On this day, 10 years ago, something terrible happened…
(Previously written and can be read here…)
On this day, 10 years ago, something terrible happened…
(Previously written and can be read here…)
I’ve been debating whether or not to write this story. The subject matter… it’s just… well…
I’ve always playfully ascribed to the “girls don’t poop” motto… but we’re all adults here… we know that everyone poops, right?
We can call this story make-believe if you prefer to think otherwise, but I’ve held on to it long enough and I’m missing my cousins; one of whom is the star of this story, so it’s time for it to be told.
Meet Matt; “MattMatt” as I can’t help but call him despite him now being a 24 year old Citadel grad and a 1st Lieutenant with the US Army.
Matt and I have never lived in the same state but somehow he’s still one of my closest and very best friends. What a very blessed and lucky girl I am to have him.
Especially in the situation I’m about to describe for you…
A couple of years ago, Matt came up from good ol’ Louisiana to stay a few days with me. My apartment is tiny, so I built him a little bed in my living room and we spent the days laughing, (drinking), and hopping around town.
On one of the last mornings of Matt’s stay, we were drinking coffee watching CMT videos (I like to serenade him with songs he hates) and Matt got up and headed for the one bathroom I pay rent for, returning for a moment to ask if he could “finish off the toilet paper.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, we’ll run out for some in a little.”
About 5 minutes after his return, it hit me that I desperately needed the toilet paper I had so selflessly forfeited to him only minutes before – and I needed it immediately.
Fortunately, I live just two blocks away from the grocery store – two very walkable blocks – but being that the situation was quite dire, we jumped in the car (rather I kind of shimmied into the car), and drove the bumpy painful two roads over.
Originally the plan was to buy TP and head back home (I really hate public bathrooms), but time was slipping away and so I bee-lined for the Farm Fresh bathroom with Matt chuckling at my heels.
As the story of my life goes, I chose the stall without – shocker – toilet paper, and while I wouldn’t normally have a problem asking the person beside me to pass some under the stall, the woman beside me was having a …hard time… and I didn’t feel it appropriate to bother her.
Choking on my laughter so she didn’t think it was directed at her, I texted MattMatt, “would you believe that there’s no toilet paper in my stall and the woman beside me is clearly in distress!?” and I heard him burst out laughing in the hallway.
At this point y’all, I am really struggling not to laugh out loud, tears streaming down my face, shamefully hiding in my toilet paper-less stall – now feeling like a jail cell as I’m officially stranded – wondering how long I’ll have to wait before I can request a pass-off from the poor woman beside me.
Then, the bathroom heavens opened up and I heard the hinge of the main door followed by a painfully high-pitch voice, “Leaaaaaneeeee, where are youuuuuu?!”
MattMatt, my hero.
I couldn’t even see straight from laughing as hard as a laugh will silently laugh, frantically waving my hands underneath the stall door for the secret-man-in-the-women’s-room toilet paper handoff.
I imagine I hugged / high-fived / fist-bumped Matt in the hallway following that glorious save but I don’t remember. I do remember buying a mega-pack of toilet paper and going out for Mimosas.
If that doesn’t deserve greatest-cousin-in-the-world status, y’all… I don’t know what does.
I am so overwhelmingly thankful for family I also call friends…. and their willingness to venture into restricted territory in the name of cousinly love.
As a reminder though, girls don’t poop.
Recently I held a Bridal Shower for a childhood bestie of mine. At it, her Grandma was wilin’! In the middle of spewing hilarious stories and one-liners, she shared with us how she’s been drinking Apple Cider Vinegar “with Mothers” for her metabolism and energy.
I’ve heard about this before and when my Mom jumped on board, I figured I’d follow suite.
My mom drinks it down in an 8oz. glass of water with a little honey. While I didn’t think that was the worst thing in the world, I prefer to just get it over with.
So, last Monday I started taking 1 tbs vinegar mixed with 1 tbs. warm water and a little honey, twice a day; throwing it back like a shot.
One evening I even managed to convince my poor sweet boyfriend to participate (why does he date me?!)…
Needless to say, he wasn’t thrilled and when I threw mine back without trouble, he reminded me that he’s a better person than I am (*my words, not his) and that I’ve had experience taking shots that burn your face. To which I say…
Now for the terrible…
Just a couple days ago, I ran home from work for lunch realizing that I had forgotten to take my Apple Cider Vinegar morning dose. I whipped up my concoction, cheers-ed myself (as I always do because I’m that big of a nerd), and threw it back…
I very (very) quickly realized that it wasn’t tingling down my throat and settling into my stomach like it usually did …it felt like it was stuck somewhere in my face… like it detoured to that in-between place where your throat meets your nose. I struggled to find oxygen and my eyes began to burn with a fire I can’t even explain. After what felt like an eternity of drowning in Vinegar and at a loss of what else to do to survive, I leaned over the sink, begging every crevice in my face to let the devil juice out.
