Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

I always feel like I need to put some sort of “about me” post up when I know I’m getting ready to meet a bunch of new bloggers. And I wrote it out, read it and realized that it was just sort of a regurgitation of my 100 things list and my FAQs page. And as much as I’m a fan of regurgitation, I’m going to spare you a little.

You’re welcome.

So instead, here are 10 11 things you need to know about me this weekend.

1. My name is Katie (okay, so that’s not necessarily related to only this weekend, but you know, it seems like something you should know), but I have a boat load of sisters and will respond to pretty much any girl’s name. I also hate embarrassing people, so if you call me by a different name, I won’t correct you. I also won’t tell you that you have food in your teeth. But that’s just because I’m an ass.

2. I do not have children. Though I love them dearly and if you bring one, I might have to squeeze it. Just a little. Unless it’s prone to projectile spitting up. In which case, no thank you.

3. I’ve had 6 needles stuck in my back in the past 10 days. I am sore, I got some crappy health news and I will sit a lot. I will also be in comfortable shoes and will move my hips/back as little as possible while dancing. Which will likely have no impact on my white girl dance moves.

4. I’m not pregnant (I swear), but I’m not drinking (much) alcohol for reasons related to my effed up brain.

5. I will have a caffeinated beverage in my hand pretty much every hour of the day. My doctor told me to (I swear!)

6. I have a headache every single moment of every single day. Please don’t judge me if you see me popping pills. They’re all legal and prescribed and necessary for my functionality.

7. I am not a morning person, but I try. Unless you start singing at me, and then you’re dead to me.

8. USC is going to beat Notre Dame this weekend. I will not argue with you about this.

9. My purse is from Target.

10. Yes, that picture at the top is the back of my head and yes, you’re welcome to have a peek at my scar. Don’t be surprised when I have hair. This always seems to confuse people.

11. I love cake. This is also not necessarily relevant to this weekend, but may be important should you wish to forge a friendship.

12. What happens in Vegas will be captured on my camera and posted for the internet. Except that I don’t really know how my camera works. So you’re probably safe.

See you there.

Or not.

Which is fine too.

And go check out Daisy’s place later. I’m working (sloooooowly) on a guest post while she wraps up her honeymoon!

Once more, the news has inspired my blog. But this time it’s not about republicans, so you can all exhale comfortably.

It’s about rape instead.

More specifically, Roman Polanski raping a 13 year old girl.

As always, I don’t pretend to understand all the facts, not by a long shot. But what I do know is that Polanski pled guilty to having sex with a 13 year old girl and then ran away. He fled the country and sought refuge in Switzerland. The man ADMITTED to having sex with her, and then he ran away.

I don’t much care if he had a plea bargain that would’ve spared him jail time. I don’t care if he is a brilliant director who has had a hard life. I don’t care if it was 30 years ago. This man raped a child and then ran away. He committed a crime, admitted to it, and then fled instead of taking the punishment.

His reasoning is that there was a chance that his plea bargain would’ve fallen through, which is scary. But that sort of seems like the kind of thing you should consider before you drug and have sex with an 8th grader.

This sickens me on so many levels. I taught 8th graders for 3 years. I know 13 year old girls. Something like this isn’t something that should EVER be excused. It’s not something that celebrities should be encouraging others to overlook and it’s not something that we should degrade with finger quotes.

I have yet to hear a single compelling reason from any of Polanski’s friends as to why he should be excused. 30 years does not erase his crime. Living in seclusion does not equal paying for his violence. This man is a coward and he is a rapist. He deserves to be judged and face the law like every other citizen in the world.

If Polanski wasn’t a celebrity, would we feel the same way? If he hadn’t produced wonderful movies and earned awards, would we all stand aside and say that because the age of consent is different in Europe that this is excusable?

It’s not excusable. Rape is not excusable. A grown man drugging and having sex with a 13 year old is not excusable. No amount of time in jail will ever pay for that crime, but getting off without punishment sure as hell doesn’t either.

Someone needs to stand up for what is right because many are standing up for what isn’t. I just hope that you’ll join me.

3 months from today, life will be changing. Like, major major changing.

No, we don’t know where, but 3 months from today, we’re moving. Possibly to California near our families. Possibly just across town to a place without 2 obnoxious housemates (more on that another time). Possibly to the Big Apple.

We don’t know.

But, we do know that 3 months from today, we’ll be getting in our car and driving to our new home. The quickness of this year has caught me off guard. I can’t believe that we went from having 3 years here in New Orleans to having 3 months left. It’s been a long 2 and a half years, but it’s winding down so very quickly. I’m so very excited and I can’t wait for match day to find out our destination.

