The "Incident"

When I was younger and wilder I smoked many cigars (I also had many leather-bound books). So what if many of those "cigars" were "Black & Milds"? Those things were like candy for your lungs. Delicious and tantalizingly sweet. I loved them.

As I grew older I stepped into the world of real cigars and started smoking stogies with my girlfriends every now and then. Not as delicious as Black and Milds, but they made me feel like a woman. No more candy cigars for this girl. No siree. I moved on to bigger and better things.

I haven't smoked one in a while, but my boyfriend and I have been discussing smoking cigars together for the last few weeks and we finally decided to do this on Friday before I left town for the weekend. I was having an excellent day that Friday. I don't work on Fridays, so they have become my Sabbath. I read, I relax, I drink coffee, I do yoga, etc. It is delightful.

This Friday was just like any other. I did all of my favorite things and then I went over to Nick's house to hang out for a bit before heading up to the mountains. He pulls out his humidor (how very manly of him), picks out two cigars a friend had given him from Mexico, and we go out to the back porch to smoke.

Everything is going very smoothly at this point. He clips the ends and I light mine. Which, by the way, I'm very proud of myself for being able to do. The last time I tried to light something it was a pipe and I failed miserably. I couldn't keep it lit for the life of me. This memory, and the fear of my cigar going out, ultimately led me down the road of destruction. Well that, and the fact that I consume everything very quickly. Hot drinks, food, alcoholic drinks (bad move), and apparently cigars.

Those of you who have ever smoked something quickly know where this is headed. That's right. It all started with a little light-headedness. I tried to fight this by sitting down on the window ledge and taking deep breaths. But it all went sour because I didn't stop smoking my cigar at this point. Oh no, that would have been the smart thing to do. Instead, I continued smoking my cigar and continued getting light headed. I handed my cigar to Nick. I went downstairs. I got a cup of cold water. I went back upstairs. Bad move. The motion of going up and down the stairs was a little more than my stomach wanted to handle and I started feeling nauseous. Great.

At this point I'm done. I have nothing left to prove to myself or this cigar and I call it quits. I leave Nick to the rest of his cigar and go downstairs to lay on the couch for a bit. Laying on the couch is nice. Comforting. Cozy. And the fetal position is always a welcomed relief to any and all stomach ailments. Fifteen minutes later I'm starting to feel a bit better. Fifteen minutes later is also when my ride to the mountains shows up. I get in her car and we hit the road.

If I thought the stair were bad, the open road was way worse! Never ever mix nausea with a car ride. It is the worst! Jess is driving and I am sitting in the passenger seat clutching my pillow, eyes tightly shut, taking deep breaths and drinking water. Nick suggested I try to eat something since I hadn't eaten in several hours so I break out an apple and convince myself I'm going to be fine.

Well that was a lie. I was not fine. And at 4:30pm on a busy Denver road I felt all of my hopes and dreams rise to the surface. Oh wait. Those were not hopes and dreams rising. Those were the contents of my stomach. "Jess, I think you're going to need to pull over" I say. "Are you serious?!" she says as she drives along in the left-hand lane of a busy highway with no shoulder and no exits anywhere near. What happened next was neither classy nor ladylike, although Jess maintains I was very quiet. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I found myself with my head out the window watching tiny pieces of my apple fly behind me. Oh, and fly into my hair. Yum.

Jess is finally able to pull off the highway exclaiming "I don't know where to go! We're in Mexico!" until we find a gas station where I can wash out my hair and get a Sprite. Which, by the way, is really not all that helpful in settling stomachs. Why do all mothers give their children Sprite when they're sick? The nostalgia was the only comfort it provided.

I walk back to the car in as dignified a manner as I can muster, check out the side of the car, see that I was at least lady-like in my placement of the apple as the car is in tip-top shape, and we hit the road again.

I was able to hold it together the rest of the way up although the nausea lasted for at least another hour. And by the time I got to the top was feeling pretty good.

Lesson learned. I have sworn off cigars and any other type of tobacco product for a long time. My stomach has become quite the sissy in my old age and I don't feel like putting it through the ringer again if I don't have to.

But apparently someone thought I should overcome my sensitivity by brute force and signed me up for an online cigar website. Clever. If anyone is interested follow this link. Maybe you can get me a set for Christmas. Maybe I'll be over my fear by then....

Little Shop of Horrors

Before you read this, if you haven't seen Little Shop of Horrors I need you to watch this video on YouTube. You will understand my plight so much better once you do.