A sneeze saved me (or damned me) and it all came pouring out; out of my nose, out of my tear ducts, out of my pores, and out of my mouth.
Y’all, the pain was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It took me a few minutes to get my bearings and eyesight back and when I did, I had to run back to the office and carry on like I hadn’t just experienced something terribly life-changing.
For your pleasure (and because I knew that the people I love would love this story this way), I documented the whole experience and the hours following in real time below via SnapChat.
Just be careful, my friends. I started taking my shots again recently but they’re much smaller and I’m much less confident; no longer ignorantly cheers-ing myself like I’m a boss.
Until next horrific life event.
Dear Future Husband,
Here’s a few things that you should know… if you’re going to be my one and only all my liiiife… (just kidding).
Really though… I miss you. Is that strange? To miss someone you haven’t met yet? It probably is but I do. I wish I could explain it.
I don’t really know where to start in writing this to you – only because there are so many things I want to say, so many things that have happened, so many things that make me who I am, so many things I want to share with you. Really I want to be with you now. I want to hear your laugh (warning, I’m pretty hilarious). I want to feel at home simply because you’re around.
Right now, specifically, I want to be comforted by you.
What about that, is that strange? Haha, wanting to be comforted by your future person?
You should know that I write this to you a little heartbroken again -okay, like pathetic can’t eat, can’t sleep, sick-feeling as soon as I open my eyes, “little” heartbroken. I’ll bounce back, of course, but dating is so hard, isn’t it? Do you hate it as much as I do? I hate it, hate it. I’ll never understand why it can’t be easier… more honest, more reliable, more genuine, more intentional, more selfless. I’d love that; I like you – you like me, let’s watch TV and bake cookies or something equally lame and sweet and be in complete fearless bliss.
I’ve “wasted” time (the future me who knows you will say, “it wasn’t a waste, I understand now!”) dating guys who haven’t been nice to me, who have led me on and let me down. I’ve dated guys who have made me question if I’ll ever find you, if you’ll ever find me, if you even exist at all.
I’ve done a pathetic and embarrassing amount of crying through it all (you’ll learn I’m a crier)… and agonizing and worrying and stressing and doubting… I’ve been impatient and I haven’t trusted God the way that I should. Honestly, I guess I haven’t trusted you the way that I should and for that, I’m sorry.
At the end of every “relationship”/dating disaster, I’ve begged God for you. “Where is he? Why do I have to wait so long? Why does my wait hurt so bad? Send him to me! Make this stop!”
At which point, I’m sure God laughs at me; knowing exactly who you are, and where you are, and what you’re doing, and at what point our life paths meet, and why they haven’t yet.
I know He’s working on you like He’s working on me. And if you’re anything like me… well, I just know He’s had His work cut out for Him with me…
I’ve given Him hell, kicking and screaming, to learn important lessons. Slowly but surely though, with a lot of backup from a lot of amazing people, I’m learning them. I imagine that by the time we meet, they’ll be a solid part of who I am and I guess they’ll be a part of the reason we work. And I get that.
I’m learning how to be more resilient. I’ve been kind of a wimp leading up to this point.
I’m learning not to take anything for granted.
I’m learning how to really appreciate other people; their time, love, dedication, needs, and spirit.
I’m learning how fast time goes by, and to embrace the people and things in it before it’s too late.
I’m learning that family is what really lasts.
I’m learning that there are some things that you just have to let go of. And that that’s okay.
I’m learning how to put my self-worth in real things instead of tangible ones.
I’m learning not to put my happiness at a finish line.
I’m learning that I like a little space – but I like to have a little reassurance in it.
I’m learning that I’m a hand-holder. Sorry.
I’m learning how to be patient. Okay, honestly I don’t know if I’m actively learning this one or being forced to learn it but I’m learning it. Very reluctantly.
I know that there is value in my wait, in your wait. I know that God has planned you for me and me for you and that He has us on specific, intentional paths that will one day join. I like to think that you wonder about me and that day like I do sometimes.
