During the last couple of months, I’ve constantly felt as if I could barely keep my head above the water. It wasn’t just school. It was also work, my health problems, my relationship with Mike, and a deep inner yearning to toss everything away and get back to writing. Every aspect of my life suffered, and I with it. I kept trying to ignore the problem, kept trying to look at the bright side. “I can do this,” I’d tell myself, and with renewed strength I’d plow on through. But several days later I would be back in the same position, tired from all of the swimming and barely avoiding the waves of my To Do list from pulling me completely under.

Tuesday night I did not sleep. My legs were wrecked with a pain so intense that I could not do anything other than toss and turn. I wanted to scream, but the people in my house slept soundly around me. I lay there for hours, trapped in a prison that is supposed to be my body, until I finally threw the covers back and got up. I did a lot of bitching on Facebook, which I sort of regret (but only because I don’t like showing any kind of weakness).

I popped in the last DVD of Dollhouse Season 1 and watched “Epitaph One” and the original unaired pilot. I watched a whole bunch of special features. And still the pain wore on. I could barely concentrate, and although I felt so tired, I could not fall asleep. Pain like that is maddening, and I didn’t think I could stand another minute of it.

I logged into Facebook again, wandering around aimlessly, when Mike messaged me. He couldn’t sleep either. We had each been awake for hours, fighting our demons alone, but a simple website had allowed us to come together. We talked on the phone for a long time, sharing our thoughts and soothing each other. I asked him the question that I have been longing to ask but too proud to put into words: “Why is this happening to me?”

“I don’t know. I wish I had an answer,” he said, and I could hear in his voice the frustration and pain he felt for me.

We talked some more, and suddenly the conversation turned to school. Suddenly, I could no longer hide the sensation of drowning that I had been feeling for the last couple of months. “I don’t even know where I’m going to be in five years,” I said, possibly unnecessarily morbidly. I confessed how stressed out I’m feeling, and how I just can’t seem to stay ahead or even on track of everything.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not saying this is what you should do, but maybe you should think about dropping out. Take the time to concentrate on finding out what’s wrong. You can always go back.”

There. He’d said the words that I’d been too stubborn to even think about, but had known deep in my heart for several weeks.

“But, I don’t know if it will affect my GPA,” I said, still stubbornly clinging.

“Screw the GPA,” he said. “It’s just a GPA.”

(Twenty-four hours later, my mom and I would have the same conversation, and she would say the exact thing he had: “It’s just a GPA.”)

“Just think about it,” he said. “School will always be there.”

For the next several hours, while I lay in bed not sleeping, and then when I barely slept tossing and turning, I thought about it. I admitted to myself that the stress of all the things I had stubbornly taken on might be making things worse. I admitted that I’m doing horribly in school and that at this point it is probably too late. I admitted that I needed to really concentrate on me, and that only then would I be able to do well in school.

After talking to my mom and then thinking about it a little more, I decided to do what my heart has wanted to do for several weeks now. I began the withdrawal process yesterday, and already I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted from me.

I have promised myself that I am not going to do this to myself again. I’m not going to jump into an idea that sounds awesome without thinking it through first. I’m going to learn to concentrate on one or two things at a time, without overloading myself. I’m going to take care of myself and find a way to find out what it wrong with me. I’m going to stop taking on so much that I end up burning myself out.

And, more importantly, I’m going to do what I love: I’m going to spend the entire month of November writing a novel without worrying about exams and portfolios and lesson plans and math.

I have taken the first step: I’ve admitted that, while I do really love kids, I’ve had doubts about becoming a teacher and going through this program. While I like school, it’s been incredibly stressful for me and I just honestly can’t handle it right now.

And that is okay. Just hearing it from Mike and Mom, that it’s okay, makes it easier for me to believe.

It’s okay, and I’m going to be okay.