Last September I went to the dentist for the first time in 3 years. I know, I know...stop chastising me you jerks! This is a time for confessions, not for judgment. Anyway, I bought a Groupon for a cleaning and a whitening treatment. Working in a coffee shop for three years took a toll on the old (not-so) pearly whites.

Let me explain. It's not that I've been afraid to go. Going to the dentist has not been a scary experience for me since I was a child and they made me do fluoride treatments. I simply haven't felt the need to go lately because my teeth have been perfectly healthy for years. I think I've maybe had 2 minor cavities my entire life.

Well, I guess I should have gone in a little sooner because I had a MAJOR cavity that required a root canal. Yikes! A root canal?! That was a shocker. So much of a shocker, in fact, that I may or may not have cried in the office. Ok I did. And it wasn't a single tear slowly rolling down my cheek either. It was waterworks. I couldn't stop them. And everyone knows the harder you try to stop the tears, the harder they fall.

The good news is that apparently my tears made me endearing to my dentist and the rest of the office because now every time I come in they treat me like I'm their best friend. I actually like going to the dentist office for the most part. Well, maybe not after this last time. I'm a little shell-shocked to be honest.

You see, I had a little misfortune with the crown they put on after my root canal. Also, can we just take a moment to ask ourselves why these things are called crowns? It's not like they are some sort of badge of honor or something. In fact, I think they are rather a reminder of how disappointed your mouth is that you allowed it to become terribly neglected. They're like a Scarlet Letter, not a Tiara. Anyway. Back to my story. The crown they put on didn't fit quite right and after a few months of annoyance and pain, I finally asked them to redo it. Which was hard. I felt a little guilty about asking them to redo something when we had become friends.

So I went back in two days ago to have then take the old crown off and replace it. Which was HORRIFYING!!!!! First, they numbed me up. I need to tell you that I am not a wuss. I typically handle pain pretty well. When I chopped my finger off last week I described the pain as a 3 on a scale of 1-10. But the numbing stuff they gave me in my palate was an 8. At least. I gasped, teared up (I'm sensing a theme here), curled my toes, clenched my fingers and wished I could punch my dentist right in the face even though I like him. After he numbed me he started drilling off my crown. And then he used a tool to try to pry the thing cemented to my gums out of my mouth. But it didn't work as well as he thought. He used so much force that I imagine if whatever tool he used slipped off my tooth, it would have poked a huge hole right in my cheek. I was terrified! I happen to like that cheek. I did not need a hole poked in it.

I shot out a text message trying to describe my horror and elicit a sympathetic response. All I received in response was a comment telling me that if I had really enjoyed my eyebrow piercing, I would probably enjoy a cheek piercing. Thanks.

I did, however enjoy a conversation with a friend later that day as we swapped horror stories. She apparently had to go to the "women's doctor". She told me that she was so nervous waiting for the exam that she had to peel herself off the paper lining on the exam table and dab the sweat under her arms with the paper robe. I thought this was amusing. It made my trip to the dentist at least look a little better.

The good news? My new crown seems to be working out fine. And I don't have to go back to the dentist for another couple months. At which point I hope to be able to walk through the door without visibly shaking. It did not in any way ruin my birthday and I was able to relive the dentist scene in Little Shop of Horrors. So win, win.....win.

Not for the faint of heart

This weekend I made my first ever batch of hummus. Pretty good if I do say so myself. I used Tahini like real hummus makers do. I've been meaning to do this for a while, but I finally got around to it Saturday afternoon. After I made hummus I diligently washed my large food processor and set it in the drying rack to be put away at its earliest convenience.

Well, that time came sooner rather than later because my roommate had her mentee (the 11-year-old girl she mentors) over to make dinner that night. They needed the food processor box off the table, so I decided the processor was dry enough and could safely be put away. Emphasis on the 'safely'...I'm foreshadowing here....

My roommate even offered to do this for me. Sweet girl. But, it was my mess, and it was my job to put it away so I painstakingly put the pieces back in the styrofoam they came in and, with one exception, I had them in their proper places. The once exception was the cheese grater/cutter circular blade. This is where it gets dicey, folks (and I mean dicey. literally). If you have a weak stomach read no further. This means you, Sarah Ray.