But, there are more pressing matters…

You see, 2 weeks from today, Slappy is shaving his head. Yes, I’m beating this dead horse again.

He’s VERY close to his goal of 500 dollars and is sincerely hoping to achieve it soon. I really do understand that money is tight, but every single dollar helps. On average, I get greater than 200 unique visitors a day to the main page of the blog. If each one of those people donated one dollar, he’d exceed his goal.

I really do get that some of you cannot afford to donate, and I don’t begrudge you that situation, just keep him and the kids in your thoughts and we’re grateful for you, too.

If you can donate, even a dollar, five dollars, whatever, please email me: overflowingbrain@gmail.com and I’ll give you the link to donate. Time is running out and we really REALLY want to meet this goal.

The cause couldn’t be better. Slappy needs a haircut more than anyone I’ve ever met. Kind of looks like a que-tip. I mean, childhood cancer. That’s what it’s all about.

But seriously, I appreciate each of you who can find a dollar or two to spare and donate to this amazing cause. And I promise this will be one of the last times I badger you about it.

Probably.

(First, let me say that the 13th comment, well, all of the comments, but especially the 13th comment on the post from Sunday was amazing. Congratulations to you, Lolo. I don’t know anything about you except that you made a really REALLY amazing decision today. And for that, I applaud you.)

So after I got the news from the neurologist that the brain nugget was in fact brain plaque, I informed the neurologist that I still needed to be seen because while the Neurontin worked for about 2 solid weeks once back in November/December, it hasn’t done a fricking lick of good since then. He said he’d have his office call me to schedule an appointment.

Yesterday afternoon I received the RUDEST voicemail from his receptionist letting me know that this was the 4th time she had called and she had left several messages and she THOUGHT I wanted to be seen in the near future.

Y’all need to be impressed with me for not driving over there and screaming at her. It helps that she’s like a 70 year old woman, but nevertheless, RUDE.

So I called her back and let her know that if she’d called me 4 times, it certainly wasn’t the right number and that I had received zero of those messages.

Come to find out, she had called my home line first, which, while at work I obviously don’t answer. Then she called my work number, which I also don’t answer while working and then she called my cell phone. All within a 10 minute time span. Which is, you know, totally the same thing as calling me 4 times.

And so I explained that while I taught I couldn’t so much carry on phone conversations and she basically ignored me and told me they had an opening for Tuesday morning at 9 due to a last minute cancellation and I snapped it right up.

The doctor saw me this morning and reaffirmed that the nugget/plaque whatever it is, is perfectly fine, but obviously I shouldn’t be taking 1800 mg of Neurontin a day if it’s not working. But also, he has no idea why I’m having headaches. Which is apparently the mystery of the century. So, anyways, I’m weaning off the Neurontin now, over the course of 4 weeks, and then picking up a drug called Pamelor.

It’s a really old mood stabilizer which has been shown to prevent headaches. I’m not wild about being on this class of drugs (especially since I’ve just in the past week or so decided that I’m going to wean off the Xanax because I don’t want to be on it anymore…), and I have a notoriously negative history of side effects with them, but according to the doctor Slappy is working with, it’s been shown to be really effective. So I’ll try it.

And perhaps a little mood stabilizing wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Shut. it.

So now we wean, then we start something different. And I’m not going to tell you about the rest of the day because that is one MONSTER rant that will have to wait for another time. Frankly, I’m afraid if I type it out now, I might swear so much I’d drive half of you away.

And accidentally prove that a mood stabilizer is actually a pretty great idea.

I can’t begin to describe the overwhelming sadness that rushes over my existence when I flip the calendar to March.

March 1st.

7 years ago today, my grandmother died. She died scared, in a hospital, without her husband, with only one of her five children there. No one had time to hold her hand or tell her that she could let go when she wanted. No one could tell her one more time that they loved her. Instead, she died, quickly but painfully and almost alone.

I know some of you will roll your eyes. She wasn’t my mother, she didn’t raise me or anything, but we were close. I lived with her for a year at a point of great turmoil in my life. She was the core and the heart of our family. And she is gone.

One of the memories of her that I can’t let go of was just a few years before her death, in Las Vegas (her favorite place on Earth). Our whole family had made the drive to Vegas for Spring Break and one night we were going to see the Excalibur show. The seats are all in a row and we had to file in in the correct seating order. When asked where I wanted to sit, I told my mom that I didn’t want to sit next to my grandma because she smelled like cigarettes.

