I know I skipped last week, but the random thoughts have been building for a while now and I need a bit of streaming my consciousness.

Sometimes when I am looking at tweets on my iPhone I’ll try to make it so that I can fit only like 4 full tweets in the screen. Like I’ll scroll until there are no partial tweets on the top or bottom. This can take me up to a few minutes. As to why I do it, I have no idea. Obsessive compulsive behaviors are for winners.

I’ve decided that flying on the 4th of July is either amazing, or terrifying. Considering tonight’s revelations that a) Fireworks scare the bejeesus out of me and b) that fireworks shows are no place to discuss immigration reform with random people around you (I did not partake), I think terrifying seems more likely. And technically the immigration thing doesn’t have anything to do with flying over fireworks.

Related: I blink every time the big firework boom happens. I blinked A LOT tonight.

Every time someone talks about vuvzelas I think about female genitalia. I know that’s wrong, but that word looks a lot like something that is a lot less appropriate to discuss in public.

A couple of weeks ago I saw Marlee Matlin at a frozen yogurt shop in Pasadena. Sometimes living in LA is awesome.

I’m in the process of trying to book fights for BlogHer and for a potential vacation in Hawaii. And suddenly I feel like the oldest most crotchety person ever because, dude, when did flights get so freaking expensive? Shouldn’t there be a carrier that offers cheap flights from LA to New York? Because there isn’t.

And the whole spending craploads of money on flights wouldn’t bother me as much if we weren’t paying the state of California buckets of money for tickets. To be fair I just paid off a parking ticket, but this week also awakened us to the world of red light cameras and their evil ways.

How much do you think a ticket for rolling through a red to make a right turn should cost? Because here’s the thing, it’s totally illegal and my husband deserved the ticket, but $467? FOUR HUNDRED AND SIXTY SEVEN DOLLARS? That is outrageous. The punishment doesn’t even come close to fitting the crime. But there’s no way to fight it because not only do they have pictures, they have video too and boy howdy did he ever break the law.

An internet friend is in the process of redesigning my blog for me, which is a fancy way of saying, she’s doing a ton of work and I’m being nitpicky and apologetic for it. It’s going to keep the same color scheme, but hopefully it’ll be a little easier to read and load and maybe a little more grown up looking. It’s totally testing my indecisive nature.

I have tomorrow off and half of Tuesday and then it’s back to work, which is to say, back to an internship that I’m not only not being paid for, but am actually paying to participate in. I’m enjoying it, I’m learning more than I can even pretend to absorb right now, but it is a lot of hard work. And I’m not going to lie, I’m really thankful for an extra long weekend. I’m not sure how I’ll manage to recover from the week with only two days.

I made a 4 layer red velvet cake today and then I ate a huge slice. And now I’m going to go lay on the couch and wallow in misery from eating SO much wonderful food (which I just typed as foot). It was a great night with good friends and family.

Happy Independence Day. And Happy Belated Canada Day, for those of you who say “eh” a lot.

Tomorrow is Independence Day. It’s a time for us to celebrate our country’s freedom from all other countries, from all other nations that once held us captive.

Independence is something that we fight for throughout our lives. As children, we throw fits because we just want to learn to do things ourselves. As teenagers, we get angry because we want our parents to give us more room to try things, to grow, to change. As adults, we strike a delicate balance between being a part of a family and being ourselves. And as we age, we start to see our independence slip, and our lives return to a state of dependence we haven’t dealt with in decades.

The fight for independence, the fight against dependence, is one that comes full circle. No matter what we do or how hard we fight, at some point, like when we were children, we will need the help of others. We can’t always do it all ourselves.

In the last 11 months, independence is something I’ve fought for more than anything else. There were times in those months where I needed my husband, where I relied on my mom in a way that felt so much like my childhood. There were times when I absolutely required the assistance of friends, when I could not succeed without my classmates. There were times when I needed help, help that I didn’t want, help that directly challenged the independence I was fighting for.

I want to say that I’m going to stop fighting it, that I’m going to accept that I need help and suddenly not hate asking for it, but that’s not me. That’s not my style.

Getting help isn’t a bad thing. Knowing you need it is probably a sign that you’re a hell of a lot more self-aware than I am. But I think that when you give up on having independence, just like when you give up on anything you’ve passionately fought for, you lose more than just that thing. You lose hope, you lose your fight and your fervor, you lose your reason to push on, at least in some ways.

