It's (almost) my birthday and I'll bitch if I want to

I know what I SHOULD be. I should be grateful. I should feel BEYONDDDD blessed that come this Saturday at 8:55pm, I'll have been given 31 years of life.

Make no mistake-I am grateful. No one loves me more than me (Trust me there) so I don't wanna kick it for a good long while.

But let's get this straight: I'm grateful for LIFE, not for age.

I cannot shake the fact that I'm going to be THIRTY-FRICKIN-ONE years old. It just sounds... ancient! I'm not sure WHY it's bothering me so bad (Yes I am. My gotdang vanity, but I'm trying to come up with some noble reasons here) I know that every birthday since my 21st has been met with AWFUL trepidation.

I had a meltdown on my 23rd birthday. A full blown, all out, no holds barred MELTDOWN. I was inconsolable for a day and a half.

Mandy Smith: Hatin' on her birthday since 2003!

I have no logical reasoning for any of this. I'm happily divorced (Y'all know we're way happier now than we were when we were married), I've had a kid- with no plans for another- I've got a college degree and a career. I've got a house, a nice car, money in the bank, a best friend that I visit almost whenever I want. I've got... well, we'll just call it a "distraction"(or a twatwaffle. Whatever.) for when I decide I wanna daydream. Hells bells I even got a 401k with thousands of dollars in it.

Wanna hear the funny part? (Also known as irony) I have more money now, less stress, I LOOK better physically (True story- I was, like a size 10 when I was 23), I FEEL better mentally (except for this whole birthday BS) and overall I'm WAY better off.

Have I mentioned I'm a walking contradiction?

There's nothing I can do. I can't stop Saturday from getting here... I can't stop the numbers from ticking up, up and away.

Clearly I can't stop the blind panic that seems to get exponentially stronger every year.

Anyways. There's really no point to this post. The title says it all: "It's (almost) my birthday and I'll bitch if I want to"

Hugs to all of you for hearing me out. XOXO

Really? Wow.

I'm proud to report that the twatwaffle broke rank night before last and texted me. I'm also proud to report that it's clear I had made more peace than originally thought with the whole thing because you coulda knocked me over with a feather when I saw that sucker come in.

I'm SAD, however, to report that I texted back and that the conversation went on for a few hours.

I did NOT unleash hell- I figured that was a dish best served personally.

Like next weekend maybe?

What surprised me the most was the context of the text "So are you ready for your birthday?" (Oh yeah, that's what I got after 3 weeks of NOTHING. Not "Hey"... "'Sup?"... "Sorry I snapped at you for no reason, please consider this my mea culpa")

Ok. REALLY? You ask me that a week EARLY and then when I ask "Do you even know when my birthday is?" I get the correct response (Yes, July 30) and I even get ("And 31 is not old")

Stop with the mind f***!!! Granted you can see all of that on FB, but since when have you shown THAT much initiative to go LOOK?!?

Life would be easier if my brain overruled my heart sometimes, I swear.

I freely admit. I'm sitting back and waiting to see how this ordeal plays out. I'm not even gonna front.

And I have my BFF on standby with a shock prod if I get outta line.

Blame HIM (points upwards to heaven)

Today's quote is brought to you by Rosie O'Donnell in the movie "Beautiful Girls"

“OK, look, girls with big tits have big asses, girls with little tits have little asses. That’s the way it goes. God doesn’t f*** around, he’s a fair guy. He gave the fatties big, beautiful tits, and the skinnies little, tiny niddlers. If you don’t like it, call him.”

Yes indeedy. If you don't like it, call HIM.

"Fiddle-Dee-Dee"

But first? A birthday shout out:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GISELE BUNDCHEN! YOU BIONIC BE-YOTCH!"

The only thing giving me comfort is the fact that no matter what, Gisele, you will ALWAYS be 10 days older than me. Always. You will also always look 25 times better than me. But that's because you're a billionaire. And bionic. And that's okay. Cause you're STILL older than me.

