How Cheesy Crack Sticks Can Keep You Employed

Sometimes just sometimes, my job can be a little, how shall I say this nicely, “challenging”. Whether it is dealing with a not so happy person over the phone or face to face, there are numerous times during the day when I want to bang my head against my desk to prove that 1.) this is real life 2.) I am actually awake, and 3.) to keep me from doing or saying something that will get me fired. Instead of one masochistic behavior, I choose another, snacking. Yes, snacking can and is good for you, if you choose the right snack. For me, cheesy crack sticks work for me.

Fruit, veggies, and nuts are all healthy and amazing snacks, which you should each by the way, but nothing makes me feel like I am floating in the clouds surrounded by rainbows and unicorns than a couple of soft pretzels, a bag of cheese puffs or a couple of fun sized Snickers bars. There have been days, today included, when I have brought healthy snacks with me to work, but will still go get a bag of cheesy crack sticks (cheese puffs) from the vending machine after a difficult phone call. I know that I should eat the tasty blood oranges from Trader Joe’s, but they don’t soothe the savage beast like the cheesy crack sticks do. Why is that? Seriously, why does crappy food make my feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

Cheesy-Crack-Sticks-Employed

The ultimate mood stabilizer

After some extensive research (Googling), I found scientific proof that cheesy crack sticks of goodness were in fact, responsible for my improved mood. According to a study by the University of Leuven in Belgium, people who were given a saline solution while listen to depressing music and viewing pictures of people with sad facial expressions became 4% more depressed, while those given a fatty solution under the same conditions where hardly affected.

Say what?!?! There is scientific proof that those cheesy crack sticks are a mood enhancer? The research shows that the improved mood is not only caused by the taste and feel of crappy food, but also a chemical reaction in our brains and tummies that make us snap back to Happy Land. Thank you Sweet Baby Jesus, for proving that I am not completely losing my mind in my assumption of the power of crappy food to mellow out the mind. While I won’t switch to a diet made up of only Butterscotch Krimpets, Soft Pretzels, and cheesy crack sticks, at least my anxiety can be put at ease knowing that these no-so-good for you foods are doing their job of stopping me from putting my head through a wall during normal business hours.

So when you are about to jump off the deep end at work and possible do something that will land you a meeting with the HR Department, back away from the ledge and go get a bag of chips, cookies, or a cupcake. You, your coworkers, and your employment status will be grateful for the decision. Me, I am going to raid the vending machine and stock up on cheesy crack sticks. One must always be prepared.

Later Days,

B

 

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hashtag-single-girl-problems-dating-children-married

The Joys of Being Single and Maybe Not…

Yes, I proudly wave my single girl flag and shout it from the roof tops. The truth is, while I want to be in a relationship, being in a relationship doesn’t define me. I am perfectly happy going to concerts, dinner, and social outings by myself, but is being single all it’s cracked up to be?

I am totally comfortable and happy with being single and living life by my terms; however, there is a part of me that is longing to be a wife and mother. I look at my friends who are married, engaged, have kids, or dating and think “yeah them, but why not me?” Why am I over here, trying every dating site, app, happy hour and mixer in the world to find someone and I am still fucking single? Is the universe conspiring against me? Is this a mid-term exam? Is there anyone out there for me? Bueller? Bueller?

Don’t get me wrong, I love my independence. I can go wherever, whenever, and do whatever I want no questions asked. But at the end of the day, Battista and Bean are not the best conversationalists. They are more concerned with meals, snacks, tummy rubs, and kisses. It’s great, but it’s not enough. They don’t replace human interaction. It just feels like there is something missing in my life. It would be nice, really nice, to come home to someone, to share experiences, talk, snuggle, travel, to live life with. How do I overcome this hellacious paradigm of wanting to be free but wanting to settle down? Is it possible to really do both?

We hear it all the time that women can have whatever they want. But what if the two things that you want inherently contradict each other? I am independent now because I am single, have my own place, car, and job. When I do get married and have children, people will be dependent upon me. So does that make me independent or dependable? Alice is officially down the rabbit hole with this one folks.