For me, that thing is independence, it always will be. I know I can’t fight pain, it’s completely outside my area of control. I know I can’t fight school, I can’t fight things that I’m not in charge of. But I’ll fight to my final breath to stay in charge of my body, of my decisions, of my life. I’ll fight as long as I can to do things on my own, to succeed of my own volition.

Tomorrow is Independence Day, but if we’re being honest, every day of my life right now is really an independence day. It’s a day where I can celebrate that I haven’t given up this fight, that I haven’t lost yet. Because other people have lost this fight, other people I know aren’t able to live a life I am blessed to have.

I know that there will come a time again, maybe just for a while, maybe forever, where I can’t do things my way. Where I can’t succeed without others. Where asking for help won’t be a rarity, but rather a routine.

But until then, I’ll fight. Because I have to.

These past few weeks have been a little different for me. I’ve been putting myself, intentionally but without great thought, in situations with people I don’t know well (or at all), or people I haven’t seen in a long time. I’ve put myself in places I’m unfamiliar with, doing things I’m not competent at.

For me this is usually a recipe for disaster. I don’t do strange situations and incompetence.

I went to Utah where I spent a lot of wonderful time with people I had met only once or twice before. With people I had never met. With people I secretly adored from afar. I spent a lot of time before I left Los Angeles worrying about what people would think about me. Would they hate my glasses? Would they think my haircut was all mom-ish (not that there’s anything wrong with that)? Would they notice that I’m not comfortable in my own skin?

I worried.

I had the same sensation with the clinical I started this week. I worried that my instructor would think I was an idiot (which, I still have plenty of time to prove). I worried that the patients would think that I was weird. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to do all the things I need to do, that my brain or my lousy hand would hold me back. I worried that I looked stupid or confused all the time.

Again, with the worry.

And both times something weird has happened. I just stopped. I stopped worrying.

In Utah, it just got so tiresome. I was exhausted from all the concern. I realized it was holding me back from fun. It was keeping me stuck in my own head instead of out enjoying the short time I had with those people, in that beautiful place. I didn’t want to waste that opportunity, I didn’t want to miss out on all that was available to me.

With this clinical, I realized and accepted, for perhaps the first time ever, that I am going to fail. I’m going to look like an idiot. I have to. The only way I’m going to learn is by making mistakes. It still pains me to do it, I still hate it with a deep burning passion. But I know that it’s necessary. If I spend the whole time worried that I’m going to do something wrong, I won’t ever try. I won’t figure out how to do it right, I’ll just make myself sick with worry.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel comfortable with me, with who I am, with what people see and know about me.

I am imperfect, in fact, I’m a hell of a lot closer to a total mess than I am to perfect. And that’s okay. I know that I have no attention span, that my left hand sucks, that my voice shakes when I’m nervous, that I wear glasses, that I fall down a lot. And that’s what makes me, me. If I try to hide all of that, pretend like it’s not real, then I’m not being true to myself, to anyone else.

I think what I’ve finally realized is that I’d rather be me, than pretend to be someone I’m not. And I’d rather have people like or dislike me for what’s really here, than for the facade I put up for them. I’d rather just live than worry about how I’m going to do that.

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say “I love you” right out loud,
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds,
I’ve looked at life that way.

But now old friends are acting strange,
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed.
Something’s lost but something’s gained
In living every day.

On my first day of my clinical rotation, I was speaking with a patient, an older man, who was just hilarious. I asked him a little about his family, he answered and then turned and asked the same question. I replied that I had no children, but had been married for two years.

He looked at me and said, “Two years and no kids? What are you doing? You’re just lazy.”

He was kidding, of course, and we had a good laugh. I wondered if he could hear my biological clock ticking the whole time. Because dude.

tick tock tick tock Tick Tock TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK FREAKING TOCK TICK ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME TOOOOOOCK

Or maybe I’m giving off baby wanting pheromones or something. I’m not sure.

This whole baby fever thing has been helped considerably by spending all weekend with three adorable babies.

I mean really, how can you resist these eyes? And attitude, I mean really.

And these CHEEKS!?

And well, I didn’t manage to get a single focused picture of Gigi this weekend, but rest assured, the kid is freaking adorable too. The first day we were there she toddled over to me and reached her arms up for me to pick her up. My heart just melted into a tiny puddle.

So it shouldn’t come as a great surprise to me that all I dreamed about last night was being pregnant (which I am tragically not). I dreamed I was, and then wasn’t, and then was again. In the end, just before I woke up, I was celebrating with my family and internets, I was THRILLED. So waking up was sort of a let down.