I start sliding the styrofoam and all of the pieces inside the box and am doing a pretty good job so I let go of the pieces and allow them to slide the rest of the way into the box. Well, apparently I did not do a very good job of getting my finger out of the way because in an instant I feel a sharp pain and realize the cheese slicer is a whole lot sharper than I ever imagined. Sharp enough to cut off the tip of a finger, that's for sure. Because that's what it did. I cursed, ran to the kitchen, stuck my finger under the cold water, and assessed the damage. Meanwhile, my poor roommate and this cute-head 11-year-old are confused and freaked out because they have no idea why I'm cursing, running, and bleeding.

Quickly I explain: I just cut the tip of my finger off. I think I might need to go to the ER. We deliberate over this for a moment. Decide it's a good idea and I put my calm, nurse face on. I calmly tell them they must find the tip of my finger in the box. NOT something anyone ever wants to hear. But they did it like champs. Holding it in my hand was rather surreal. I knew it had once been a part of me, but it looked like it was silicone; like it was fake, or, non-viable, as the ER doc would later describe it.

I had them put together a bag of ice, I put my plastic piece of finger inside the bag of ice, and off we went. We decide to go to the Urgent Care near our house. Good idea, I think. I'm not in danger of losing life or limb here, I've only lost a portion of a part of a limb. It's fine. But when we get there it's CLOSED!!! What??! Ridiculous. It's 6:30pm on a Saturday night. Saturday nights are when things get urgent, Urgent Care!

I often come up with extreme scenarios in my head. You know, test myself to make sure if I were ever in a desperate situation I could survive. I do this when I'm hiking: What would I do if I were alone in the woods and attacked by a bear? OR What would I do if I got in a plane crash in the middle of the woods and had to survive for a long time like the the book Hatchet? Sometimes I ask myself: If I were to have an accident, which hospital would I choose? Well, here was my chance to put my weird habit to use. Because I had to make a choice. Denver Health or Porter? Denver Health is where all the gun shot wounds and ruffians end up. Not that I care, but it means the wait times are going to be longer, so I choose Porter. Good choice. I got right in!

The doc enters. He's very nice. He asks me some questions, tells me he won't be sewing my non-viable finger tip back on, and sends the nurse in to numb me up and we get started. Nurse Maggie is also very nice. We develop a great little rapport while I'm there. She numbs my whole finger, which apparently has been known to make grown men cry, and she praises me for taking it like a champ. I like being praised when I go to the doctor. It's like getting a lollypop or a sticker or something. Only it's the grown up version.

After this, EMT Kevin comes in. He introduces himself: "Hi, my name is Kevin, and I'll be irrigating your finger". I introduce myself: "Hi, my name is Megan, and I'll be letting you do that". He cleans it, puts some stuff on it, and wraps it. At which point Nurse Maggie reenters and I tell them both my finger looks like a penis. Which it did! I'm only calling it like I see it. Kevin laughed. Maggie was a bit taken aback I think. Sorry Maggie.

After this, they let me go. I leave, sign some papers now that I have useable hands again and realize I'm bleeding through my bandage. Awesome. So I go back in. They rewrap, make me sit there for a half an hour, and release me assured I will not be bleeding out.

All in all a rather hilarious experience. I really enjoyed pretty much every part of it. I even went out that night afterward. Granted, I apparently was a bit more frazzled than I thought because I forgot my coat and lost my debit card at some point (and I never lose anything). However, I have been given ample opportunity to flip people off, which is nice.

My one regret? Not receiving any stitches. That, and the fact that they threw away the tip of my finger without so much as an offer to say farewell. That bit of my finger has been with me since birth. And now it's gone. In the trash. Disregarded as a "non-viable" piece of tissue. Tragic.

All in all I'd say I had a pretty great weekend. Lots of laughs. A good story. And good company.

Never Ever Have I Ever....

This morning as I was driving to work I had a lot of time to think. This is because my normally 20-25 min commute took me over an hour. Because it snowed quite a bit this morning. And because regardless of how much people in Colorado drive in the snow, they still don't know how to drive in the snow! And because Denver doesn't really know how to plow roads. And because we are so environmentally cautious that we use small pieces of sand and tiny rocks to provide traction on our roads rather than salt and other harsh chemicals. Which is why myself and about 90% of other drivers on the road have chips or cracks in their windshields which in turn impair our vision, which in turn makes us even worse at driving in the snow.

But, after a quick rant to myself about how much this drive was going to suck and a quick prayer that I would not be dying today, I resigned myself to the fact that my drive was going to be longer than usual and that I should just embrace the snowy wonderland and inch along in the parking lot with the rest of Denver. It's slightly comforting to know that we were all in it together. I felt bonded in some way to the people around me. In fact, I even found myself cranking the radio and singing loudly to Lee Ann Rimes - "How Do I Live". It was magical. I felt inspired. And I'm fairly certain I was at least inspiring a few people around me. I made sure to put on a good show with lots of facial expressions and expressive hand movements. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I should be using my water bottle as a microphone, the song was over.

