Back on the Running Horse. Not to be Confused With Running Deer.

Welp, until yesterday, I hadn’t run since about a week after my cervix-surgery. Doctor’s orders. I didn’t like the orders, but nervous my innerds would fall out, I listened. So, Monday, I actually set my alam in the afternoon – and made my way to the Y.

I walked in and felt like fellow Y-ers knew I hadn’t been there in a few weeks. I wanted to scream out, “I didn’t leave you! I had a damaged cervix that needed to be fixed!” I hopped on the treadmill, per usual… and started running. I really didn’t think I was going to make it past a mile. Really. I hated life at that point. But something happened and I got in a groove. Thank the Lord. I banged out a few more miles and hopped off. Now, my legs wanted to buckled under me after that — but I walked it out. Apparently I don’t know the meaning of “easing into it.” All or nothing. Bam.

I lifted, as well. I’m paying for that today. If a seven-year-old came behind me today and held my arms back, I’d have no defense. I’d get beat by a 1st grader. Wait, is that how old you are in 1st grade? (This lack of maternal knowledge, my friends, is why I’m getting a house… and not having children right now.)

I’m headed back to the gym right now. I should probably go everyday now until the half-marathon. Lord knows that thing won’t run itself.

I’m Addicted

So, since all the house hub-bub started… I’ve been hooked on HGTV. Have you ever watched that network, people? It’s awesome. First-home buyers, 4th-home buyers, renovators, odd-home owners (not to be confused with odd homeowners), DIY stuff, designing to sell… it’s all there. One channel. One glorious place. It’s battling the Food Network hardcore for my love right now.

I don’t want to turn HGTV off — it prohibits me from getting sleep Sunday nights before work. Eric thinks I’m nuts — hell, all those renovation shows make him sweaty — so, we turn the channel.

I mean, who knew neckties are decoration? Or purple is a good shade that goes with gray? Or that you can make a set of monster desk shelves for under a hundred bucks?!

I’m just hoping once we move and get settled, I can actually execute some of the ideas I’ve seen. Good thing I wasn’t taking notes. Damn.

Nothin’ Like a 30-year Fixed Rate.

After nine years of apartment living, probably longer for Eric — we’re doing it. Purchasing and moving into our first HOME!!!! (Insert squees here.) Sorry it took so long to tell you all — we’ve just been so damn busy, today is the first chance I’ve had to sit down and share the news. Plus, I wanted to make sure neither of us were going to back out — before posting it over the whole damn world wide web. Ha.

It’s a wonderful house. We lucked out with it — the price + location + timing… couldn’t have all been better. My pictures of it aren’t all that great, because I took them as we walked through the first time — so, I’m taking pictures of light fixtures, walls and windows. That probably won’t give you the best idea of how things look, eh? It’s a ranch with an electric fire place, .5 acre yard, a nice porch 3 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, a den, monster kitchen… and the ability to finish off the basement (err, “man room,” as Eric so lovingly calls it). It’s great, too, because the house is only about 4 miles from where we live now. Score!

It’s all pretty overwhelming. Weird to think that I can’t just decide I want to move now — like, apartment-living. I can actually bash holes in these walls and paint whatever  I damn well please. The thought of not having to actually live within white walls is awesome. I just want to take gallons of paint and go crazy!! I’m excited at all the little projects Eric and I can tackle.

We’re already planning the housewarming party. You can come, too. Just bring the deviled eggs. (I should probably start naming some other food item for people to bring — because everyone I see, like at work, I say, “we’ll be having a party, just bring the deviled eggs.” So, when it does happen, we may have 64 trays of eggs. Eh.)

We’re really oh-so-excited. Mini-nervous — but more excited. Excited our money is actually going into something that’s ours — and not my apartment manager’s manger’s.  Our closing date is fast approaching. Think: 16 days. Yikes! I haven’t packed a lick yet. Any takers? Will the boxes pack themselves? Unlikely. It feels like I just moved into this place.

Ah well, I’m moving somewhere different… bigger, better… maybe. But either way, it’ll be ours. Sure, Eric and I are definitely taking the “unconventional” way around the “traditional relationship” — but we don’t care. Still, after 4 years, there isn’t anyone else I’d rather be doing this with — and it feels awesome. The ring will come… in time. Hell, we just bought a house. The thought of even planning a *gasp* wedding… makes me shudder. One thing at a time people…

So yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing these last 3 weeks… how do you like dem apples?

It Gets Me Every Time.

I’m sitting here right now, eating Pizza Combos and “Crazy Core” Skittles (don’t ask me). You’d think I just smoked the biggest bowl on earth. Nope. I fell victim to the last-minute buys at the checkout counter. Need pocket hand sanitzer? Batteries? 5-hour long-lasting energy pills? Beef jerky? Fruit Stripe gum? It’s all there. It’s for those times you say, “Oh yeah, I could use a three-pack of travel-sized romance novels.”