I know that now is not the time for me to have children. I know I am not in a position emotionally, physically or financially to care for another human being besides my husband. I know that I need to finish school because, fun fact: it’s not free.

But being (slightly) in touch with reality does not seem to do anything for the desire to have a baby right now right now rightnow.

I guess it’s just a good thing that my birth control is REALLY tough to sabotage.

I mean, not that I would do that but, well, I’d totally consider doing that.

I do have more to say about Utah, but I’m interrupting that to talk a little about what a big freaking day today was. Because it was.

Back in March, I wasn’t allowed to do a clinical rotation because of lifting restrictions from the blood patch nightmare in January. I had to watch as all my classmates went off and did hands on learning, while I was again, couch bound. I had to hear about the highs and lows of my classmate’s clinicals for weeks afterwards, and explain why I had no stories. I had to feel different, defective, again.

I tried to stay positive. I failed.

When you throw missing the first hands-on experience on top of a never-ending headache, missing a crapload of school and a ridiculous amount of stress, positive is not an state of mind that is easily found.

But this morning I got up, showered, did my hair, put on ironed clothes and went to my first day of a 7 week clinical. It wasn’t a perfect day, by any means. I didn’t know the answer to every question I was asked. I hurt over every inch of my body from standing up for 11 hours, my headache is massive. I am exhausted.

But

I didn’t have to quit.

I didn’t have to ask for a break.

I didn’t have to miss out, again.

I know that making it through one full day of work doesn’t seem important or significant. I know it’s probably silly to celebrate a feat that most of you accomplish every single day. I know that.

And yet I’m celebrating.

I’m still in significant pain, but I’m living with and in spite of it. I’m managing. I’m succeeding.

One day down, 33 to go.

Whenever I travel, I tend to spend the whole afternoon and evening before I leave coming up with all the ways the trip will be ruined. It’s a healthy behavior, I know. My most commonly considered fear is being that girl who pukes through an entire plane ride, because dude, no one wants to be that girl. I also carefully consider the ramifications of missing my flight, losing my luggage, or getting injured (um, hello, this is me we’re talking about, that’s a total possibility).

So naturally Wednesday night, I got no sleep because I was way too busy worrying and when I woke up at the crack of dawn on Thursday, I was exhausted. I put some clothes on, made sure I had the route to the airport mapped and walked out the door. I made great time to the airport, parked, grabbed my backpack and went to get my suitcase out.

And then I found a whole new traveling fear. Because, dude, I left my suitcase at home. I LEFT MY SUITCASE AT HOME. Who does that?

Oh right, ME.

So I drove home, drove back to the airport, ran to the terminal, which ended up being the wrong one, took a shuttle where a TSA agent LAUGHED at me, and made my flight with 10 minutes to spare. I may never sleep the night before traveling ever again.

Before I even had a ticket for the conference, Jen had told me over and over how much she wanted to go to the photography session on Friday and take a gondola ride, which, in my mind was a boat. Like Venice. Or Las Vegas. So the gondola that ended up being a huge enclosed ski lift of death that got us to the top of an enormous mountain? was sort of a surprise. Though to be fair, I think I handled it better than Brittany.

That night, after we somehow managed to get down the mountain, Brittany and I decided that we would buy liquor for a party we were having for Heather’s birthday in our amazing hotel suite. We had rented the largest SUV in the universe that morning (though ironically, it wasn’t quite large enough to fit all of us, plus the small children and their baby equipment) and we set out to find some booze.

First we tried 7-11. I found all kinds of drink mixes and mixers, but nothing alcoholic except beer. So I asked the checker, who, after looking at me like I was either a) a lush, b) a ho or c) a lush ho, informed me that, no, they do not sell liquor there. And moreover, he had no idea where I would find some, because he was not a lush and/or a ho.

Using the power of google, I found out that there were 4 liquor stores in Park City and got the address of the nearest one. After parking in a garage with a warning sign that basically said: THIS GARAGE IS SO LOW YOUR CAR WILL BURST A BUNCH OF PIPES AND THEN EVERYONE WILL KNOW YOU’RE HERE FOR LIIIIIQUOR, we started walking to the address, which was up a hill and also? Did not exist.

The address did. not. exist.

The more I think about it, the more I think this is an elaborate ruse to get all the heathens and ho lushes to look completely crazy in public. The website I used had an address, with a picture of the building that apparently did not exist.

Well played, Utah.

We got lost on the way home because, lighting street signs is overrated and also, because it was us and there was no way that futile mission would end easily or quickly.