Hag.

Next subject!

You may remember in my previous post we discussed principle and my fierce dedication to it. I've had approximately 21 hours to reflect on that post and around hour 10, it dawned on me that there was a deeper issue at hand with they-who-shall-not-be-named and the fact that they haven't said anything to me (besides the obvious, previously discussed principle of the matter, of course).

But first. More background. (I'm such a historian. I know. But this is an integral part of not only my theory, but also who I am as a person, so humor me.)

When I read a book I can almost ALWAYS relate to at least one of the characters. That IS part of the reason we read, right? To escape into this imaginary world and say "Oh I would TOTALLY be like that!" Of all the books I've read (and BELIEVE ME, I've read A LOT) the two characters I most closely identify with- and have had people back me up on- are Stephenie Meyer's Bella and Margaret Mitchell's Scarlett O'Hara.

I have Bella's "Super Self-Control." I don't always wanna exercise it (We all know how bad Bella wanted her some human blood when she was on that first hunt with Edward!) but when it's truly necessary, I have it. I also agonize and agonize over a decision. But once the decision is made, the rest is follow through. I'm not one to go back on a decision and I'm grateful for that.

The one I REALLY embody though, is Scarlett. And it's not just because I'm half Irish. Today, I'm only going to bore you with one of the ways I'm like Scarlett. To list them all, and my subsequent admiration for this character, would take much more of an attention span than either you or I could muster.

*Sidebar: Kudos to Vivien Leigh and her British self rockin' that southern accent. AMERICANS can't rock that accent as well as you did. Thank you for not butchering it.*

I realize that some of you may not be as familiar with Gone With the Wind as I am. I seriously read this book when I was, like, 8 years old. And it's seriously about 4" thick. The movie is about 4 hours long... and they edited out half the book.

Gone With the Wind is both my favorite book EVER and my favorite movie EVER. (Yes, even more favorite than Twilight.)

The story begins abouuuuut 3 days before the Civil War breaks out with Scarlett as this spoiled little southern princess. Truly, her vanity gives mine a run for its money. She loved to look pretty and have the guys falling all over her. And boy did they. Those guys fought over who got to sit next to her at the Bar-B-Que.... then they fought over who could go get her dessert. Then the guy who she CHOSE (yes, CHOSE) to go get her dessert about passed out from happiness and declared his undying love to her.

That bitch had GAME, y'all.

But there was one guy she wanted- Ashley Wilkes. WHY she wanted Ashley Wilkes was a mystery to me for the longest time. (Personally, I thought the Tarleton Twins were MUCH cuter. And once we get to Rhett Butler? *swoon*) Anyways. Scartlett wanted her some Ashley Wilkes. But Ashley Wilkes only wanted him some Melanie Hamilton.

*'Nother Sidebar: Ashley and Melanie were first cousins. They got married. They had a kid. Can we say "EW!"? No wonder everyone thinks all the southerners are inbred. Thanks a lot, Margret Mitchell!*

This irritated Scarlett to NO. END. It didn't matter how pretty she was, how much money she had, or how many guys were panting after her, SHE. WANTED. ASHLEY. Now she'd amuse herself with other men in the meantime- there's a reason her full name is Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler- but she never took her eyes off the prize.

Anywho, as the story goes on, the war breaks out, all the women are left to fend for themselves and Scarlett ends up realizing just how mentally strong she really is. Them damn Yankees was NOT gonna beat her down. Sherman's stormin' Atlanta, you say? To hell with him! After the war was over and she was about the only family member left with enough kutzpa to take care of Tara (the plantation that was her heart and soul) she sees Ashley again. And Ashley sees Melanie again. And Scarlett's irritated again.

