ammogirl

…and now I’m stealing titles.  Sort of.  If you don’t get that, don’t worry…if you do, it was flagrant thievery, and you typed it much better than me.  And…so did you.

ANYWAY.  Seriously, wayyyy too busy to post right now, between holiday weeks at work and ten days off starting next week and Christmas parties where a resident of this house actually GOT DRUNK and barfed not once, not twice, but FOUR TIMES**, and Autobahn cherry popping, and holy CRAP Christmas is in SEVEN FREAKING DAYS.

Oh, plus there is studying, the funnest! Thing! EVERRRR!…

…which I need to go do right now.  Besides, it’s the holiday season.  There HAS to be something more pressing than this.  Like, eating Christmas cookies.  So, go do it.  But check back! 

Tschuss!!

**The resident barfer was not me, by the way.  Or one of the girls. Or, either of the cats.  So.

So, since it’s been at least 30 days since there has been something wrong with my physical being, I thought I’d visit the doctor to see if they could find something wrong.  Okay, not really.  I actually went because my back has been hurting pretty badly for awhile, and I figured I should get it looked at, or at the very least, get it put in my medical records for posterity purposes.  But after answering a few questions, and having my right leg yanked around, the doctor determined my pain is actually originating from my right hip.  I don’t know what’s wrong with it, exactly, but I DID get x-rays, and some Mobic for ingesting pleasure. 

A tip:  When getting x-rays of your hip, do NOT wear Victoria’s Secret panties with rhinestones on the butt spelling out the word "Pink".  This will cause the technician to run after you and ask you loudly, in a crowded waiting room, "Excuse me Ma’am!  Do you happen to have something on your underwear?"

I had to redo my x-rays, sans panties. 

I did see the originals, however, and sure enough, flashily strewn through my pelvic region were 20 or so rhinestones.  It looked like I had perhaps, erm…inserted them into my pelvic cavity, and reminded me of a time I was watching Lovelines and a girl called in and discussed the fact that she had, in the past, had to have a paper clip surgically removed from her urethra.  Which: ouch.  Also: why?  Anyhow, I was relieved to have an excuse for my floating rhinestones, and even pointed out the fact you could make out the letters.  "See?  Right there by my Iliac crest!"

I also got grounded.  Yes.  No working out.  You GUYS.  You have to know how bad this distresses me.  YOU KNOW ME!  I am obsessed when it comes to working out!  But, plain as day, right there on my doctor issued profile: no running, no cycling, no push ups, no crunches.  I guess I could try the elliptical, but there is NEVER one open at the gym, unless it’s 4:45 in the morning, and while getting up and walking 5 minutes to the gym at that time was fine in Korea, getting up and DRIVING at that time for 15 minutes is not.  It requires more effort.  I’ll just…start walking every day I guess.  Not to the gym, around the track.  Maybe I’ll take up smoking.  That raises your heart rate, doesn’t it?  I’M JUST KIDDING.

OF COURSE, on the very day I get put on a No Exercise EVER or End Up With a Walker AND a Cane profile, what do I get in the mail?  Yes, a massive shipment of candy from my parent’s candy store.  Thanks, mom and dad…heyyyy…my DAD has hip problems!  GREAT.  Thanks for the faulty hip, DAD.

Tschuss!!

I’m sorry, but my brain is temporarily under construction.  Nothing is wrong or anything - no hiding the pill bottles to prevent the dreamy dreamy die (tm Angel, via Ironika), no longing glances at the straight razor…just a vague sense of not-rightedness.  Two steps forward, one step back.  In wet concrete.  And I totally didn’t get to put my initials in it.

Anyway, when I in fifth grade, I somehow convinced my mom to sign me up for ballet lessons.  Now…take a moment, please, to recall the tutu-d hippo from Fantasia…you got that?  That was so me.  I am the least graceful person in the solar system already, but then to put chubby me in pink tights and a burgundy leotard on TOP of all that ungracefulness?  Sighhh…I stuck it out though.  I practiced my pirouettes and my grand jetes and my first-thru-fifth positions tirelessly.  I stretched while brushing my teeth, because the teacher said stretching every night would guarantee splits by the end of the year.  I spent hours upon hours pointing my toes, willing my arches to be more…archified.  I bought hair nets for my frizzy hair, because it refused to bun without them.  I coveted that poster that featured a pair of pointe shoes and nothing else. 

We practiced every Tuesday and Thursday at the B’nai Brith camp on East Devil’s Lake Road, and sometimes at the Catholic Church on Highway 101, which I secretly loved the best because it was right next to my parent’s candy store and after a taxing session I could chasse my butt on over for some candy.  A little later in the year, we did a recital for our parents, with tutus and leg warmers, to the disco version of Beethoven’s 5th.  I still remember exactly what I had to do: fling my arm out with abandon on the opening strains, and a bit later, pirouette from one corner of the room to the other. 

I finally conquered the splits.  A girl in my class secured an audition to the Royal Ballet in London.

At the end of the year, there was a ballet camp at the teacher’s house.  While there, I started my period.  The teacher called my mom up and said, "Your baby is now a woman" and my mom came and got me and took me home, and I never took ballet again.

The moral of this story is…well, I don’t have one, really.  I guess I could say that periods are the beginning of the end of all girlhood dreams, but THAT is a bit dramatic, isn’t it?

I think I’m done now.  It’s time to do some moping.  Perhaps I will practice my grand jetes and lament what could have been.

Tschuss!