Maybe this internal hysteria is coming from my lack of success in finding Mr. Right. Maybe it is the fear of the unknown. How will I deal with being in a relationship when I have been alone my entire life? What kind of wife will I be? Will I be a good mother? Has my Mr. Right been hit by a Mack truck without me even knowing it? At this point I have more questions than answers which is not helping my anxiety. What I do know now, is that this “being single” part of my life will not (fingers crossed) last forever. And I am doing pretty good at it. And one day (knock on wood), my Mr. Right will come sauntering into my life, sweep me off my feet, and make me a happy wife and mother. One day. And then I will begin to define myself as a married women and mother, just as I have learned to define myself as a single woman. But for now I’ll be over here, being single and looking for a good therapist or a great pint of vegan ice cream.

Later Days,

B

Relaxation Through Kniting on the Chestnut Hill East Train

Public transportation is a glorious thing, especially when you are trying to get 50 thousand things done in a day. Thankfully, I live within walking distance to a train station and take regional rail to and from work every day. My ride is approximately 30 minutes each way which gives me an hour of “what to do with my life time.” I used to read, learn Spanish, troll Facebook, and post on Instagram during my commute while being surrounded by total strangers who I see very day, but now I put my time doing good use. Now I knit.

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My normal knitting situation

At first it was a means to an end. I was working on a rather large project with a strict deadline and needed to find time in the day to work on it. “Why not bring it on the train? You have nothing else to do with your time,” I thought to myself. I was a little apprehensive about working on it outside of my house and/or the yarn store. Would I be starred at? Would the constant clicking of my needles piss someone of? Would it get messed up? Would it end up smelling like the train? A thousand thoughts ran through my head, but in the end, into the bag and onto the train my knitting went.

And what a glorious decision it was. Soon, my ride wasn’t so bad. With each passing knit and purl stitch, my anxiety and stress disappeared. In the morning, I would walk into work with a feeling of accomplishment, and by the time I get home, I could actually function and not just sit on the edge of the bed contemplating the meaning of life while simultaneously trying to muster up enough energy to feed the dog, let alone workout.

I didn’t think anything of it. I was in my own little world on the Chestnut Hill East train. Ellie Goulding, Adele, Hillsong United, and Hamilton all provided the soundtrack for my knitting time. I soon figured out that if I sat down and got started right away, I could get three rows (153 stitches per row, you can do the rest of the math) done before my stop. Soon, the rows added up and the blanket, which I thought I was never going to finish, was simply perfect. One day, while taking a break to untangle my skeins, I noticed a young woman crocheting a scarf. A small smile appeared on my face and I said to myself, “There is someone else like me. Welcome to the club.”

And what are the side effects of not knitting? Not good. The past couple of days have provided some pretty crowded trains and alas, no knitting time. It was not god for my soul at all. I just wanted to break out my knitting, but I couldn’t. The shame, the horror of it all. Let’s just say, I am a lot happier when I knit..

I really didn’t think that anyone was watching me until Monday when I brought a new project on the train. An older woman tapped my on the leg and said, “You have a wonderful hobby. Did you finish the other project? It was so pretty. I need to take classes. My mother used to crochet, but I never picked it up. Have a great day.” That woman has no idea how good she made me feel that morning. I wanted to hug her, but that would have been a bit much. I practically skipped into work. And that wasn’t the only place my knitting has been. This one particular project made it to Barbados and back! Talk about begin held captive to 4 hours each way!

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Knitting at 30,000 feet

So now I am a card carrying member of the “I knit in public crowd” and I am damn proud of it. I am no longer afraid to whip my knitting out on a crowded train and breathe a sweet sigh of relief when I have a seat all to myself so I can spread out . If you’re a crafty person and take the train, bus, camel, or subway for the love off all the fluffy alpacas and sheep, bring you knitting with you! You will be amazed at how quickly the ride goes, how quickly you finish your projects and how relaxed.

Now, where is that sweater pattern I put down years ago?

Later Days

B

hashtagsinglegirlproblems

singlegirllogo

Sometimes you just have to laugh to keep from crying or throwing your computer across the room, or both. My sister sent to be a link to an article from 2011 titled, and I quote: “Top Twelve Reasons Why So Many Good Black Men Are Still Single”. After reading the first reason I knew, a response to this epic bullshit would make a great #singlegirlproblems post.

The post can be found here at the afro.com and the oh so “informative podcast” that is referenced, “The Victory Unlimited Show”, is well from this black woman’s point of view, the reason why any good black man who listens to the show is still single.

