size 10 wearing tootsies fit on a step at a time. Factor in the 2 and 3 inch heels I seem to be fond of wearing and the miles and miles of grace I seem to have checked at the door and you have a recipe for disaster.

Those stairs (along with the simple act of cooking rice) have become my kryptonite. (The rice… I don’t know… it just always sticks to the bottom of the pan) I trip on them on roughly a weekly basis. But last week, LAST WEEK, I tripped in a much more dramatic fashion and twirls and whirled down those three little stairs drunken sorority girl style and while I managed not to fall (or spill my drink were I still the aforementioned drunken sorority girl) I did happen to whack my head rather soundly on the shelves lining the back of our garage.

Oh! And I ripped my favorite casual black heels. But they were pleather and due to be replaced as they had fulfilled their 19.99 Kohl’s special potential.

Fine. I bitched and moaned and harpied about the steps when I got to work and Patrick renewed his pledge to replace them, I received a shoe-shopping blessing and we all carried on with our lives.

And then? The next morning? As I was rolling around in bed moaning and groaning about the cruel cruel world and how it forces me to get out of bed in the morning, I rolled over on to my left side, my snuggling and burrowing under the covers side, my “Oh look! I now have the whole bed to myself because Patrick is already up and being productive” side and the room? She started a-spinning and I got all nauseous. I rolled over onto my back, declared it morning sickness because it MUST mean I’m pregnant (I’m not) and waited for it to pass, which it quickly did. Of course I immediately tested the condition again, this time when I rolled over on my back I tried to put one foot on the floor like I did when I was a drunken sorority girl only I forgot that my bed is to tall for even MY leg to make it all the way to the ground so now I was spiny with a dangling foot.

So throughout the day, I kept noticing that if I turned my head too fast or too far to the left, the feeling would return. Bending over was bad news. And leaning back made me all spinny. This was just a PROBLEM. Especially the whole left-side part of it. I really like rolling over onto Patrick’s pillow in the mornings because he doesn’t neck-sweat like I do and so his morning pillow is always so nice and cool and dry.

You know… plus the whole “Oh crap, am I going to die now?” part of it…

But I Googled. Because why go to the doctor when Google was tell me exactly what ails me and how to fix it? Or at least who to call to have it fixed. (I was torn between an Ear, Nose Throat doctor and a Neurologist).

Apparently? When I whacked my head? I knocked loose these little particles (called otoconia or commonly called ear rocks) that are stuck to the hair inside your ears causing a condition called Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo. So now my ear rocks are rattling around in my ear canal making me all spinny and nauseous at inopportune times and I have to go have them put back into place.

I find this oddly hysterical. Patrick thinks it was an awful lot of trouble to go to for new steps. (I did get new steps though.)

Ten years ago today, I was trying to figure out a way to sneak out of work early. I was checking and re-checking the bag of goodies I’d carefully assembled over the past few days. Tequila. Triple Sec. Limes. Killer Dress.

Ten years ago today, I was calling Amanda once every hour to make sure she remembered that we were having our “regular” Margarita Tuesday that had never before existed because until just a couple of months ago, we’d been too stoned on the days that ended in “Y” to know how to operate a blender.

Ten years ago today, I was trying to start my life over. I was leaving behind nearly all the people in my past, my addictions and my shortcomings. I was convincing myself that I could dare to be someone different.

Ten years ago today I was 21 and nervous about a first date. I knew him. I’d known him forever. But I was crossing my fingers and yes, even praying, that he didn’t know me. I was hanging my hopes on him not having heard anything about me in the past 5 years. He was a NICE boy. I didn’t want to scare him off.

Ten years ago today I was changing behind a bush in front of Amanda’s apartment because she was running late. I was having my nervous forehead sweat. I was breaking a buckle on the perfect shoes and ending up wearing flip flops. I was gathering a motley crew of friends of friends and bribing them not to smoke pot in front of him. I was nervously pacing and peeking around the corner watching for a VERY distinctive car to pull in the parking lot.

Ten years ago today I was harassing him for spending his mother’s birthday with ME while secretly hoping that was a sign that this might be the beginning of something.

Ten years ago today I was sitting cross legged on the floor, drinking a truly awful margarita (I’ve since perfected my recipe) and having an amazing conversation with this fascinating guy I’d known my whole life, the adorable brown eyed boy whom I’d once thought was about to kiss me when a strangely electrifying moment crept up on us one summer back in high school.

Ten years ago today I started falling in love.

Ten years ago today, I jumped him in the parking lot as soon as he said he remembered that moment back in high school and he’s always wondered what would have happened if he’d kissed me.

Ten years ago today, my life started over. My life with HIM began and I’ve never looked back.

Consider this your uterus information alert…

So Patrick had the distinct pleasure of making me his own personal dart board for the past week or so. He was a wonderful and compassionate needle sticker and should I ever decide to take up injectibles drugs for shits and giggle, he will be my own personal needle jockey. Also? He’s totally available for parties.

The low point was on the third day of injections. I had to mix up a shot while the power was out. So there I was… mixing up liquids and powders by candlelight, changing needles like a pro. I’ve never felt more like a junkie. It was fabulous.

The Crazy has been kept to a minimum but the effects from these drugs were much more physical. I’ve spent the past week wrapped in a fog of non-specific ache. My joints hurt, my head hurt, I just… ached. Oh, and wanted to hurl. So while it was marvelous that the drugs didn’t take over my brain like Clomid did in the past, I couldn’t have chucked something at Patrick even if I wanted to. My arms hurt too damn much.

BUT… the drugs did what they were supposed to do and my ovaries and uterus and whatever else is down there all did just went swimmingly. So well, in fact, that Dr. Wonderful had a suggestion that would give this cycle a little extra boost…

We have decided to do an IUI this cycle. Without going in to too much detail (if you aren’t familiar with all the infertility acronyms…) a good friend of mine refers to this as the “Turkey Baster Method.” I think we’ve reached the point in our (in)fertility journey where it’s safe to say that the chances of this child being conceived in our bedroom are slim. And by that I don’t mean that we are getting jiggy on the couch or the kitchen floor. (My god… have you seen the filth? There is NO NAKED on the kitchen floor!!)

What this all means is that on Friday morning, I’ll be legs up in the stirrups while my RE and a big syringe of Patrick’s most Michael Phelps-like swimmers attempt to knock me up. Husband optional…

Oh fine. Of COURSE he will be there. He’s Patrick. The Awesome. Have you never read a word I’ve written?