I don't wanna spoil the ending for you audience members that have yet to experience the awesomeness that is Gone With the Wind, but I will say this (because it's the point of this entire blog post and the reason you've humored me this long): When it's all said and done, Scarlett has an epiphany: It's not that she LOVED Ashley so much. She just wanted Ashley to want HER. She realized they really had NOTHING in common and once she got him that she would get bored in about 3 seconds. Of course she cared about him and loved him in her own way. But that true blue, deep, long-lasting love? Nah. She just hated that he wanted damn "mealy-mouthed" Melanie Hamilton over her. (That's a real quote, btw, "mealy-mouthed". That's how proper southern ladies cussed back then.)

So that's the root of my problem: I just want that twatwaffle to want me. By not texting or acknowledging my existence on a regular basis, I process that as "lack of interest" and get pissy. Sure I care, and we have a good time together. But when it comes down to it, that's the source of my irritation and bitterness: there's something out there (probably work) that's his "Melanie"... and it irritates me.

But not anymore. Nope. I'm cured. Or at least I'm on my way. Things have changed in my little corner of the south. People that have been a part of my life for a long time have done the impossible and changed in a way that has brought me more enjoyment than I've experienced in years. I'm going to be happy with my Rhett Butler, because he's the one that I really have the connection with. And in the end, that's what I need to focus on. Because that's what's going to bring me long-term happiness.

So I'll leave you with this: a fan made trailer of Gone With the Wind. It's the least I can do after giving you the massive headache you're now experiencing from reading this mess.

XOXO

Because there's PRINCIPLE involved, that's why.

First of all, let me start out by saying there's PRINCIPAL and there's PRINCIPLE. (If you don't know the difference between the two, click each word and you'll get the definitions. Don't hate. I'm a grammar nerd and I want us all to be on the same page here.)

Secondly, you know those people in your life that you go WAAAAAAY back with? (<--- ha. The grammar nerd just ended her sentence with a preposition. I can admit it though, so we're not gonna hold that against me. k?) Like, middle school back with? You don't talk much now, but when you do it's like you never lost contact? I've got a friend like that. His name is Justin. And he's exactly 23 hours older than me. Justin and I go allllll the way back to 8th grade. (That'd be 1993. Old. Ugh.) I'm not sure how it happened, but one day he and I realized that there was one thing we would fight to the death about:

PRINCIPLE.

(And by fight to the death I mean with others, not amongst ourselves. Because I cannot recall a single instance, in 18 years, where Justin and I disagreed on the principle of a matter.)

*Sidebar: Those of you on FB, when I refer to my "Puddin' Buns," I'm talkin' about Justin. He calls me "Sugar Britches"... which I consider an improvement over his high school nickname for me which was "Ghetto Bum." But that's a post for another day*

So, with all that background covered, let's get to the point of all this jibberish.

I used to think that principle was always a good thing. For the most part I still think that, but lately, I'm learning that principle can be a serious pain in the ass.

Good Principle: You promised someone that you would bring them dinner. But then you get busy and forget. They tell you not to worry about it, they're not that hungry anyways. NO MA'AM. That's not the point. So you turn around and get them their #5 with a large Sweet Tea. Why? Because there's PRINCIPLE involved.

Pain-in-the-Ass Principle: Someone you like A LOT (and claims to feel the same way about you) snaps at you for no reason via text message. You let them know, in no uncertain terms-via text message-how you feel about that. (You're not in favor of it, btw) They never write you back. No "Hello." "Goodbye." "F you" NOTHIN'. They never even acknowledge that MAYBE they shouldn't have snapped at you. It's been 2 1/2 weeks. You refuse to break rank and text first. Why? Because there's PRINCIPLE involved.

Damnit.

So now there's a big fat war going on in my head. "Principle" vs. "Pride Goeth Before the Fall" There's no clear winner so I still I can't bring myself to break rank. No matter how much I HAAAATTTEEE not talking to this person, the principles of, well, PRINCIPLE are ingrained WAY too deeply in my psyche to cave.

PRINCIPLE! PRINCIPLE! PRINCIPLE! (<--- say it like "Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!")

This could all be avoided if that damn Twatwaffle would just text a simple "Hi."