I didn’t know right away, but she overheard me and was crushed. Eventually I found out that she heard and I too, was crushed that I had hurt her. I tracked her down and apologized, a tear-filled apology in the middle of a casino floor in sin city.

What my grandmother told me when I apologized was not what I anticipated and not something I will probably ever forget. She forgave me, but also told me that it wasn’t my fault. She said that she had done it to herself and had long before realized that because of smoking she’d lost her family.

It’s amazing looking back in retrospect at how correct that statement would be.

My grandmother began smoking when she was in her 20s. She had always been a very anxious person and at the time her doctor recommended it to calm her nerves. Obviously there was no way to know then what she was getting herself into, but in the end she smoked from her early 20s until the age of 75.

In those 50 years she smoked one to two packs of cigarettes every day. She tried to quit several times that I can remember, or at least talked about it, but was too afraid of the withdrawing process. Her fear managed her addiction.

And then, at age 75, after an unrelated surgery, she quit. Cold turkey, no going back. At age 75, using no drugs, or hypnosis, or patches, but rather her sheer force of will (she was nothing if not horribly stubborn), she gave up a nearly life-long habit.

Six months later, she came down with pneumonia and a chest x-ray showed spots on her lungs. On February 25, 2002, she had an invasive surgery where a lobe of one of her lungs was removed. On the morning of March 1st, we found out that the spots were cancerous and that it had already spread to the lymph nodes around her lungs. The doctors had a chemo/radiation plan and while no one was sure if they’d be able to kill it completely, they believed they could slow it down. The news was terrible, but we pushed on with a small ray of hope.

And then that afternoon I called my mom to arrange a trip to visit my step-dad who had, that very morning while the doctors were delivering my grandma’s diagnosis, had his cancerous prostate removed. She didn’t answer. So I called my sister, who told me to keep trying to call my mom. I did. No answer. So I called my aunt, who insisted I called my mom. After much demanding, she told me what was going on. While I was in class, a blood clot had formed and had gone into my grandma’s lungs. She’d died.

That morning we had a game plan. A way to keep her with us.

That afternoon, she was gone.

The last time I saw my grandma was the night before her surgery. I told her how much I loved her and I would come back on the 2nd to visit. Instead I drove home on the night of the 1st. I was too late.

My grandma’s doctor looked us straight in the eyes and told us that smoking caused the cancer. It wasn’t a genetic anomaly. It wasn’t misfortune. It wasn’t a random happenstance. It was smoking. Anyone who doesn’t believe that smoking kills is completely wrong. Smoking killed my grandma.

Each year I try and honor her in some way, and this year, this is how I’m doing it. I’m taking a public stand against smoking. Plenty of people I know and love smoke and I don’t love them less for it, but I am saddened by it. Because someday, smoking will come between them and their family.

Because of smoking, my grandmother never met 2 of her grandchildren, nor her 2 great-grandchildren.

Because of smoking my grandma didn’t see any of her grandchildren graduate from college or get married.

Because of smoking, my grandfather lives alone in the house that used to be filled with her boundless energy.

Because of smoking, my aunt had to watch her mother suffer a very painful death.

Because of smoking, our family suffers. Even now, 7 years later.

Smoking will get between you and your family. Maybe not today, maybe not in a year, maybe not even in a decade or two. But it will. Please let our family’s suffering save you some. Stop smoking. And if someone you loves does, help them quit.

No one should have to have March 1sts the way my family does. Don’t let yours.

(My very favorite picture. Circa 1990)

(With the last grandchild she got to meet. Thanksgiving 2001)

Rest in peace sweet lady. You are missed every single moment, but especially today.

(I cannot begin to thank you all for the comments, suggestions and support on yesterday’s whine blog. But to try to thank you, I’m now going to write a post that will make you all terribly uncomfortable. You’ve been warned. You’re welcome)

So our bed is broken.

It only took 2 months of marriage, but we broke the bed.

I won’t say specifically how because your own daydreams of this may end up far more interesting than the truth, and I kind of want you to think I’m really creative in (the broken) bed. And because in not telling you, I totally just forced a really great image into your head and I find that wildly amusing. Yep, you’re welcome.

Anyways, the problem is that now our bed sounds like there’s a goose under it. When you sit down, it honks. When you roll over, it honks. When you reach for the remote, it honks.

So you can imagine when you do “other” things on the bed. It practically announces our activities to the entire zip code.