Mom came with me this time, and all of my blood work came back negative. Dr. Greco ran through the most recent and the last few tests to kind of bring Mom up to date. We discussed how I’d had mono and how certain diseases can contribute to later autoimmune diseases. We discussed birth control again and how the hormones in birth control can do all kinds of crazy things, like kill you or give you lupus. Dr. G admitted that he really is at a loss, but he really wants to help me.

“I can’t give you any answers right now, but I still want to make you feel better.” He asked whether I’m taking Tramadol still, and I told him that I haven’t been taking it recently because it literally fucks me up so bad that I can’t function; if I take it, I get stoned out of my mind. So he suggested Lyrica, which is just like neurontin (which makes me crazy and I refused to even try Lyrica). He asked if I am depressed. I almost didn’t tell him (because we all know what happens when you tell a doctor you’re depressed), but decided to be honest and told him yes, I am.

He said that some antidepressants can relieve pain, and gave me a free trial of Cymbalta. “You should not take this with Tramadol,” he warned as he slipped out of the room to go get the sample.

“I wonder if I should stop taking my birth control,” I said to Mom. “I’m going to ask him.”

“I would like to see you stop taking it,” he said, popping back in. He told us that he wrote a huge report on the effects that hormonal birth control can have on women, and told us that it can cause pain.

We scheduled a follow-up for four weeks from now, and I left with yet another batch of drugs (I should start selling my leftovers). So tomorrow morning, I’m not taking my Ovcon. (Somehow, not spending $40 a month on birth control anymore makes me feel a lot better.) I’m not entirely sure I buy the whole birth control thing, but it’s worth a try. I mean, at least I can say, “Okay, I stopped taking my birth control for a month or two and I’m still having symptoms.” I can’t knock it until I try it. And at this point, I’ll try anything, which is why I’m taking the Cymbalta without griping about how much I hate antidepressants and how Zoloft ruined my life, blahblahblah.

To be honest, medication scares the hell out of me. I’ve learned the hard way over and over that it affects me in really weird ways and, honestly, I have no idea what is in any of the shit that doctors tell us to take. If indeed my problem really lies with hormones in my birth control, I’m going to flip shit; no one ever talks about those kinds of side effects. (Note to self: Google that report.)

So I guess we’ll see. I’m honestly getting really freaking tired of this cycle, but I’ll give the no-Ovcon, yes-Cymbalta a shot. (Part of me wonders if he really does just think I’m crazy and pulled one over me by suggesting I take the antidepressant. But that’s the paranoid part of me.)

Lauren and I were probably playing Barbies or with our gigantic town of various action figures when we noticed a teensy black bug crawling around in our hideaway book. (You know, one of those hollow books you can hide things in?) We bounced down the stairs to wherever Mom was at the moment (probably in the living room watching General Hospital).

“Look Mommy,” we said, holding out the book to her. “What is it?”

I think my mother had a heart attack.

Luckily, my mom has always been calm and composed, and she recovered pretty quickly. She checked our heads and, sure enough, it was lice.

My sister and I were very close as little kids (and still are). At the time, we didn’t hang out with other kids outside of school. Since it was the middle of summer, we hadn’t come into contact with other kids aside from our cousins (who were lice-free). Yet somehow we had managed to both come down with the little buggers.

Mom immediately went out and bought the lice rinses, shampooing and combing the stuff through our long, shiny hair. I hated the scent of it, and I hated stooping over the sink as she rinsed it out. When we were both done, however, we seemed to be cured.

Of course, we weren’t. We did the treatment several more times over the next couple of weeks. Mom and Dad bombed the whole house, and soaked our stuffed animals in the tub with some stuff that was supposed to kill any eggs nested in our stuffed friends. All of our clothing and sheets were washed with scalding hot water, yet we still couldn’t get rid of the lice.