If you have glanced at the post and have comeback to reality, you know why I am so hype. I mean really dude? Really? My resting bitch face is so on point right now, so without any further delay here is my response to: “The Top Twelve Reasons Why So Many Good Black Men Are Still Single: (disclaimer: please do not drink anything while reading this. I am not responsible for any damage to your computer caused by your drink flying out of your mouth.)

1.) They keep meeting woman with unrealistic expectations for what they want in a man. I’m so sorry if I want a man to have a job and a place to live. Last time I checked that wasn’t unrealistic, it was called being a responsible adult.

2.) They keep meeting women who put them in the wrong category by writing them off to quickly as not being “their type”. Your type may be video vixen. I am not a vide vixen. Therefore, I am not your type. The end. It’s very cut and dry when you think of it that way.

3.) They’re not wanted because they are not needed. Too many women have told them they don’t “need” a man. I don’t need a man to pay my bills or take care of me. I need a man to be a companion, husband, father, soul mate, my other half. If you can’t handle that then guess what Boo? You’re absolutely right. I don’t need you.

4.) They keep meeting black women who don’t respect them just because they “are” black men. And I want you to respect me for being a black woman. Respect is a two-way street. To get respect, you have to give it. Plan and simple.

5.) They keep failing women’s Girlfriend Approval Test. If the woman’s friends don’t like them, then they woman won’t give them a chance either. I value my girlfriends’ opinions. They speak the truth. You may be speaking to get me in bed. Guess who I am going to trust?

6.) They keep meeting women who are not interested in them, but only in how much money they make. Then stop flaunting your money around like freakin’ Floyd Mayweather. Guess what? If all you do is buy a woman things, they will only see you as a wallet. Start being a man and she will see you as one.

7.) They’re nobody until somebody loves them. Not enough women see them as a prize unless they see a lot of other women chasing after them first.  Doesn’t your mother love you? I can’t responsible for your deep rooted, “Mommy didn’t give enough hugs when I was 4 complex”. As Mama Rupaul always says,” If you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else? Can I get an Amen”? Yes, Honey. Amen.

8.) They meet too many women who don’t really know what they want. Do you know what you really want? Let’s be serious. Do you know what type of women you are looking for? You can’t say that a woman doesn’t know what she wants if you can even begin to articulate what you want.

9.) They meet too many women who believe that single, good black men are “too good to be true.” Le sigh. How many black men think a smart, single, educated black woman is too good to be true? Well here I am.

10.) They’re the right man at the wrong time. Life is all about timing. Maybe she is not into dating right now? Maybe you failed to see that she is married right now. Maybe you didn’t notice that she didn’t want to talk to you right now.

11.) They meet too many women who don’t recognize a good man when they see one. Many black men don’t recognize a good black woman when they see one. (Drops mic and walks away.)

12.) They don’t promote all the great things about themselves boldly or consistently enough to enough women. So you need to be put on a pedestal with your accomplishments scrolling behind you like movie credits for you to feel good about yourself? That sounds like a personal problem, Bro.

Not one of these reasons has anything to do with the man. Not one. It is really easy to say, I am single because everyone else it messed up. Maybe you need to get your shit together, figure out what you want in life and then go get it. That’s what you want women to do. We need to have it all. In shape, educated, financially stable, look good, smell good, dress well, hair done, nails, done, cook, clean, help you, help the family. The list goes on. But of course, as soon as this is brought to a man’s attention it’s, “Nah, we just want you to be yourself.” But when I am myself, I’m not all that you want me to be, therefore, not good enough for you. It’s a fucked up dynamic.

While you figure out what you want and please take your time, I’m gonna be over here. Still single.