Clearly, I'm going my grave on frop'n PRINCIPLE.

In fact, y'all have that engraved on my tombstone:

Here lies Amanda Colleen Smith

July 30, 1980- _______

Bless her heart, she went to her grave on frop'n PRINCIPLE

Insert Evil Laugh *HERE*

Y'all know I heart Minnesota like white bread. Not only does my BFF live there, but in the winter there's SNOW. Snow makes me happy.

Because it's AWESOME. And cold.

This time of year (when I'm sweatin ball sacks) I frequently pull up pictures of me buried up to my eyeballs in snow to remind me that in a few months I can go back and do it all over again. Sometimes, though, that has an adverse effect and it makes me sad. Cause, well, not only do I miss my Kelly, but it's frickin HOT now.

And there's no snow. No snow makes me sad.

Then I see this:

Temperature

92.1 °F

Feels Like 116 °F

Y'all, that is the current temperature and heat index in New Ulm, Minnesota as of 3pm Eastern Time today.

This is the current temperature and heat index in Tallahassee, Florida as of 3pm Eastern Time:

Temperature

88.3 °F

Feels Like 94 °F

I couldn't help but laugh. HARD. Cause they got "Excessive Heat Warnings" and all out.

BOO. FRICKIN'. HOO.

Welcome to my Fresh Hell! What you're feelin' right now? It's like that 10 outta 12 months a year here. (That's 83% of the year for all you math majors out there) That's right. 83% of my year is spent in absolute HELL.

Suck it, Yankees! And come this winter, when the windchill is -40 and there's 6ft of snow on the ground, don't bitch about how AWFUL the snow and cold is.

You just remember how HOOOOT and MIIIIISERABLE it is right now (and will be for the rest of the week)

And how SOME OF US have to fly halfway across the country for relief.

*MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA*

UPDATE (4:12 pm Eastern)

Temperature

94.5 °F

Feels Like 121 °F

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

See what happens when I don't take my Ambien?

(or some other sedating drug)

I'm big into dream interpretation. Why?I don't know. Well, that's not true. I have a theory. My theory is I hate not knowing why things happen. And I REALLY hate my subconscious. (Since dreams are supposed to be a manifestation of what your subconscious mind is filing away) Like, why the hell can't my subconscious just come out with it? If I'm harboring some deep rooted insecurity JUST. FREAKING. TELL ME. Don't give me some crazy, wild-A dream so I wake up and spend hours Googling the meaning of "freaking in the haze with a purple hippo". Balls up and tell my conscious mind WTF is going on.

/end rant

*deep breath*

So last night I dreamed that I was back in high school. Band to be more exact. But even though I was 11 years back in time, the events going on were modern (ie: Prince William and Duchess Kate make an appearance. Don't worry. It gets better.) Apparently it's an away game since a school bus was involved, but it was also the first game of the season. (We're gonna chalk up the "football" portion of the dream to the fact that there's like 50-some days left till college football season kicks off and I'm a hot mess of withdrawal right now) Enter Mandy... flipping the F out b/c I can't find my uniform. EEEERYBODY'S got their uniform but Mandy. The always responsible, never forgot anything ONCE in 4 years of Marching Band Mandy.

And it's not just ANY uniform. Oh no, if that were the case, I could just grab a spare. No it's my DRUM MAJOR uniform (Yes, I was a drum major. Queen of the Band Nerds. And I loved it. Don't judge me.)