In these tough parts, when I’m craving your presence, I remember that you’re out there… doing your thing, becoming who you’re supposed to be, working your way towards me. I’m comforted by the idea that when I meet you, all the feelings I thought I had for others won’t even compare and that I’ll appreciate you even more for it… and that that whole, “everything happens for a reason” thing will prove itself true.
I hope that during your tough days, it crosses your mind that I pray for you. I pray that you’re happy. I pray that you’re healthy. I pray that you’re surrounded by good people. I pray that you’re enjoying your life. I pray that you’re proud of who you are. I pray that you’re strong and resilient. I pray that you pray. I pray that you know you’re not alone. I pray that you have faith and confidence in who I’ll be to you one day. And I pray that you can fix things… because I can’t fix anything and I’m always breaking stuff!
I don’t write any of this to nag you or rush you or worry you. I guess all I’m trying to say is that I’m excited to meet you. I can’t wait to tell you how amazing you are. I can’t wait to make dinner with you (because you know, I only learned how to cook in my last couple of years) and buy you Christmas gifts (I love Christmas) and fight with you (sorry, I’ve never really fought with anyone so it might as well be someone I know is going to stick around) and meet your family (oh my gosh, you’ll love my family, they’re the best)… I can’t wait to laugh with you, and cry with you, and learn with you, and grow with you… I can’t wait to finally know you and to turn to God and say, “Okay, okay, I get it! This is why I had to wait a while, I’m sorry I gave You such a terrible hard time. It was so worth it.” And I know it will be.
(ps. I think it’s adorable when grooms cry. Just sayin.)
You know how when you go to the doctor for a “problem” visit, they don’t really ask you the details of your illness/injury/situation until you’re sitting on your little bench in a back room with a loud ticking clocking, swinging your feet laughing? …or maybe I’m the only one who (often) sits on that bench, swinging my feet laughing…
Doctors and I are buddies. We laugh together and we cry (as a result of laughing) together. I visit them often and as a result have (a) No fear and (b) No shame. I am not a sickling, I don’t have a family history of poor health, and I am not a hypochondriac.
Instead, I have the rare and beautiful ability to injury myself in any and all places and situations and in the presence of people who usually think it’s a lot less funny than I do… which makes it all the more funny to me. I do have a couple of friends and supportive family who understand me to the core and who, I’d say, have a sixth sense when it comes to my injury-adventures. But that’s for another story.
Another running theme here will have to be these self-inflicted injuries, accidents, falls, burns, and etc. because as many funny dating stories as I have, I could match them with an embarrassing scar or doctor’s visit story. The following one, in a way, mixes the one with the daydream of the other…
Recently I visited my PCP (for the 4th time this year). I made a 10am appointment at 8am on the same day. After checking in, where I told the receptionist that I was there as a result of a burn, a nice older lady called my name, measured my weight and height and sent me off to my little room where I sat, swinging my feet off the bench giggling to myself at the ridiculousness of my life and excited to see the dumbfounded look on her face when I told her my story.
Here’s the scoop. I just recently moved into my own teeny-tiny wonderful one-bedroom apartment. I love living alone and take advantage of all of it’s perks. Like, you know, nakedness. I’m an article reader and have read multiple seemingly valid articles about how it’s mentally and emotionally healthy to allow yourself to spend time in the nude (you know, like confidence and stuff)… and like I said, I LIVE ALONE, and I do what I want. Hmph.
One late Friday night after only a couple glasses of wine (yes, only a couple), I decided that I would roast all of my vegetables for the week and that I would do so in my home-alone-state-of-undress. Well, I live downtown, across the street from a motorcycle-owner, behind a bar, right off of a main street, and within earshot of the fire station on the hill. So, needless to say, when I was removing the baking sheet of veggies, in said home-alone-state-of-undress, one of these noises startled me and I stumbled backwards slamming the baking sheet into my body at which point the world went a little fuzzy and I sat on the kitchen floor trying not to pass out…
So… I’m sitting on my little bench in the doctors’ office, waiting for the sweet older lady to return for my burn story, literally laughing out loud, when the door opens and God sends a little “building character” wink as a green-eyed, olive-skinned, tall, dark, and handsome medical student enters.
“Good morning, I’m R and I’m shadowing Dr. A today. *firm handshake* So let me get the rundown before she comes in and we can get you in and out of here this morning.”
“Soooo, your records say you’re in for a burn this morning. *looking at all of my limbs confused* …What happened?”