Later Days,

B

Goodbye My Sweet Bella Girl

The apartment is so quiet. The daily fights, hissing, and moaning are no more. Last week, I said goodbye to my cat. Don’t get me wrong, I have experienced the loss of three dogs before, but Bella was the first pet that I got on my own. I had just moved out of my parent’s house and into my first apartment. It was cool at first being all by myself, but soon it got too lonely. I always wanted a dog, but my complex had a strict no dog policy. I was about to become a cat person.
When I walked into the ASPCA, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I went into the cat room and started to look around. And there she was. We instantly connected. The tech said that he was waiting for someone like me to adopt her. I guess we were waiting for each other. Let’s just say that was the last cuddle we had, until it was time to say goodbye.
She was never the cuddly type. It took four days for her to stop hissing at me when she first came home. She let me know when she wanted to be touched. A rub against my leg, chewing my hair, snuggling my armpit, leaping onto my shoulders like it was nothing. These simple gestures that she let me know she loved me. She has her quirks. What cat like chocolate and olives? But it made her, her.
She was such a trooper when I brought the dog home. Not a fan of the kitten. I guess she thought, “I have broken in one newbie, why do I need to do this again?” But she held her own against the Tiny Feline Terrorist. How can I forget the epic cat fights, screeching from the bathroom, and cat boxing matches?
I should have known that something was wrong. I should have known that she wasn’t sleeping in the bed at night. I should have known that something wasn’t right. I didn’t realize it until last Saturday. She didn’t want to eat. She wasn’t laying down. She didn’t look like herself. When I picked her up I knew it was bad. She had lost a lot of weight and she was letting me hold her.
After picking up some wet food in last ditch attempt to get her to eat something, I called the vet. After listing her symptoms (pale ears, pale gums, and not appetite) they told me to rush her to the nearest emergency vet. I held it together long enough to get there and make it through the initial exam. I was not ready for what I would be told. She may have cancer, kidney disease, thyroid issues, or it’s just her time. I lost it. I didn’t care who saw me cry. How could it me over so soon? It seemed like only yesterday I got her. Now I was facing the idea of going home without her.
I knew I was making the right decision. Even though she was moving, her eyes were bright, she wasn’t herself. I made the toughest decision of my life. I choose to end her suffering. What was the point of putting her through test after test just to tell me that she has some disease that couldn’t be cured? That would just prolong my agony. Even though I was given the choice to be with her, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t be there when she took her last breath. Saying goodbye was hard enough. But I wasn’t the only one who was hurting.
Battista knew something wasn’t right as soon as I got home. Something was missing. His pal was gone. I tried to comfort him with treats and hugs, but it didn’t seem to help. He needed to grieve too.

As I sit here and type, a crying snotty mess, I remember the good times I had with her, and wish that this pain in my heart would just go away.

I would like to thank Keystone Emergency Vet on Main Street for taking care of her, and sending mw the sweetest card ever. It made me cry, but at least I know she was with caring people.

Rest well my sweet Bella girl. And keep Rascal, Rambo, and Frieda company for me.

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Love,
Mommy, Battista, and Bean

Bianca Just Being Bianca S

Welcome! Bienvenue! Willkommen! Aloha! Salve! Bem-vido! Welkom! Bonvenon! Welcome to Being Bianca S, the site formerly known as Just Bee You.

BiancaLogoYippee Skippy! I am beyond super excited about this new direction and the opportunities that it brings. After a lot of time away thanks to Frankie, I had an Oprah light bulb moment. Sometimes you have to take a step back to go forward. And I am ready to move! Why was I just limiting myself to one thing? Why was I so focused on fitness when I am so much more? Well honey child, those days are over! Being Bianca S will be all about me, my fitness journey and accountability groups, knitting exploits, and of course #singlegirlproblems has made the leap over to its new home (how could I leave that behind!). Also in the works are such epic blogs as: “What’s in my ears?” (playlist and music choices), Top 10 lists (oh the choices! Expect epic randomness), and whatever comes to mind or happens to me on any given day.

But this is not just about me, even though the site is called Being Bianca S. This site is for you too! I am excellent at sharing! If you have a topic you want to discuss, my thoughts on a particular issue, or is you would like t be a guest blogger, drop me at line at bianca@beingbiancas.com (that felt so weird, yet so cool to type).

So there you have it. I’m making sure that all the T’s are crossed and I’s are dotted, and still fine tuning this bad boy so things may move, shift, and randomly appear. But I just wanted to shout from the rooftops that my baby blog has been reborn! I am such a proud mommy right now (Don’t tell the fur kids).

So sit back, fasten your seat belt, and get ready for the wild ride that Being Bianca S. will be!

Later Days,

B

On The Road To Recovery

You really take for granted the simple things in life like going to the bathroom or getting out of bed until you can’t do them as you once could, but I’ll get to that later.

This post will contain a lot of medical lingo and stuff, so if that isn’t your cup of tea, feel free to speed read through those parts.

I actually got some sleep on Monday, which is shocking because I had a heard time keeping it together when I left for work. Everything was coming together. I was really going into the hospital for surgery. I really was going to be out of work for a month or more. Shit was going down.