Of course, it’s never anything you really ever need. But, it’s all there for the buying anyways. Normally, I’m strong. Today, I was not.

So, as I sit here noshing down 538 calories, easily… I curse the person who ever came up with that idea.

I’m a sucker.

Fun things.

Yay. After months of just reading my blog (and others) in secret… my friend, Kim is now blogging. I really wish I knew how to put a blogroll on my site. Or maybe I could just dink around on here to find out how to do it.

Anyway — Want to read about Kim’s life in a long house? No, really, it’s long. Head over to uwkimmy.wordpress.com.

Oh, and HI SARAH A.!!!! (Formerly Sarah P.) I’m excited to hear from you. Please, keep reading my blog. I now have four people who I know read this thing. Amen. Ha. All my rambling isn’t done in vain.

Not Selling Out Just Yet.

I don’t have a Facebook account. I think I’m the only person in the galaxy who doesn’t. I mean, really. I can’t even tell you how many “gatherings” I’ve been to, where all the people talk about, is Facebook. Who is friending who, who they ignored, the “status” of (insert name here), the pictures (insert name here) tagged on their “wall.” I don’t even know what half of that crap means. Heck, I even have a friend who hasn’t emailed me back after, like, three emails that I’ve sent. Apparently she “never even emails anymore…she just goes on Facebook.” Really? Really?!

Every one of my friends (and really…every last 6 of them) say I need, need to get signed up. Too bad my name is Sara Smith and there are 3,723,643 of us out there. How will my friends ever find me on there? Ha. Because I don’t have anything else to worry about. I can hardly keep up with blogging, let alone upkeeping a damn website. The only reason I’d ever go on there, is to look at everyone’s pictures.

So, for now, I’m holding out. I think it’s come to a point now, where I just want to prove to myself — and all those FB-ers…that I can holdout. But Eric tells me… it’s just like cell phones. Eventually, everyone will be on FB (as I’ve so nicely abbreviated it). It will someday just “be” a way of life. Crap.

Until then, just send me an email… or even a text. I can’t see your wall to know that you’re pregnant, engaged, single, in a relationship, bored, watching tv, wishing Denny would just die-off the Grey’s cast…. you get the picture.

My Clam(bake).

Welp, by Sunday night, I had convinced myself I had cervical cancer and only had three months to live.

Good thing the nurse called the next day and had another fate for me. Phew. Apparently the tissue the doctor took from my cervix had severe dysplasia. But, the doctor says she got it all. My Lady Bits are allegedly in the clear, for now. I go back in for a follow-up, then I’m sure subsequent Paps will be in order, probably one every three months or so.

I’m oh-so-relieved. I don’t think I was ready to kick-it just yet.

Only bad part — I started working out again (including running) the Friday after my surgery. I only gave myself 3 days to heal. Apparently that isn’t enough. I’m an idiot. Just when I though my Business was healing up just fine… BAM, I’m bleeding again like someone stabbed my Clam with an ice pick. Oh, and remember, people… I’m wearing pads. Sick. So, by orders of Eric and my Mom — I’m not working out the rest of this week. Which really puts a hamper on my half-marathon training. Ah well, I guess health comes before CellCom Halfer. Sometimes you’ll have that.

At least my Jine-Ur will back  in working order soon enough.

Just in time for my period. Sweet.

If You Have Two Hours and a Kopps Nearby.

Go see Slumdog Millionaire — and wait until the Flavor-of-the-Day at Kopps is “Tiramisu” and get a one-scoop waffle cone. You’ll die. It’s that good. Well, both of them. The movie and the flavor.

Enjoy.

I Haven’t Done This In Years.

Alright. So, because of my LEEP (which I discussed, at length, in my last post… read up), I’m bleeding. And I obviously can’t stick anything up there, like a tampon, to make it stop. My only option…pads. That’s right. And right now, the thin ones aren’t cutting it. But did I own any thick ones? Nope. That meant a trip to my local Walgreens.

Have you purchased pads lately? I know I haven’t. I was immediately overwhelmed by how many varieties there are… and absorbencies and lengths and scented and unscented. Yikes. It really took me several minutes, just to get my bearings in the “pad aisle.” Well, I finally picked out two packs. One “overnight” and another for “heavy flow.” I walked up to the counter to pay… and suddenly I felt judged. The 17-year-old gal took my pads and looked at me. I had on my glasses and sweatpants. And a headband. The Trifecta. I looked like I needed pads. She scanned them, I paid, and said, “Thanks.” Yeah, thanks for judging me. A 27-year-old buying pads. Sweet. I wanted to say, “Actually ya biz, I just had Crotch Surgery, get it now?” But that may or may not have been inappropriate, seeing as that there were other people in line. Ha. Not like I would have said it if it was just her and I.

So, I just bagged up my pads and went on my merry way.

You Want to Do What to My Where?

Early warning: This post will contain such words as Pap, “Jinur,” “Lady Bits” and Crotch. Be prepared or turn away now.