I've been thinking a lot about my driving habits this lately. Mostly these thoughts started because I began getting annoyed at myself for how cautious I am when it comes to yellow lights. I almost always slow down instead of speeding up. Which, I think is what you're supposed to do, but it sure makes me annoyed when I stop and then wait for the light to turn red exclaiming "I could have made it!!!!". And then I have to wait. And wait. And wait...... Until it turns green all the while chastising myself for yet another failure to gun it when I should have.

PLUS I would really like to receive one of those red-light tickets in the mail. Let's be honest, we've all seen them hanging on our friends' refrigerators. When I see these hanging I ultimately begin to believe that person is just a little bit cooler. The red light ticket is like a badge of honor. It always catches you doing something funny or looking guilty, etc, etc. And I WANT one!!! Not that I want to pay the ticket (another thing about Denver is that their ticketing system is exorbitant), but one red-light ticket isn't going to break the budget and I think it would be well worth the slight monetary inconvenience.

So what have I been doing lately? I've been pushing my luck with the yellow lights. I haven't gotten quite so desperate as to outright run a red one, but I've been cutting it just a little closer than usual. Living on the edge a little, you know? It's exhilarating! I feel so alive every time that yellow light comes on and I have to make the decision: should I stay or should I go? And I GO. I gun it! I live without regrets. And if I happen to run a red light one of these times because I pushed it a little too hard, then I'll receive my shiny reward in the mail. And let's all hope I'm doing something really awesome in that picture.

I have a friend who is a very nervous car rider. She told me the other day that I am one of less than 5 people she feels safe with in the car. I know this should be a complement. I am a safe driver! Yippee! But I felt disheartened. I felt insulted. I felt she was being unfair. I don't want to be the safest driver on the road! I'm 27 years old for goodness sake! I don't have a child in the back seat! I want to live a little dangerously.

But let's be honest. I'm going to continue to be a safe driver. I've never even been given a speeding ticket for goodness sake! But I am going to play a little closer to the edge with those yellow lights. I want one. JUST ONE red light ticket. To hang on my fridge and prove to myself and everyone around me that I'm a little dangerous.

So don't worry. I won't be a stupid driver. I won't g-chat on the road (that's right, I was just sitting here at the office and a friend started g-chatting me while driving!). I don't live that close to the edge. But when I finally get my badge of honor and am able to proudly display my accomplishments, I'll let you know. Until then.....

Sleepless nights and Michael Jackson gloves

I can't sleep. It is 10:39pm and I tried to go to bed at 9:15 like a good girl because I have to go back to work after my 4-day weekend!

Ugh.

I blame this on my grossly inactive weekend. And by grossly, I mean gross. My roommate and I were sick. Holed up in the house. Quarantined if you will. And I did nothing but eat, sleep, read stupid Francine Rivers books, and watch Gillmore girls. I did make myself get out of the house at least once a day just to say that I had, but one of those outings included walking to McDonald's to buy french fries, coming back to make cookies, and then eating my weight in them. Gross.

So now I'm sitting here tap tap tapping away in my Michael Jackson gloves (the white gloves I sleep in because I have to put on an extra-moisturizing hand lotion and let it sink in all night by wearing gloves to sleep because it is so stupidly dry here). Why am I still wearing my gloves to type in, you ask? Great question. Because I didn't want to take them off and ruin 2 good hours of soaking my hands have already gotten by washing my hands so I can type. I mean, Roxy (my computer) has been through a lot (not with me, but with someone else. she's refurbished...she get's around), but I don't think she deserves to be smeared by lots and lots of moisturizing hand lotion. She doesn't seem to be having any problems with the dry air. Although, the gloves are making it a little bit tricky to type. I actually consider it a small miracle I'm doing as well as I am. I think I can attribute it to the holes in the ends of both of the gloves' middle fingers. They get around too....

Anyway. I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep and failing so I was entertaining myself with coming up with new blog posts. Probably because I got up to go to the bathroom earlier, told my roommate I couldn't sleep, and she suggested I should read some boring literature. And she said it in a British accent. Which made it even better. And I guess the idea stuck so I decided to write some literature of my own. Wait, can you call a blog literature? (BTW I did take off a glove to go to the bathroom. Although, I only minimally washed my hand afterward. Is that gross? Sorry Roxy....)