Tuesday… S-Day. I remember a lot clearly. I remember finally getting everything together heading out the door for the ride to my parents. What is the one thing you don’t want to drive behind when you are about to go the hospital? A hearst. Yup, this actually happened to me. It wasn’t for the entire drive, but long enough to make me frazzled.

I remember the ride to the hospital. Getting checked in. The hurry up and wait. The lovely hospital gown, socks and compression cuffs. I remember the IV. This was what I was most afraid of. My nurse made me laugh and I remember the I sweet relief when she said it was in. One stick! I remember people asking my about my high blood pressure, my EKG, which showed a minor blip. Nothing major, but something that needs to be checked on. I remember seeing my doctor, kissing my mom and being wheeled of to the OR. I remember the brightness of the hallway and t that his is not a time to go towards the light, but that seemed to be all that was in front on me. Bright lights and windows.

I remember sliding onto the table, the nurse telling me they were going to give me the good stuff, my arm being placed on an arm rest, the sound of velcro and off to dream land I went.

When I woke up, 3 hours later, I was in the recovery room. There were so many people and sounds. I just wanted to see. I didn’t have my glasses so everything was blurry. The nurse brought my mom back and as she dug around her bag, I croaked out “Really”. At that point I knew I was going to be ok. I remember the first time my hand grazed my incision (small it is not). Finally my room was ready and it was time to move to my bed. Slowly but surely, I slid over and was wheeled off to my accomodations. I remember the sexy radio voice that I had, taking to my family and friends. I remember every two hours, people were coming in taking my vitals and emptying my folio (I had a catheter). I would does off and wake up 20 minutes later, I couldn’t stay awake.

I remember the worst night sleep of my life, being woken up by a couple of residents coming in at 5:30am to check my incision, ask if I had passed gas or gone to the bathroom, and regal me of ways to lower my blood pressure. I remember the lovely nurse removing my catheter, and my first experience with Room Service. Seriously, you call in your order and your hostess brings it up to your room. Ingenious. I remember the first time I got out of bed. Talk about an experience. I must say, I never realized how easy it was to get out of bed until it took me all of my energy and then some just to sit on the edge of the bed. The first few steps were not as bad as I thought. I was shaky at first but was soon hobbling my way to the bathroom. Who knew the ability to use the bathroom would be a relief to not only the nurses, but myself as well.

I remember feeling better with each passing moment. Realizing that the human body is amazing. I remember the first time I spoke with my doctor about the surgery, How she told me that my blood pressure spiked for no clear reason. How 5 fibroids were removed. Apparently Frankie had friends living with him that were not on the lease. I remember the shock when she told me that I had lost a liter of blood and Frankie was the size of a baby’s head. I remember her telling me that I can still have kids (my mother was relived to hear that I’m sure), but I would have to have a C Section (Fine by me). I remember my first laps around the nurse’s station. How walking really does get things moving and the second feeling of relief when I passed gas (yeah TMI I know)

I remember Friday morning when my doctor told me that I could home, how I swiftly (not  really) got dressed, packed my bag and waited for the nurse to come with my discharge papers. I remember the joy when the nurse finally removed my IV. I remember how weird it felt to leave in a wheelchair, the first time the air hit my face when I exited the hospital. I remember how happy I was to kiss and hug my puppy and finally have some peace and quiet.

I remember the RNs, PCTs, Doctors, and hospital staff who took such great care of me.

So here I am, almost a week post surgery, and I feel great. I don’t walk too hunched over anymore and getting out of the bed is getting easier every morning. And I actually feel like putting pants on today. Sweatpants. I do get tired easily, but I just have to remember to take it slow.

One day at a time.

Later Days.
B

What I know For Sure…..

 

In my Oprah voice… What I know for sure, having a sarcastic sense of humor
is definitely helping my come to grips with the fact that in a few hours, I
will be splayed out on the operating table.

What I also know for sure, don’t eat a lot of salt and not drink water
before going in for pre-admission testing, but more on that later.

Last Monday was pre-opp day, or “sign your life away day”. I
spent the better part of my afternoon signing consent forms, vitals and blood
taken, and playing an awesome game of hurry up and wait.