Paps are scary. Well, not scary — but pretty uncomfortable. I heart my OBGYN, don’t get me wrong, but that one appointment every year where you have to undress and straddle-up — just to have a cold piece of metal (gently) shoved in your Business…it makes me shudder. I don’t think I know any lady-friend who actually enjoys doing those things. Well, my annual Pap in December was standard fare. I hopped up there, my doc talked with me about skiing, dusting TVs and how her cold hands can really make this whole thing pretty crappy. Great. Thanks for trying to take my mind off things while you’re poking, prodding and brushing the inside of my Lady Bits. “Alright,” she said, “We’ll mail you those results and see you next  year.” “Cool, thanks,” I said.

Two weeks later. Still nothing in the mail from the doc. Which was pretty unusual, as they’re usually prompt. About two days later, I listened to a message on my phone. “Hi Sara, this is the doctor’s office, if you could just call us back, that’d be great.” Ha. Really? That’s your message? Why don’t you just say, “Hi, you’re dying. Would you like to schedule an appointment for that?” So, of course, I don’t get the message until after the entire doctor’s office had gone home. Cool. Now I have to think about this thing all night at work. Yeah. Because I work third shift.

So, I call the next morning. Promptly when the office opened at 8 a.m. Heck, I even stayed up past my “bedtime” to make this call. It better be good.

Nope.

I have an “abnormal” Pap. This doesn’t sound that bad, in theory. Heck, women have abnormal ones all the time. But this was a first for me. Scary. Then, the lab nurse-lady informs me that a Colposcopy is necessary. Not sure what that is? Neither was I. All I know is that after being at work all night and tired as hell, a Colposcopy didn’t appear to be rainbows and ponies. Of course, I “google” it. Let me break it down. Basically, they snip away pieces of your cervix to test it for “dysplasia.” Again, not sure of that dysplasia is? Yeah, I googled that, too. It’s infected tissue. It can range from mild to severe. And that severe can turn into cervical cancer and/or the inability to conceive.

Alright, so, a lot to swallow in a short amount of time. I make the appointment and call my Mom. Yikes. Mom didn’t take this one too well. I’m pretty sure she assumed I had cancer immediately and my legs were going to fall off in the process. So, after I talked her down off the ledge — we had an intelligent conversation about what the issues were and how the doctors were going to fix them.

I went to the Colposcopy. Alone. Yeah, note to self — and others: Bring someone with you. Your mail carrier, a friend, a co-worker. Anyone. Granted, you don’t want to give them a show with your Jinur all in the spotlight and whatnot. But, it’s not a comfortable thing.

So, that’s over. Cool. I have sore Lady Bits for a few days — and knots in my stomach, waiting for those test results.

Then, I get the call. Again. (So dramatic, huh?) “Uh, Sara, hi,” the nurse stumbles out. “Your test results show you have moderate to severe tissue damage. We’ve got to do another, more serious procedure. Basically so you don’t get cancer and you can eventually conceive children.”

I lost it. Bawling on the phone with Lori. (That’s the nurse who called me.) For whatever reason, the cancer and inability to have children really hit me hard this time. Wow. So, this is serious. All I could mutter out on the phone was, “Ok.”

Again, I make an appointment. This time, for a LEEP. That’s “Loop Electrosurgical Excision Procedure.” Yeah, that’s electricity… and a hot loop-like tool that again… cuts away at the cervix.

Geez.

This time, I enlist my Mom and Eric. Hell, I wasn’t doing this one alone. My Lady Bits quivered at the thought of it.

I had that one Tuesday. My Mom came back with me, to the surgery room. Eric so kindly stayed in the waiting room. I was terrified. The procedure didn’t scare me as much as the possibility of what could be to come. Cancer? Not being able to have kids someday? Shit, man.

My Mom was wonderful. She held my hand as I shook like a leaf. They numbed my Jinur up. Yeah, shot me “down there.” Then, had to put a “grounding pad” on my thigh so I didn’t get electrocuted. Hey, great. The whole while I was hoping that this shit wouldn’t put me into cardiac arrest. The doc kept telling me, “Oh, this is going to be just fine, the hot loop will cut through your cervix like butter.” That’s right. She compared my Business to butter. Sweet. I’ll never look at those four-pack sticks the same.

It was all over in about 15 minutes. Easy-peasy. Errr. No tears were shed. I think, because I was too scared. I even got to check out the part of my cervix they cut out.  Sweet. Errr.

And now. I wait. Hoping I don’t get another bad phone call. I don’t know how many of these procedures I can do. The doctor even said they don’t want to cut away too much, because of the important role the cervix plays in childbearing/birth.

I mean, kids… make me nervous. They drools, poop, need things and are a human being that I’m not quite ready for just yet. But suddenly the thought of never having them… is scaring the crap out of me.

I’d say cross your fingers for me… but that just wouldn’t be right.

Cross your legs, instead.