Finally, some well-meaning person told my mom to soak our heads with Vaseline. I can still remember Mom and Dad getting ready for the project. Dad bought some Ajax, which was the only thing that would cut through to wash the Vaseline out once we were coated. Lauren and I sat in chairs as Mom and Dad worked Vaseline into our hair and put plastic shower caps and plastic bags over our heads to keep it from dripping onto anything. I’m not sure how long we had to let it set in, but eventually it was time to wash it out. To this day, I can’t look at a bottle of Ajax and not remember my parents soaping up my hair over and over again, trying to get all of the Vaseline out. Unfortunately, my and Lauren’s hair was so long that it just wasn’t happening.

“We’re going to have to cut it,” said one of my parents. (I’ve honestly blocked out who.)

“NO!” Lauren and I screamed.

“We don’t have a choice,” Mom said. And then she took out the scissors from the drawer — the same scissors Lauren had once used to give her Barbie a lopsided haircut — and cut our hair as we cried and begged her not to.

Once our hair was shorter (and by shorter I mean boy short), the Vaseline washed out without a problem. And the lice? Were gone, never to come back. But I had one hell of a horrible haircut, worse than the haircut Britt recently gave her daughter Emma — I promise!! (I refuse to post pictures, because it truly was that bad.)

For the longest time after that, I refused to cut my hair. It grew all the way down to my hips before, at thirteen, I decided to cut it. Now I could care less; I cut it all the time! But for some reason, when I was a kid, my hair seemed to be my sole identity.

Do you have a bad or funny haircut story? Comment here with your best (or worst), and let’s show Britt that she hasn’t totally traumatized her kid!

I went and got that blood work done earlier this morning. It should be illegal to get up before eleven on the weekend. Seriously. I am so sleep deprived and it isn’t even the work week!

Anyway, while the nice lady took big vials of blood from me, I considered asking her to rig the results so I could have a diagnosis. Seriously. I thought about it. She seemed sympathetic, so she might have done it.

She told me to drink some orange juice since I had so much blood taken. None of the phlebotomists I’ve had draw my blood ever mentioned that before. She said any time you have large quantities or large vials taken, you should drink O.J. Maybe this is a sign that my luck is turning around; between the super awesome PA I’ve been seeing and now this really helpful phlebotomist, I’ve been given reason to believe that now I’ll get some answers. Maybe.

Last night I went with my sister Lauren to Nikki‘s to watch the Degrassi Goes Hollywood movie. It was pretty good, even though there were some things I didn’t like. I’ll have to post a full review later, after I watch it again. (Yes, I have no life. Thanks for reminding me.)

Now I’m headed out to have lunch with my great-great-aunt Betty with Mom and Lauren. After that, as long as I’m feeling up to it, Lauren and I are going to Lake Compounce for the day. It’s supposed to be really hot today, so I have a feeling we’ll spend most of the day in the water park. And of course I’ll have to ride the Boulder Dash.

What are you doing this weekend to stay cool? Leave a comment and tell me.

But I thought I might die if I didn’t eat anything soon, so I broke my no-neighborhood-pizza vow and went to buy a couple of slices.

I should have known better.

Carrying my little pizza box in one hand and balancing my wallet on top of it, I climbed the three steps to my house and opened the door. I started to move toward the first floor door — but my left hand didn’t come with me. I turned and saw my left thumb closed in the door, and screamed (because it only hurts when you see it). There may have been a sailor word or two. I put the pizza box down on the stairs (that lead up to the second and third floors), opened the door, and held my hand up for inspection.

The thumb could bend, but it hurt like fucking hell. A little crescent that looked well on its way to black was forming under my nail, but everything still seemed to work okay. So I grabbed my pizza box and went inside.

“Hello,” my mom called from the dining room.

“Hi,” I said. “I closed my thumb in the door.” I put the pizza box down and went to the kitchen sink.

“Ooh,” my mom said.

And then, my spiteful little thumb decided to kick it up a notch. Or I came out of shock. Something like that.

“OW! MOMMY!”

My mom came running into the kitchen. “Cold water,” she said, always the voice of calm.