I feel it's important to note here that in real life I was a drum major only during my senior year, therefore I only ever owned and had need for ONE uniform. And drum majors get a different uniform every year. (Unlike the band which keeps the same ones year after year)

But here I am, flipping out on the bus b/c I can't find my gotdang uniform from LAST YEAR. Furthermore, I just KNEW that I had purposely LEFT said uniform on the bus for safekeeping (WTF? Safe? On a school bus? And the SMELL!?!? EEWWWW) Well lo and behold I FIND IT. And I'm all "See?!? I KNEW I left it here!" And then Dream Mandy was smart enough to say "Oh geeze. I hope it doesn't reek." My next thought was "OH NO! I hope it still fits!" (Aaaand I'ma chalk THAT one up to me being obsessed with my weight) And then my last thought was "Wait. I'm supposed to have a new uniform for the new season." and I turn to the band director and say "Where's my new uniform?" To which he replies "Uh... You haven't been fitted for it yet." "I haven't?" I say. "Nooo... that's why I'm wondering why you're so worried about last year's uniform." I said "Well everyone else is out there in THEIR uniforms. I'd look pretty freakin' stupid if I was directing them in JEANS and a TSHIRT" (Duhhhh.)

My high-school boyfriend was in the dream too. (That's not unusual, he and I are actually still REALLY good friends to this day and talk all the time.) So he was there in the background of the whole thing and once I'm dressed everyone starts telling us "You two look JUST LIKE Prince William and Kate. JUST. LIKE. THEM."

Y'all, the last time I checked. Kate had WAAAAY better style than a drum major uniform from 1998. Granted, it was a snappy uniform, but still. Kate? Really?

Hell I didn't care. I looked like a Pretty, Pretty Princess. Everybody said so, so it must be true. I was grinnin ear to ear.

And then I woke up.

So the only conclusions I've been able to draw from all of this are:

1. Mandy without her College Football is like Peanut Butter without Jelly.

2. I wanna be a princess.

3. I follow Wills and Kate WAAAYYY too much on People.com

4. I SERIOUSLY need to work on that whole "vanity" thing. It's gonna be the death of me.

and finally

5. Don't be a hero. Take your frickin' sleeping pill so this crap don't happen again.

Any other conclusions are most welcome.

Hilary Duff has knee fat. And that makes me happy

(shout out to my girl Angelina for inspiring me with that title, btw)

I think we've all heard about the 7 Deadly Sins. In case you haven't, here's a recap (in no particular order since I figure the Big Guy ranks em all pretty even on the "deadly" scale):

1. Envy

2. Greed

3. Pride

4. Lust

5. Wrath

6. Gluttony

7. Sloth

Sadly, I did that all from memory. Clearly I think about these a lot. Mostly I think about "Which of these am I MOST guilty of...?" Then I wonder "At what point does an idle 'Dang, I wish I had Paris Hilton's fortune!' trigger the "ENVY ALERT" button in Heaven and I'm sentenced to burn for all eternity?" I mean, do you have to like dwell on the sin for AWHILE, do you have to let it consume you? Is just the mere thought enough to sentence you to eternal damnation? (For a more in depth discussion of the 7 Deadly Sins, I direct you to you the source of all sources: Wikipedia.

And WTF does all of this have to do with Hilary Duff's knee fat?!? I'm getting there, I promise.

After much thought and deliberation, it's devastatingly obvious to me that I'm guilty of ALL of these. (Especially since they all kinda stem from each other, if you think about it)

1. Envy- See Paris Hilton thought, above

2. Greed- When you grew up wanting your own money bin like Scrooge McDuck and your #1 rule is "Don't F with my money!" It's safe to say you're a greedy bitch.

3. Pride- I flip my s*** when my size 4s get tight. That's pretty dang prideful, y'all.

4. Lust- Two Words: Minnesota Farmboy

5. Wrath- I consistently plot revenge. Usually on the object of #4. Truly, I'm a walking contradiction

6. Gluttony- Thanksgiving Dinner in the South, anyone? HELLO.

7. Sloth- Laziness. My favorite thing to do. Period.

So. After much MORE thought and deliberation, I decided that my #1 Deadly Sin is *drumroll please*

PRIDE

Yep. Pride. AKA Vanity in my book. I am forever worried about what size I am, how dark my tan is, how fat my ass looks in those jeans, why the hell won't my fat ass fit into those jeans, I swear to God they fit last week, this is BS! And, well, you get the picture. One of my (many) bad habits that feeds this Pride/Vanity thing is looking at the celebrities. I mean COME. ON. When you see Miranda Kerr and her "12-week post baby" bod, you just gotta wonder, WHERE IS THE FREAKING JUSTICE?!? I mean, I couldn't look like that on my BEST day.