And then I got a bloody nose. Well, like eleven of them.

And then I accidentally flew across the living room while opening up the sofa bed to prove that I didn’t need help. Which may have been more my fault than Utah’s, but whatever.

And then I almost ripped my pinky toe off on a chair.

Utah is hard, yo.

(It’s also really beautiful, by the way)

So, I’m leaving tomorrow morning to spend four days in Utah for a really cool blogging conference. And so I thought now was a good time to update a few new things about me, just to give you a glimpse as to why I act the way I do.

Or to explain what the hell is wrong with that weird girl who gave you the business card with the MRI and big black sharpie mark.

I live in Southern California, nearish to Los Angeles, but in a much less glamorous area. No one famous lives near me, unless you consider college students famous, in which case, you’re crazy.

I’m married to a doctor and am a full time graduate student in the health field. I can give you medical advice, but don’t expect it to be good and if you sue me, I’ll deny ever giving it to you in the first place. Oh, and spoiler alert? My advice is either to ice it or call your doctor. You’re welcome.

I’m staying in a hotel suite with 6 other women and 3 babies. That estrogen smell is me.

I have had a headache since last August. For whatever reason, this week has been an especially bad one. If I look like crap, you need not point it out. Trust me, I’m aware.

I only brought 3 pairs of shoes. I’d like a trophy for this. Even though none of them are more substantial than flip flops.

I brought pretzel and coconut m&ms. Be nice to me and you can have some.

If you see me taking a picture in your direction, don’t worry. Chances are I haven’t taken the lens cap off, or I focused on the bug in the middle of the sky instead of anything I might actually want to document. I’m an excellent photographer, clearly.

I tend to be pretty quiet when I don’t know anyone. I’m not standoff-ish, just super super awkward. You’ll see.

I know all the presidents in order. This has nothing to do with the conference, I just thought you should know.

I don’t really drink alcohol much. It’s really a combination of two things. First, I drank A LOT in college and it’s going to take more than 5 years to forget those hangovers. And second, it tends to make my already crazy screwed up brain, even more crazy screwed up. So if you see me with a drink, keep an eye on me. I’m likely to be entertaining. Or a disaster. Either way, totally fun to watch.

I don’t attach my last name, my husband’s name, or what I’m studying in school to my blog. If I disclose any of these to you (particularly while drunk), please don’t share them.

If I’m smiling a little bigger on Saturday, it may be because my mother in law is at my apartment. And I’m not.

A year ago last week, I finally wore my husband down and we went to a shelter to see about getting a second cat. Well, a kitten really, because there’s just nothing sweeter in the whole world than a fuzzy, purry, cat-nappy kitten. The kitten we picked at the shelter was calm and sleepy, he didn’t hiss at us when we picked up him and he groomed my hair a little (it probably needed it). We were sold on that tiny gray and white kitten.

When we finally brought him home, we were a bit surprised. Our tranquil kitten was, well, feisty as all hell. And our other, already slightly grumpy cat? Was the grumpiest creature on earth.

We finally gave him a name, Jacques-Imo, but the day we named him that may be the last time he was called that, aside from when he’s in trouble. He usually goes by Shmo, or Moses, or Shmo Bro, or Shmoses. Or Mos Def, naturally. To be honest, he probably gets called “little kitty” or “STOP THAT” more than anything else.

I know it’s hard to believe that this sweet face can cause trouble, but be ye not fooled. He is pure trouble. Adorable, adorable trouble.

With time, he and Karma made peace. Well, he still tries to mount her about thirty times a day. That’s normal, right?

His very favorite thing in the whole wide world is food. Any food, any time, any place. I’ve never been as excited about anything as my cat is about eating the exact same food, three times a day, every day. It would be cute if it didn’t involve so many early morning sleep disturbances. He also loves him some chips or crackers, which we never give him, but he hasn’t met a box or bag he can’t get into yet. And he has even been known, on occasion, to walk off with entire tacos while my husband isn’t paying attention.

He may be a year old, but he’s still a kitten at heart.

And also a ninja (that video is really a testament to my inability to be a normal person. I apologize for the crazy voice at the end. I have a problem).

But beyond being adorable, sweet, a little mean to Karma, and a ninja, he’s my cat. And I love him so much I sometimes worry about loving him more than my future kids.

Don’t judge me.

He’s my Shmo. You’d love him too, trust me.