“Hello!” it says. “These two (married!) people are getting their “grove” on. If you know what I mean. Honk honk honk honkhonkhonkhonk.”

Truly, it sounds like a goose and in case you wondered, sex geese are not quiet creatures.

Aside from the hilarity of the honking during the non-mentionable activities, the sex goose is a problem at other times. Like, for instance, on Saturday and Sunday mornings where I almost always get up before Slappy. Trying to get out of bed without the sex goose waking him up involves trying to slowly ease myself off the bed until I all but fall out onto the floor.

This plan never works and usually, I end up rousing Slappy enough that he rolls over and tries to cuddle me, which is sweet, except now have to navigate out of a cuddle and the sex goose to get out of bed without waking him up.

(I’m a freaking saint in the mornings, by the way. I don’t want to talk to you or recognize the fact that you exist in the universe, but I respect the right to sleep in on weekends.)

Thankfully we have a protection plan for the bed so that we can get the sex goose removed, er, replaced, but I kind of wonder what life will be like without it. We’ve had 6 months of honking now (heh, what a great euphemism), I’m almost afraid I won’t be able to deal with the quiet. Like it’ll take something out of the romantic atmosphere without the soft-porn noises of the sex goose.

Or maybe I’m just sad because I’ll have one less thing to blog about that will make you want to stick a fork in your ear and jiggle your brains, just to get out the mental image of how our bed came to have a sex goose in it in the first place.

Tough to say.

You may or may not have noticed that I haven’t written virtually anything of substance in the past week or so. On the one hand, I was having a great time at Mardi Gras. On the other, I’m finding myself at a crossroads in life and I’m struggling to keep my head above water.

Yes, we’ve reached that point in the semester. The point where I fall apart and don’t think I can handle it. But in all fairness, this is the toughest school semester to date and the toughest teaching year as well. It’s like a perfect storm of chaos and my mind is not doing such a great job of processing it.

It’s, of course, exacerbated by a lack of sleep and time. I have an exam on Monday, a quiz on Tuesday and oh yes, work everyday. I have virtually zero lesson planning completed, which is wonderful. I have gotten 6 hours of sleep for the past two nights and the increased dose of Neurontin is also not helping with the zombie-tired feeling. I’m tired, crabby and just in a constant state of panic.

I’m also on day 3 of a diet, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, is also really helping. I know you’re tired of hearing about my weight and body issues, but I managed to gain another 2 pounds over Mardi Gras and I just want to shed it all this very instant. I am doing well at not starving myself, but boy is the urge ever there. I want results now. I want to fit into my pants now. I want to not notice all the extra curves I have now. And yet, I’m can’t. The control freak portion of my mind (read: virtually all of my mind) is really unhappy about that.

I also have an odd nagging guilt about the blog. I noticed I was de-blogrolled from a blog of someone I considered a “friend” and I was surprised at how much it hurt. I also have this “follower” thing bugging me because, yes, I do want to follow you, but I can’t follow some people and not others. I’m not good at choosing or at leaving people out. I’d either have to follow greater than about 50 blogs, or none, which is my current position. If that means you want to unfollow me, I understand, I might want to also.

I think that sometimes I forget that putting myself out here in the blog world can be just as emotionally draining as putting myself out into the real world. I get the highs of praise and I get the lows of criticism. I get people wanting to be my friend, I get people telling me that I’m crazy. Sometimes it’s a lot to deal with.

I don’t know.

It seems like nothing in my life can go the smoothest or most reasonable way right now, everything has to be tough and convoluted. I desperately want to get past this period of turmoil because this isn’t me and it’s draining, emotionally and physically.

I just want to have a few minutes of free time where I’m not bickering with my husband (note to the unmarried: the first year of marriage is very difficult. Worth it, but very difficult) or trying to be prepared for what’s class or teaching lesson is right around the corner. I need a break from a lot of things, I just don’t know how to get one.

I think a lot of it is just life. It’s growing up. It’s putting on my big girl underwear and dealing with my emotions instead of wallowing in self-pity and writing epically long blog posts about absolutely nothing. It’s moving forward, even when you really really just want to sit still, cover your ears and block out the world.

Growing up kind of sucks.

So, yes, it is Mardi Gras and believe me, we are living up to the fatness of Fat Tuesday today (that’s a rant for another day). But I got some news yesterday that I thought you might be interested in.

My neurologist met with a neuro-radiologist to look at my CT scan. They’ve determined that the brain nugget (which I will show you a picture of some day) is most likely just a calcification and should not be a problem. They cannot be completely sure, but time will be our true test…gulp.