First stop, my GYN. We went over the surgery, how Frankie and his lovely
companions will be removed. Blah, blah, blah, and finally then questions came.
How long will it take? Will I need stitches removed? How long will I be out of
work for? For the first time ever, I didn’t have to get dressed after we were
done. A quick elevator ride and it was off to Pre-Admission testing, the last
stopper before my surgery next week. After waiting for what seemed like
forever, I was finally called back to the desk. I was asked to verify
information, give names of people who will be able to call the Nurse’s station
and sign more forms. Then off to the exam room. My blood pressure was taken yet
again and it was still high. The nurse asked me if I was anxious. And with a
smile and twinkle in my eyes I said, ” Why yes, I am in a hospital talking
about surgery.” Her reply, ” You are going home today. There is
nothing to worry about”. Can someone please tell me if anyone has normal
blood pressure when they go to the doctor? Mine is always high and the doctors
and nurses look at me like I am about to explode. I do not have high blood
pressure, just serious aversion to doctor’s offices and hospitals.
Anyway, it was only after my appointment that I realized that I had grits,
with a lot of salt, coffee, and orange juice or breakfast, which along with my
anxiety, could have caused my pressure to go through the roof. Note to self…
don’t ever do that again.

Anyway, while going over reservation form (yes, they call surgery a
reservation. Who knew), Nola, the wonderful Nurse Practitioner noticed a
discrepancy in my form. Here is a piece of the conversation:

Nola: What procedure are you having done?

Me: Exploratory, open myomectomy

Nola: You are not having an ovary removed?

Me: Excuse me? No I am not.

Nola: It says right here but not which one

Me: I am not having an ovary removed

Nola: Let me call your doctor’s office to confirm….

Let’s just say that didn’t help my blood pressure go down. After an EKG,
another blood pressure check, and “day of” instructions, it was time
to have my blood taken. Zakia was amazing and we laughed about the number of
vials that she was going to take. She said that she was not going to drain me
and she would leave me enough to drive home. After a pleasant, as much as a
blood draw can be pleasant, she wrapped my arm in a stylish ace bandage instead
of that God-awful white tape. I felt pretty fancy.

Then
there was the conversation that I was waiting for. My chit chat with the
anesthesiologist. He is not going to be my doctor on game day, just the one
that was on call during my appointment. He explained to me the entire “general
anesthesia” process, which is pretty intriguing:

 

Doc:
When you come in, we will put monitors on you to check your heart, a clip on
you to measure the oxygen in the blood. Then we will put an IV in your hand,
and give you Propofol

Me:
Wait… isn’t that what they gave Michael Jackson?

Doc: Yes,
but luckily for you, Dr. Murray won’t be in the room. Propofol has been used in
general anesthesia for years and you must be monitored and watched. I don’t
have a clue what he was thinking.

Me:
Great

Doc:
Because you will be asleep, we will put a breathing tube in your throat.

Me: I’ll
be asleep when they put the tube in?

Doc:
Yes. You will be asleep when we put the tube in and take it out. You breathe in
a mixture of oxygen and anesthesia which will keep you asleep during the
procedure. Once the doctor says that she’s finished, we remove the tube, and
your body naturally starts to wake up. This usually takes about 10-15 minutes.

Me: I
didn’t realize that you wake up so quickly.

Doc:
Yes. Some people wake up in the operating room. Some wake up in the hallway.
Some people wake up in the recovery room. That about covers everything so if
that sounds like a plan, please sign here.

Me: I
guess I better sign since I don’t want you cutting me while I’m awake.

After
one more signature, Frankie’s fate was sealed.

In a few hours, Frankie will be served with his papers…. And I will be on the
road to recovery.

 

Frankie’s Being Evicted

You know that moment when you know you have made the right decision, all the parts are in place, everything is order, but you still feel like Alice when she goes thrown down the rabbit hole?

Frankie in his natural habitat

That is me, right now. At first I thought that my expanding tummy pooch was due the fact that I had fallen off the wagon with my clean eating and workout habits, but when I started to feel pressure in my stomach and my clothes no longer fit, I knew that Frankie was getting his revenge. It takes a lot for me to willingly schedule a doctor’s appointment and even more for my to call the “girly doctor” on my lunch break. I had a week before my appointment to wrap my head around the possibility that my doctor would tell me that I needed surgery. If you have weak constitutions, please for the Love of Pancakes and Chocolate Chip cookies do not google the terms, Fibroid removal and/or myomectomy. If you do, please don’t search images. You have been warned and I do not take any responsibility for your reaction.

