Christmas in Bellevue

Merry Christmas, guys! I’m currently in Bellevue, meeting the in-laws (I call them that cuz I’ve been called “Aunt Draya” all morning. Not complaining, mind you.), and eating doughnuts.
Christmas day went about as well as it could, for ten in the morning, but last night kinda kicked my ass.
I woke up with a sore throat yesterday, but wrote it off to the seasonal sickness I get every winter; sore throat, congestion, cough, headache, you know, your average cold. But, as the day went on it got worse and worse, until about an hour before we went to Red Lobster for dinner.
It was delicious, but towards the end of the meal, I started feeling shitty. Like, really bad. I couldn’t talk, I had a ridiculously sore throat, I was dizzy and had a fever. So, they took me to the E.R. (“They” being Stu’s mom and Stu himself), and I got a shot of something called Dexagon, which is steriods, and given two prescriptions for Allegra and Noseflaze. I think.
But, I’m feeling better now, lounging in my new house robe and reading and trying not to fall asleep.
I hope your Christmas will be just as awesome, guys! See you next year!

Random Childhood Memories

When I was little, I grew up on the ranch with my uncles, my dad and my grandparents telling me that doctors were bad.  Dietitians, dentists, surgeons, they were all horrible people.  So, after my parents got divorced, my step-mom (she was still only my step-parent because the adoption papers had yet to go through) took my siblings and I to the dentist.  For the first time, ever.

I was scared shitless.  I thought that I was going to go in and get medicated and have all my teeth pulled.  My grandma Tina (my dad’s mom) had got to the dentist only a few months before that for a root canal, and she was still recovering, and that was what my fear was based on.  Anyway, the receptionist saw that I was starting to panic and called me over.

She asked how old I was, what my favorite color was, the generic questions you ask little kids.  She asked if I had ever been to a dentist before, and I said no.  Then, she asked if I flossed, and I said no.  She asked why not, and not know the real answer, I told her that we could afford it.

As you can imagine, she laughed her head off.  Then she asked if we couldn’t afford floss, how were we able to afford this trip to the dentist?  I told her, “Insurance.”

Long story short, I will never live down the fact that my mom can’t afford floss.  (Plot twist:  She can afford two things of floss.  lol)

Here, have something to kill boredom.

If, for whatever strange and unknown reason, I were to have someone describe me they, would list my physical appearance.  Dark hair, dark eyes, average height, “plus” size (in an attempt to be nice, they would say “fat” or “over weight”).  If I were to ask my friends to describe (or, you know, so it’s not so awkward, I’d have someone else ask my friends) they would say that I can drink like no other, that I’m good with animals, that I have a six million dollar ranch sitting in Meeteetse, Wyoming slowly decaying because my Great Aunt is a dip shit.

My closer friends would say that I listen to dorky Japanese music, or I deliberately wear mis-matched socks, and that bacon and I are best friends.

If my sister were to be asked, she would more than likely say that I’m a troubled person with a messed up past that has issues with people in general.

The point is that physical appearances aren’t all that important.  Sure, they identify you.  To a complete stranger.  The people you have around you, and those that you choose to be around, aren’t looking at your hair, or your skin.  They look at the person inside, the person that is loud and obnoxious and never shuts up.  Or maybe that person is cowering behind a rigid wall, scared and confused.  

The whole reason that I started thinking like this is this article:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/teresa-s-porter/so-youre-feeling-too-fat-to-be-photographed_b_4351360.html.  I found it on my Facebook feed, shared by an incredible woman who has helped me far too many times for me to count.

 

Because of my “history”, I kinda have a shitty outlook on life.  I see the worst possible outcome in all scenarios (case in point:  it’s snowy as balls and Stu decided that now would be a good time to go grocery shopping.  That’s just my deal, others would probably see it as:  Well, have fun!) and I tend to be very down and somber when it comes to social activities.  I’m constantly afraid of pissing people off, of making people happy, which kinda explains my past.

Anyway, because of what had happened, I gained weight.  When I was younger, like seven or eight, I was your average weight; maybe a bit chunky but I blame my lovely Father for that.  In fact, I have a picture of my when I was about nine in a swim suit.  By the standards in 199-whatever, I was a healthy girl.

But, then I deliberately started to gain weight, in an effort to become “ugly”.  I had grown up to my mother constantly telling me, “In order to make it in this world, you have to be pretty.  Find a good, rich man, and marry him.  But, you have to pretty.”  

I didn’t want to be pretty.  I didn’t want to deal with men.  I didn’t want to do anything with my life.  In school, when we had to draw a picture of what we would look like in ten years, I drew me and my animals on the ranch.  I wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was the ranch.

But, after reading that article, it occurs to me that I still haven’t done anything with my life.  While I’m mostly healed, I’m lazy.  Soft.  I made a decision to be “ugly” and it will stick with me the rest of my life.  Which is fine…if I’m gonna be judged by my weight, then I’m gonna be judged and there will be no shits to give.  I can’t change them, or their opinions.

When I moved to Nebraska, I made a lot of friends.  At first, it was friends of Vicki’s.  Then it was friends of Mat’s.  Then it was friends of Karlon’s (which is sad, but true).

And now I have a crowd of people I call friends.  I have best friends, even.  In my whole life, I’ve only ever had two best friends.  Peyton, who was technically my sister’s friend and my step-mother thought I was stealing him from Vicki, and Sami.  She was very first friend after the divorce, back in the third grade.  She has been there for me through thick and thin.  Granted, we don’t talk much anymore, but when we do it’s full of memories of when we were basket ball managers together, or the time we decided to live in Los Angles in houses that were right next to each other.  She would decorate them and I would fill them with my art.

Random musings of my past.  I do miss it, sometimes.  The schedule of school, the free food, the trips to see my Grandma Tina in Meeteetse.  My horses and dogs.  But, I wouldn’t trade any of it for the life I have now.

 

Which is pretty freakin’ awesome, if I’m to be honest.

I’m Alive

Shocker.  Well, I’ve been busy with moving, with hundred plus degree fevers, with a new car (named Stormy because there is only so many “manly” names for a powder blue “mom-car”) that Stu bought the twenty third.  It broke down the twenty fourth, and then the battery died shortly after.  

After that, we started moving to West Court, the apartments at the college.  We live across the courtyard from our friend, Vera, who’s pretty freakin’ awesome.  But, it was Thanksgiving week, and I had my fever that only went away last night-ish.  Therefore, moving was a bitch.  

But, it’s done now.