*beats head against the wall*

Yeah, I KNOW she's a freaking supermodel so her paycheck depends on her body bouncing back ASAP after a kid. I KNOW it's her JOB to be in the gym 8 days a week and eat specially prepared meals when she's not on the runway. I know she has a prep team and body makeup.

And Photoshop.

I KNOW.

I also know if I would maybe put a LIIIITTTLE more effort into working out instead of utilizing Sin #7, I might not be as bad off, but I digress.

Seeing those pictures just makes me feel less than... pretty. All I see when I look in the mirror is a set of thighs that Col. Sanders would roll over in his grave for and an ass that's got too much back even for Sir Mix A Lot. So when I come across pictures of the few celebrities out there that have REAL bodies, I become their #1 fan. For realz, Penelope Cruz is my homegirl.

And then I came across THIS. Hilary Duff. My new hero. She looks great, right? But them ain't no chicken legs, y'all. Them is REAL. AMERICAN. LEGS.

And there's even a little bit of knee fat.

They're kinda pasty white too. Which isn't a bad thing. Just means she won't be gettin cancer cut out her skin at 45 like I prolly will be. (See? That damn vanity's gonna end up bein LITERALLY deadly!)

Hilary (and Penelope)- THANK YOU for being normal. I'm sure you probably weigh less than me, and I'm sure you're much more toned than me. But this picture here proves that you AREN'T bionic like Miranda and Gisele. You're a girl. With knee fat. And prolly even a lil cellulite.

And for that I thank you.

And this is why you don't F with seagulls

For those of you not familiar with the animals that live near the ocean, read this article.

http://www.foxnews.com/world/2011/07/12/british-mans-eyeball-pecked-out-by-seabird/?intcmp=obnetwork

And then commit this to memory: I will never. Ever. Ever. Ever. EVER f*** with a seagull.

Ever.

PS: I speak from experience. Although I was lucky enough to survive with all my body parts intact.

Oh, Gerty...

You know that whole "love/hate" thing people talk about? I can't decide where the love is in this (involuntary) relationship I have with Gerty.

For those of you won't don't know, Gerty is what I've named my thyroid. Because she's huge. Like a goiter. Ok, not REALLY, but I'm self-conscious and she FEELS like a goiter. So. Gerty the Goiter it is.

Mine and Gerty's relationship was non-existant till after CJ came along. Apparently, it's somewhat common to develop thyroid problems after a baby. (Thanks, kiddo! Cause the 39 hours of labor wasn't enough of a present for me!) I have what's called Hashimoto's Thyroiditis- an autoimmune disease. In Layman's terms, HT is when your thyroid is going along minding its own business when suddenly, out of nowhere, my own ANTIBODIES (you know, the thingies that fight infection?) attack it. No cause. No provocation. Somewhere a switch was flipped and the antibodies declared war on poor, innocent, Gerty.

When I was first diagnosed, I asked my Endocrinologist "Well... can we just yank it out?" (As most people who know me will tell you- Mandy's answer to everything is "Put me to sleep and take it out.") Nope. They can't take it out. It's too risky a procedure for something that might not work. So I said "Well, why wouldn't it work? Antibodies attack thyroid. Thyroid goes away. Problem solved." Oh no. See, they would have to SCRAPE all around my larynx (possibly damaging my vocal cords) and even then there's a chance that they wouldn't get all the tissue... which would just lead to continued problems. Awesome.

Ok... well, what about meds? Something to help regulate this? Nope. That won't work either. Really? REALLY? I have GOD awful hot flashes, like I'm frickin' menopausal. I get insomnia so strong that nothing short of general anesthesia will put me out, my periods are all over the place... WHY on God's green earth can you not give me some synthroid? "Oh... well see, here's the thing. TECHNICALLY your thyroid is still working properly."