I must admit, at the beginning of the appointment, my doctor was leaning towards renewing Frankie’s lease. But after being ultrasounded every way possible and examined, it was abundantly clear that Frankie was getting his eviction notice. I was surprisingly calm about the whole thing. I had done enough reading and video watching to know what I was in for. What I was not prepared for was my doctor informing me that there is chance I need vertical incision. Yeah, Frankie #1 and #2 (seems that one of my other fibroids decided to have a growth spurt as well) are so big and I am so small, that I need to sliced open.  And I just got a cute new Fendi bikini. There is a chance that this will change when I am splayed out on the operating table, but for right now, one piece swim suits and a Scar Away are in my future.

 

Damn you Frankie

Honestly, the hardest part of this entire process has not been telling people. That truly has been a piece of cake. My family and “circle of trust” have been absolutely amazing. I don’t know what I would do without them. Getting the phone calls, letters, and emails from the hospital have been the worst.It makes everything so real, like “yup, you are going to be under anesthesia, sliced open, crap removed from your uterus, stitched up like Frankenstein and sent on my merry way to spend Thanksgiving convalescing at my parent’s house. While I know that this is a necessary procedure which will improve my quality of life and chances of having kids one day in the very not so distant future. I just want to get everything over and done with. Just yank the bandaid off already and be done with it.

Another thing I am not looking forward to… 4-6 weeks of recovery. The most I have not worked out has been a week, but even then, I would walk at lunch and to and from the train station. What is a girl to do? I guess I can catch up on my knitting, reading, and Netflix binging. Bring it on!

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the end. Pre-Opp appointment with my doctor and pre-admission testing at the hospital, then one last weekend hoorah before the big slice and dice. Until then, it’s all happy thoughts of unicorns, rainbows, glitter, pixie dust, and blue skies up until S-Day (surgery day) and beyond. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you all in the loop about my surgery and recovery!

Later Days
B

#singlegirlproblems

I attend a bi-weekly happy hour of politically minded people in Philadelphia during the summer. It’s a chance to catch up with friends, meet new people, and unwind after a crazy day of work, and raise money for a charitable organization. It is also the perfect place, if you’re me, to watch the social interactions to figure out why you’re still single.

This happy hour is a melting pot of young, old, professional, and not really professional people coming out for a common cause. You have your core group (me included) that come out to each event and others who come and go. There is no guessing what the room will look like.You would think that I would be able to talk to someone right? I did last week, but not before this lovely interaction that I have titled…The Old Men and The Preschoolers. Please enjoy…

I arrived the happy hour early, but I do so for logistical purposes. I get one drink and an appetizer in before the crowd attacks the bar and it takes forever to get served. This also gives my time to secure a prime observation point (table) for my group to survey the area. I noticed 3 attractive men had sat down at the table right next to me. “Jackpot!!” I think to myself. “Today is the day that my faith in  Cupid’s golden arrow is restored.” Let’s just say that chubby cherub has not made his way back on my Christmas card list.

These three men chatted among themselves, not even giving me a second look. I was about to be bold and strike up a conversation when three “women”(they were ridiculously young) approached their table and were immediately invited to join the conversation. WTF times infinity?!? Was I that horrid looking or was I just above their age range. Now I am all Jane Goodall Gorillas in the Mist intrigued about the sight beside me. I was slightly hurt by their objection until one of the gentleman came back with a blue drink. Yes, it was blue. Like bright ass blue. I have not had anything blue to drink since I shared a fish bowl with someone at Ice Night Club. I silently thanked them for not paying attention to me and continued my scientific observation. Yet, I was jealous when the same mane brought a round of drinks for the wee lasses. Call it instinct.

The older man was trying to have a collegiate conversation with a toddler while sipping a spiked juice box. Is this what I have to compete with? My ovaries just shriveled up. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about freezing my eggs. I know how what bra to wear with a strapless dress! Yes ladies, hold up the girls! But I digress. Seriously do have to start dating older because men my age are scoping potential life partners at the playground?

Does my resting bitch face serve as a fortress for any potential suitors? I know, everything is written on my face. Trust me. If you think someone said something funky, just look at my face. You’ll know right away. If anyone knows a cure for RBF, please let me know! Thanks in advance.

As soon as ALL of my faith in humanity was almost flushed down the toilet of life, an acquaintance and I started chatting, and full disclosure, the talking turned into flirting. And it was fun!!! And here’s the kicker…. he’s younger than me!

Hey, if those three guys can talk to younger women, hell, I’m going to talk to a younger man.

BOOM!

Later Days
B