I also spoke with the doctor to explain that despite being on a massive dose of the Neurontin, I was still having fairly constant headaches. He bumped me up to the highest dose (600mg 3 times a day) and said that I should come in and see him.

As usual, the news is a bit of a double edged sword. It is fan-freaking-wonderfully-tastic that it is not the cyst we thought it was. In fact, that’s like the best news we could have gotten. And I am not in any way trying to undermine that fact. Holy crap what a relief.

But, we are back to the drawing board on why my head hurts all the time. And why the Neurontin isn’t doing what it once (briefly) did. Which is kind of sucky. But still better than a brain tumor.

Hopefully the drawing board will be more productive. But still benignly so.

p.s. Daisy, whom I just sheltered and fed alcohol to for SIX DAYS, is now trying to encourage people to “follow” her so that her followers will exceed mine. I’m not necessarily whining for you to follow me as much as whining for you to not follow her. Because dude, that’s not classy. That said, following me would not be the worst thing ever either (it’s to your left if you’re looking…). You know, but purely in the interest of winning proving her to be an asshole wrong.

So, in light of the past few days, I’m going to have to revise some of my previous statements about Mardi Gras.

Last year, Mardi Gras sucked. I’m not going to sugar coat it. It sucked.

It was sort of a perfect storm of Slappy’s bat-shit-crazy mother being here and me being rather very ill. And when you’re with Lucifer his mom, in the french quarter for 14 hours with a 102 degree fever, you just might not enjoy it. I know, it’s hard to imagine.

It could’ve been when Satan my MIL begged me for all the cool beads I caught. It could’ve been when she insisted that one chair would be fine for all of us and then sat in it all day, despite my being sick. It could’ve been that she made us stake out a spot for Endymion in the French Quarter, sit for several hours amidst total drunken chaos, some of it involving guns, and then called to say she was sitting in a hotel bar (note: not the hotel she was staying in because she was staying IN OUR HOUSE) and didn’t want to see Endymion after all.

Could’ve been.

This year, however, things have been different. I will admit to leaving 2 parades early: one because it was really cold and one because I hurt all over. But the ratio of kind people to drunken obnoxious people has been totally reasonable. Our alcohol has been plentiful but not excessively so and the catches have been good. We went to Endymion, got totally hit on by an old man (more on that another time) and then last night Slappy, Daisy and I met up with NOLA Notes and Pontchartrain Pete for Bacchus, and guys? It. was. great.

Loved it.

Loved it so much, we’re doing it again tonight. This time we’re bringing the food (McDonald’s, because while the fried chicken kicked ass last night, I have now eaten Popeye’s 3 times in the 3 days. And I’m fairly sure my entire body is going to go on strike if I so much as consider ever eating fried chicken again), the bead catching box (also known as the box that has caused many people to get hit in the face with beads) and hope to get some good stuff.

Apparently the recipe for a good Mardi Gras? Good company, good food, and Slappy’s mother being 2000 miles away. Who knew?

So I have an issue (shut up, so I have several. This is a different kind). An issue that several might take offense to, but I’m going to say it anyways.

I cannot STAND smoking.

I find it vile and disgusting. To an extent, I understand older generations than mine who smoke because it is addictive and because the danger was not present (most likely) when said people began smoking. It’s sad and I wish we could encourage and help them all stop, but my grandmother smoked from age 20 to about 6 months before her death. And she was a nurse. I do empathize with the fact that smoking is very very difficult to give up.

That said, smokers my age and younger? You’re just idiots. You are. You’re ruining your health for a cigarette. It doesn’t look cool. It doesn’t make you cool. In fact, it makes you look stupid. STUPID.

Last night at the later parades a group of high school students (hey moron, if you don’t want us to know you’re in high school, perhaps don’t wear your school’s hat to Mardi Gras?) decided to weasel their way in front of us at the spot that Daisy and her friend had staked out hours before. And then they started smoking.

And perhaps this makes me an unkind person, but I cannot help myself. First I did the “polite” cough when they smoked in my direction. Then I got Slappy’s attention about the smoking and he started blowing the smoke back in their face (which, while not wildly effective in terms of actual air quality, was both hilarious to watch and almost passive aggressive enough to get them to move). And finally I called to him and I said (and I quote) “Honey, it’s almost like if I wanted to smoke, I’d go buy my own pack of cigarettes to destroy my lungs.”

And low and behold, they moved.

For like 10 minutes.

I think we’ll chalk that up to a moral victory nonetheless.