Eh?

"Yeah, see if you look at the bloodwork, your T3 and T4 levels are totally where they're supposed to be. It's just that when something triggers your immune system (thus triggering the antibodies into action) it causes things to spaz out IMITATING an overactive thyroid... but it's really not overactive. So if we were to give you thyroid meds, you'd be totally F'd up after the inflammation died down because your thyroid REALLY didn't need the meds."

Eh?

(Yeah. It took me awhile to get it too)

Ok fine... well what about the symptoms? Can we treat the SYMPTOMS? Can I have some Ambien for the insomnia? Is there anything for hot flashes? "Yeah... about that. Ambien's kinda addictive, so we don't like to give that out much and no... there's nothing else we can do. But cheer up! At SOME POINT the antibodies will win the war, your thyroid will die and THEN we can put you on synthroid." Yet again, AWESOME.

Now let me say this: Gerty does have some redeeming value. Well. She has ONE redeeming value: my metabolism. Gerty got me from a size 8 to a size 4 in a year. With no exercise, no dieting. Pretty freakin' awesome right? Sure... if you don't mind random hot flashes, insomnia and a ginormus lump in the middle of your throat. But I can't really dwell on all that because, again, Gerty WILL die one day. And then I'll get fat. And that's just not an option. Guess I'll have to cross that bridge when I get to it.

So now my new game has become "Guess when Gerty's gonna blow" Because SERIOUSLY, people. She is the most FINIKY thyroid I imagine has ever existed. A lot of folks know that stress can trigger your immune system (how many times are you working a bunch of OT, or trying to balance your budget and then you come down with a cold or something? It's because the stress lowered your immune system making you more susceptible to that cold) What a lot of people DON'T know is that your body can't tell the difference between "good" stress and "bad" stress.

Good Stress: Flying up to visit your BFF for 10 days

Bad Stress: Going through a divorce

Truly, the body reads them both as stress and therefore sends out the call to the antibodies. And with me, like I said, my antibodies ain't just lookin for germs.

So Gerty could blow at anytime. When my spring allergies kick in... when I spend a week and a half with Kelly... when Ed & I get into a big fight. Yup. NOOOOOO tellin'. Have I mentioned how AWESOME this is?

Last year I started taking the pill again. I really had no reason for it except that I was hopeful that the hormones in the pill would override Gerty's mood swings and could keep my cycle on SOMETHING of a schedule. So far so good. But now I'm starting to wonder: Are the extra hormones/signals that Gerty is sending out when she's pissed interfering with the hormones in the pill?

So. I've told you all of that to tell you this: My boobs are huge. Like, really huge. Like, I'm pretty sure they weren't this swollen when I was the sole nutrition source for another human being. And they huuuurt. Baaaad. My bra hurts. No bra hurts. Nothing helps, everything HUUUURTTS. I'm swollen (I hope. I hope this isn't fat) to the point that my size 4s are just barely on this side of uncomfortable and now I cry when I have to put on my size 6s. (I know most people would kill for EITHER of those sizes, but when you've been a size 4 with no issues for a year or so, you don't EEEEVER wanna go back. Don't judge me.) Anything other than flip flops hurt my feet. (See swelling, above) My poor mind is exhausted, but my body won't stop unless someone shoots me with a damned tranquilizer dart.

So do I stop the pill and wonder when the hell I'll get a period? No. That's just trading one set of problems for another. Do I live in a bubble away from all stressors, good and bad, for the rest of my day? I wish, but no. Apparently the bank likes their mortgage payment on time. GAH! I hate it when I don't have options!

Gerty. I'll find a way to tolerate the hot flashes and the insomnia. And I can learn my angles to hide your goiter-ness. But so help me GOD. If you EVER let me get fat again, I swear on everything that's ever been held holy by anyone on the face of this earth- I'll rip you out MYSELF.