And now I don't know what to write about. I was going to write about Red Light tickets. But I fear it's a little late for that. I think I've pretty much used up all of my literary space talking about sleepless nights and Michael Jackson gloves. So maybe I'll end here. There was really no point to this blog. Other than to entertain me while I couldn't sleep. So I suppose I'll trudge back up my stairs, hit the bathroom again (can't sleep on a full bladder....), and attempt to sleep again. It is 10:55pm. I have wasted 16 whole minutes. The bathroom and another minimal hand wash might take one more. That's almost 20 minutes. And the longer I (10:56) continue to ramble, the more time I'll take up and inevitably the more tired I will become, right? At least I will be able to stop running blog post ideas through my head. I'll probably go back to trying to form sentences in Spanish in my head. Which is how I entertained myself the other night when I couldn't go to sleep. And I wonder why I've been having weird dreams lately. (10:57)

Thanks to a quick edit it is now exactly 11pm. I like nice round numbers. For the Win.

So a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar...

Oh my sweet baby Moses lying in a basket made of reeds! (I wanted to say sweet baby Jesus, but I am trying to stop saying that...something about not taking the Lord's name in vain....) It has certainly been a long time since I have written a blog. But lately people have really been stroking my ego and saying things like "You're a good writer" and "Yours was one of the only blogs I followed" and "You're so funny". And now I'm stroking my own ego by shamelessly writing those complements in my blog so that all of you can read them. Assuming you people will still read this thing.

Let me explain my extended absence:

1. I have not been pursuing my doula-liciousness for a while. This is not because I don't love the work, but more because I don't like being on call. That's not to say I wouldn't take another client, I'm just not pursuing it whole-heartedly. So it's not that I'm not doulaing it anymore. It's just that I'm really happy doulaing other things that don't include being a doula all the time.

2. I haven't seen the world in a particularly funny light for the last few months. I have been seeing it as more of a dimly-lit room rather than as a room full of funny. So I haven't really been able to write about funny things that happen because, well, they just haven't seemed that funny.

BUT......

I'm back! And I'm not going to pretend this blog is about doulaing anymore. Let's face it, it never was in the first place. And the best news is: The world is funny again. Which is really great for me, and now for you. Life is as it should be.

Speaking of things that are funny, let me regale you with a story (yes, I had to look that word up to make sure I was using it correctly). It involves Christmas parties, tacky sweaters, mistletoe headbands, and extreme bowling.

Once upon a time a friend had a Christmas party that was undefined attire-wise, so my other lovely friend (who shall remain unnamed) and I decided to wear tacky Christmas sweaters. Well, maybe I should say Christmas outfits instead of sweaters. See attached picture (I guess she's not remaining unnamed). The party ended up being kind of fancy and we felt we didn't really fit in so we decided to go make our own fun. Those outfits (including my mistletoe headband) couldn't be wasted!

Recently we've really enjoyed playing shuffleboard. So we decided to hit up a local bar that boasts an excellent shuffleboard table. Bumpers and all. Kind of like bowling as a small child (which we'll get to a little later). [Side note: I apparently like to use a lot of parentheses. Which makes me a little self-conscious. But not enough to where I plan to stop using them]. I digress...So we go to this bar. And we get a couple drinks. And we play shuffleboard. Well, I played one game of shuffleboard. Because an 80-year-old man named Lefty (who, coincidentally, I don't believe was actually left handed) kicked my tail!

Tail between my legs, and left to my own devices, I made friends with three boys who were standing near me. And by boys, I mean men. I may be an LKL (and if you don't know what that means, I'm not telling you), but I'm not gross. I don't pick up boys in bars. In fact, boys shouldn't be in bars. Which is nice alliteration. However, I did have my first experience with a MAN picking me up in a bar. Somehow he ended up with my number. (Probably because I gave it to him). Why not? If you can't give out your number when you're wearing a mistletoe headband, when can you give out your number? Am I right?

Long story short, he texted me a week later and asked me out. As another side note to the men of this world: take my advice and call a girl to ask her out. I know it's scary. But it shows confidence and I am much more likely to say yes if you actually call me rather than texting me. Apparently it didn't bother me enough to say no, though (I mean....a girl's gotta eat!), so we went out to dinner. And then on a whim we went bowling. Which was awesome! I was wearing a skirt and didn't have any socks, so I took off my hot pink CFM shoes, put on my fleece-lined tights I had in the car, and went for it. No bumpers, but lots of black lights! I love that my bug-infested rental shoes had glowing laces.