And then I just… said it… “I burnt my boob.” ….silence…. “With a baking sheet.” …silence… “I was cooking.” ….silence…. “Alone, alone, alone, alone!!!”
Medical Student R was having a hard time responding to me and I knew he wanted to laugh. Charming and professional as he seemed to be, he looked like this before he swiveled his chair around and faced away from me…
Because I’m relatively immune to these situation (aside from the initial shock of him walking in), I died laughing and said, “It’s hilarious, I know. Please, you can laugh. Seriously. Laugh. This is the story of my life. I laugh. Really. Laugh” And so we did. We laughed and laughed…
…Then the doc came in, determined my burn to be pretty infected, prescribed me an antibiotic ointment and antibiotic pill, and had Medical Student R assist in properly bandaging my… injury. Because, of course.
We’re healing up just fine, since I’m sure you’re wondering…. Pride and all.
I’m hesitant to write about my dating life because I’m still dating (don’t get confused, I’m currently quite single but you know, “dating” *eye roll*) and I would hate to end up meeting someone who already knew too much about my history or who’d worry that he’d end up in a story online. But some of the funniest, craziest “stories of my life” involve dating and what’s the point of misery and embarrassment if not for other people laugh at it? So, to protect the “innocent,” I promise to only share old dating stories and nothing too recent.
For now. Mwaha.
I am a happy and glorious 26 years old but also one of the last girls standing in my friend group – which is fine with me, truly. But when your friends all start getting “husband-ed/wifed up,” the likelihood, as it turns out, of meeting people through them or out-and-about with them, goes down. Like way down. And so the flickering screen of the online-dating-world beckons…
This will have to be a continuing theme in posts to come because I have a boo-coo of hilarious attempted dating stories, both online and off, but to kick it off… a relatively-tame quick awkward too-close-for-comfort meet-up that happened (not so) recently…
I think chances are, everyone lies on their online dating profile. I’ll admit to having my “Body type” listed as “About Average” which… I don’t know… I might teeter on the “A little more to love” line sometimes? Maybe? Nah. Eh? Yesssss. Dangit.
But that’s a thin line! (Ha.) And that’s not so bad, is it?! I met a guy whose online profile claimed 6’2… which really is kind of the “dream” height, not that I’m really deterred by any number but there’s a tiny little extra pep in your step on the way to meet 6’2. I’m too old and I’ve been out with one too many 6’2-ish losers to really care about height, but… I would have worn a shirt with a higher neckline…
After website-talking, then text message-talking, then phone-call-talking (gah, so exhausting), 6’2 and I met up at Cafe Caturra for a drink. He said he’d wait by the fireplace and he’d have a book, which was just… adorable… in theory. When I walked in, I saw lots of men with books, and one by the fireplace.
I’m 5’7. I recognize that maybe this is a little tall for a woman (Confirmed: Wiki says 5’4 is the average height for women in the US. *scoffs*), but it’s not that tall… unless you’re expecting Mr. 6’2 when Mr. 5’2 approaches…
Do you know what the difference is between 6’2 and 5’7 and 5’2 and 5’7? Well, for a woman, it’s the difference between a hug involving your head “on” his chest and his head “in” your chest. You know what I’m sayin’? … an innocent hug versus second base.
In my natural way, I tripped on my way to meet him halfway between the fireplace and the door (always happens) and in a laughing-fit-first-hug, Mr. 5’2, wanna be 6’2, kind of, I don’t know how to put this, bit …-ish my…Don’t make me say it.
We had a glass of wine in uncomfortable hysterics and then never spoke again.
…that is until I started seeing someone else… and accompanied him to party at his friend’s house… and what do you know, the house was owned by the guy who accidentally, publicly, within 2-minutes of meeting, bit(ish) my….
Don’t make me say it.
This is nothing compared to my book of dating stories. Please do stay tuned.
I’m having a hard time deciding where exactly to begin with this blogging game. So, I’m opting for a God-awful “story of my life” that never fails to leave people in shock and awe, crying-laughing, and feeling better about their own lives.
Vulnerability at it’s finest…
This story begins one beautiful morning in my twenty-first summer of life. CNU was offering a study abroad trip to Sicily, Italy. I don’t remember what the credit was (sorry mom and dad) but being a Communication Studies major meant- to me anyway- that it was all relevant.
The trip was a three-week session and really it was amazing. The getting there part, however…
I flew alone from Richmond to Newark where I met my classmates and together, we flew the 9 hours to Rome.