A few weeks after we learned about my grandpa’s cancer, we also learned that they weren’t going to remove it. That conversation took place over the phone, so no one was really sure whether the doctor didn’t want to remove it, or if my grandpa had just decided against it.

Both sides made sense, frankly. My grandpa is 85 years old, he’s a diabetic, he’s got heart problems, it’s not especially safe to do unnecessary surgeries. And likely, something else will get him before the cancer does (sad, but true). And on the other hand, the surgery involves removing a chunk of my grandpa’s tongue, which I know he’s not interested in and I can see why he would say “no thanks” and wash his hands of it.

It made sense.

But it didn’t sit well with any of my family. The idea of cancer just…I don’t know, being allowed to grow, unchecked just seemed wrong. Eventually a few family members convinced him to talk to his doctor about having it removed. And so tomorrow, my grandpa is having surgery.

It’s outpatient surgery, and there’s not really any big cause for concern, but I’m scared. I think we all are.

I saw my grandpa this weekend for the first time in months. He isn’t able to take any anti-inflammatories in preparation of the surgery and you could tell how much his knees were hurting. He looked so tired, he looked like he was in tremendous amounts of pain.

And for the first time, he just seemed old. I know he’s 85 and that shouldn’t come as a surprise, but he’s not the same man I remember when I was 15, he’s hardly the same man I remember at 25. And that’s really tough to realize. He’s aging much faster than I’d like, than any of us would.

He’s taking things in stride as much as he can, in the ways he usually does. He survived colon cancer over 20 years ago and rebounded faster than any of us imagined. He told us on Saturday that they may have to do a skin graft from his hip to cover the wound on his tongue. And he said that it would be kind of cool because he’d officially be the only person in Bakersfield who could lick is own ass.

In case you wondered where I get my crassness from, it’s him.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this except to say that I’m scared for my grandpa. I’m scared for this surgery, for how fast he’s aging. And I’m sad, for him, for having to always put on a brave face and dealing with things that many of us wouldn’t be able to handle, things he shouldn’t have to handle.

I try not to ask for it too often, but if you have prayers to spare, (or good thoughts if that’s your persuasion), please send some for my grandpa tomorrow. He’s pretty important to a lot of us.

*UPDATE* He’s out of surgery, no skin graft (which is good, but definitely limits the jokes he was planning to tell), and everything went according to plan. Now we focus our hope on the recovery- that it goes as smoothly as the surgery and he heals quickly and without complications.

I’m exhausted, so this is going to be quick.

I spent the weekend in Bakersfield with family. It was truly lovely. Minus the part where my grandma took a Vicodin before dinner tonight and was then in rare form the rest of the evening. She snuck in comments about my older (perfect) sister’s shirt being a maternity shirt (she’s not pregnant), my younger (angstful teenage) sister’s hair color and told me that she wanted me, and especially me, to know she’d lost 17 pounds. It was bizarre. Also entertaining.

I have a week off. I’m so excited, I hardly know what to do with myself. The sad thing is, I’ll probably spend a chunk of it studying.

My cat is mad at me for spending the week at my sister’s house during exams. I suspect his anger will end at around 7 tomorrow morning when the hunger takes over all his brain functions.

I’m in desperate need of good moisturizers for my face and good lip balm for extremely chapped lips. In the year since I moved back to California my skin has been a wreck. It misses the moist New Orleans air like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve been using a neutrogena product (part of an acne prevention line) and when I ran out switched to clinique, but I’m not really happy with either. And my lips are so dry they’re cracked and bleeding. I could desperately use some suggestions here.

I made two cobblers (peach and blackberry) and cake balls this weekend. It’s ridiculous how much I still love baking. I’m making more cake balls for Slappy’s family later this week. I’m ready to up the ante and start really decorating them now, I think. We’ll see. It might be a total disaster.

I get to go to Utah on Thursday! My best friend from high school lives there, so I sent her an email and we’re going to have lunch. I haven’t seen her since my wedding, but she’s one of those people that you just want to spend every moment with. She’s genuine and loving and makes you feel like such a treasured friend. Not to mention her two adorable red headed kids. I really need her to live closer, but for now we’ll just enjoy this great opportunity. I’m equally excited about this conference, but the idea of just getting to sit and catch up with an old friend is delightful.

I had a massive headache all day. And about 5 minutes ago my face started tingling. I think that’s my body’s really subtle way of telling me that it’s way past time for me to go to sleep and end this day.

Happy Father’s Day and Happy Second Mother’s Day to all those moms who are both a mom and a dad for their kids. You’re so appreciated and so important.