We bowled three rounds, made friends with the cool kids next to us who had their own shoes, balls, and ball slings (I'm not sure what that last thing is, but it was kind of neat), and then went our separate ways. But first I had to take off my tights because the crotch was riding down almost to my knees. First time usage. They hadn't quite been stretched out. My date did not know this was happening. But it sure was uncomfortable. And really funny to me all at the same time. I blame the tights on my consistently decreasing score. The lower the crotch went, the lower my score fell. Anyway, the date was fun, but I don't think we're on the same page about some important matters so I don't think it's going to go anywhere.

But here's to new experiences. May I have many more in 2012. I'm not sure I want to give my number out in a bar anymore, but maybe I'll go skydiving. That seems like a good use of my time and energy.

I will end with one more quick little quip (that's the 3rd word I've looked up to make sure I'm using it correctly), and consequently one more piece of advice. Last night I was at another bar. I ordered a hot chocolate. It was particularly delicious. As I got up from the stool, a very drunk man asks "What are you drinking?" I exclaim excitedly "Hot Chocolate!!!". His response "You're really attractive". "Thank you." I say and turn around and whisper "Let's go." to my friend. Great intro, drunk man. Yet another example, men, of what not to do to win over a pretty lady. Especially if you're saying it in a drunken slur. A nice complement, but it doesn't mean much when you abruptly blurt it out and I know you're seeing me through beer goggles. But hey, Happy New Year!

The end. I hope this was sufficiently entertaining. Until next time....

Nurses make the worst patients

Recently I went on a little backpacking trip with my old backpacking camp: Young Life's Wilderness Ranch. My guide partner and I took a group of Baylor's finest Young Life leaders out for the best week of their lives and brought them back with a small going away present.

Giardia.

Affectionately known as the G Rock.

Because it rocks your socks off. And not in a good way.

This is not an easy feat, mind you. I am a little bit proud of us. I guided for two summers without ever receiving this little friend, and after one week back on the trail, he's decided to make a home in my tummy. And I'm pretty sure he's made his home in the tummies of all my new Baylor friends as well. Neat.

For those of you who know what giardia is and are thinking "ew. gross. why are you telling me about this?", you can stop thinking less of me and forever labeling me as the giardia girl because I didn't have the normal symptoms, ok. Hopefully you catch my drift and I don't have to tell you what that means. But you can stop judging me now.

I am, however, really proud of my excellent nursy skills because I correctly diagnosed myself even when the Nurse Practitioner listened to my symptoms and didn't actually believe I had it. She ordered a test anyway, and low and behold, it came back positive. HA! I WIN! Slash, I lose. Because you never really win when you have giardia.

On a side note, I am also proud of my excellent nursy skills because I totally fixed some guy's dislocated finger the other day in the park! Yes! Two nurse points in one week! Winner!

Back to the story.

So the NP prescribes me this antibiotic. An antibiotic I am to take in one dose. Four pink horse pills all at once. Yikes! Not my idea of a good time. I gag them down all the while considering what havoc they're going to wreak on my body. I mean, they must be fairly powerful if they're going to knock out the bacteria that's been eating away at my insides for a month in one fell swoop. Right? Right. My stomach is now upset because of the medication and my mouth tastes like I'm lapping up the inside of a tin can continually. Yuck.

Oh, and to boot, I can't have any lactose for a month. Because apparently the G Rock can cause permanent lactose intolerance and if I stay away from it for a month maybe I'll be spared from being a lactard for the rest of my life. Cool. So now my mouth tastes like metal and I can't even enjoy my morning latte. It's the best part of waking up/working at a coffee shop and I can't even partake! Nor can I have cheese. Or butter. It's been two days and I'm pretty sure every pitcher of milk I steam and every cheesy bagel sandwich I make beckons me to come back to it. And then laughs in my face when I tell it I have to stay away from it for a while. But just for a little while, I say. Don't worry, my friend. I will never let you go!

This is my nightmare. And I have spent the last two days whining about it to anyone who will listen. And now I am continuing to whine about it on a blog that I know at least 70 some-odd people will read. And I'm sorry. Only not. Because I imagine you at least got to laugh a little at my misfortune which ultimately makes up for the whining. Right?

Love and Kombucha (for the probiotics, of course).

And milk.

And cheese.

And butter.

And cream cheese.

And sour cream.

And milk chocolate.

And cottage cheese.

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