I’ve never really been afraid of flying. I have this weird non-fear of death that keeps me pretty calm (awaiting Elijah’s chariot!). My classmates, none of whom I knew at the time, were spread out all over the plane and, to my surprise (for the first and naturally last time) I was seated next to a young, charming, good-looking stranger who made flirty conversation for the first couple hours of the flight. He was meeting his sister in Rome to backpack across Europe and I saw stars.
To say that his and my relationship hit the fast track after those first two perfect hours together would be an understatement. It was an overnight flight, so the lights dimmed, the cabin got a little warmer, we shared an iPad to watch a movie, and soon everyone drifted off to sleep. I, comfortable with flying and thrilled with my seating assignment, ended up literally stuck in a bizarre dream where I was drowning somewhere about halfway over the Atlantic. In perfect timing, my new friend *cough*almost-love-of-my-life*cough* gently nudged me awake. I fought to open my eyes and realized that at some point, in perfect Rom-Com style, my head had come to rest on his shoulder and he was asking if I was okay. My first groggy thought was something of him being the perfect man; a world-traveler who genuinely “cares.”
I was having an unusually hard time waking up and finding the strength to lift my head off of his shoulder when panic and reality set in and I realized that I actually had been drowning. In real life. On an airplane. In the sky. In my own vom. On myself. And this guy’s shoulder. Yep!
At the risk of being too graphic, it was more of an awkward scary foaming-at-the-mouth-type-vom than a foody-vom. I’m not sure if looking back that sweet-head-rest-of-a-man considers that to be a blessing or a curse but I thought I was dying.
He must have been raised by a sweet woman and to this day I thank God for her and pray that one day I have the opportunity and strength to raise such a gentleman. He, though obviously horrified, offered me his water, found some napkins, and helped me regain full consciousness.
My memory of the rest of that flight is foggy; self hatred has a tendency to do that, I guess, but I have also never been so terribly sick in my entire life. Guy’s “sister” story very quickly turned into a “girlfriend” story and when we landed (something I only vaguely remember as delirium had set in), he high-tailed it off the plane, knocking over grannies and drink carts and never looking back. My hazy memory of him fleeing the scene doesn’t include him grabbing a carry-on so someone might have landed a free left-behind iPad that day. You’re welcome.
So, yeah, that happened but no, the tragedy doesn’t end there. Like I said our flight went from New York to Rome and our final destination was Sicily. There was one more flight to go. I was in such a state of hot-mess-death that I can only just barely remember the blur that was my life-hanging-by-a-thread in the airport bathroom mirror changing clothes and willing myself to live.
Second flight: I, still spinning from whatever this mysterious life-changing illness was, crawled onto the second plane and noticed my seat assignment next to poor unsuspecting young, charming, good-looking victim #2. I’m not really a cursing-woman but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to cursing like a sailor in my head that day. This one was a new classmate; someone I would see everyday, all day, for the next three weeks. I remember pausing in the aisle to give God a quick “ha, You are a funny one, aren’t You?!” and accept my fate before collapsing into my seat, slowly and intensely twisting my entire body to face him in total disbelief of my life, and fighting to keep my eyes from rolling back into my skull. He (Lord, thank you for goodhearted men) smiled, patted my head, and said “Not feeling so good, huh, friend?”
The phrase “actions speak louder than words” is forever proving itself true in my life. I barely remember whispering “I’m going to be sick,” hearing his seemingly far-off voice say, “hey babe, do your thing”, reaching for the vom-baggie in the seat pocket, face planting into it, and puking like I had guzzled poison. Then, as if I was watching myself from above, I remember my head slamming back against the head rest, my jaw dropping wide open, and passing the hell out, in which pathetic and horrifying state I remained, probably snoring, until the plane touched down again.
This entire extravaganza all happened before we had even pulled away from the gate and likely before they had even finished boarding the plane. Unfortunate-passenger #2 might have even buckled my seat belt for me. Now that I think about it… you did, didn’t you Stephen? I was weak and death-like when we landed in Sicily. Stephen, who ended up being quite the pal for the next few weeks, grabbed my arm, stood me up, brushed me off, laughed and said, “You’re going to be just fine, girl. Let’s get this party started.”
I like to think that had the day’s events been slightly (okay, yeah, drastically) different, one of these lovely men could have turned out to be my prince charming and we could have spent the rest of forever together laughing about how we met and fell in love…
But let’s get one thing straight… there are lots of crazy and adorable “this is how we fell in love” stories but none of them, NONE OF THEM will ever be about a girl exorcist-style vom-ing on boys on planes.