“OWOWOWOW!” The cold water running over my thumb soothed the pain a little, but every few seconds or so I’d get a huge jolt of OW. After a few minutes of water and then an ice pack, I ate my pizza and then went back upstairs wishing I could take my thumb off for the time being and put it in the freezer with the ice pack.

I decided to suck it up and do some laundry. I’d just bought a new bra and some panties — yay! — at Target, along with a pair of capri sweats. I’d also bought a hoodie at Southern, so I wanted to get everything all washed. As I loaded everything into the washer, my big right toe met the bottom corner of the washer and I saw stars again.

“AGH! Why am I such a klutz?” I howled as I hopped into the kitchen. Because running away from the inanimate object that beats you up always helps, right?

Once the laundry was tumbling, I put on Incubus’s new greatest hits collection and started to work through the piles of sticky notes, documents, folders, and some new office supplies that I’d been neglecting for the last week. I sat on the couch putting things into folders and using my (swoon) new Sharpie pen to label things. I reached for the little wastebasket to my left — and fell off the couch.

As I lay crumpled on the floor, I started to fear for my life. What if my body was secretly possessed and wanted to kill me?

Later on as I watched Rachel Getting Married and then Blackout with my mom and Lauren, I noticed that (of course) my neck, arm, and leg muscles hurt.

“I don’t know what the hell I did to myself,” I told mom and Lauren.

An hour later: “Oh yeah. I fell off the couch.”

Are you a hazard to yourself? Share some of your finer moments in the comments. Clumsy people unite!

“I’m coming over,” this kid, we’ll call him Steven, said. Steven was a shrimpy kid, with a year round farmer’s tan and dirty blond hair. Steven annoyed the crap out of me.

“Um, no, you’re not,” I said, and continued my trek off the bus. I hopped down the steps and started walking to my house, relieved to be done with another stupid school day.

Steven appeared beside me. “We can play Final Fantasy IX and — ”

“You’re not coming over. Get back on the bus,” I said, as the bus drove away.

“I don’t have a ride home.”

I sighed. “Fine, but only for a little while. And then you are leaving.”

“Awesome! I can beat Final Fantasy IX in like, half an hour,” Steven said as we came to my screen door.

“Yeah right,” I said, tossing my backpack down and setting up the PlayStation. I had to see this smack talk get trashed. Vaguely I wondered what my mom would say when she came home and saw that I had a boy over — without her permission and everything. I hoped that she would tell him he had to leave.

The game started, and half an hour later Steven was nowhere near beating it. I rolled my eyes, glancing at the digital clock on the stereo every three seconds. Finally my mom came home. All she said was, “Hi Steven.”

Steven even invited himself to dinner. I offered to set the table so I could tell my mom I had no idea why Steven was ruining my life. “He just invited himself over!” Mom just giggled and shrugged.

Throughout dinner I wanted to stab the kid. He was eating my spaghetti, in my kitchen, and I didn’t even like him! Even better, he had only got about forty-five minutes into the game before calling it quits.

It started to get late.

“Steven, it’s a school night, so you’re going to have to go home now,” my mom told him. (I should remember this every time she gets on my nerves, because she was the hero of this story.)

An hour or so earlier Steven had told me he would walk home, but suddenly he needed a ride. My poor mom had to drive him home, with me in the front seat wishing I could turn around and stab the kid.

I don’t know what ever became of dear old Steven. Last I knew, he was dating this girl I’d been friendly with in high school. I’ll always know him as “that annoying kid who invited himself over to my house.” I think he would have been an all right kid, had he not been so rude and even invited himself to dinner.

Did anything like this ever happen to you? I want to hear your wannabe stalker stories!

The thoughts in my mind are too loose, and trying to get it all down on paper is like herding kittens. I can’t think straight. All I want to do is cry, but I know that if I start I’ll never be able to stop.

A few months ago I would half-jokingly say, “what’s next, I won’t be able to walk?” I tried to picture the day that might happen. I couldn’t. I refused to. I was convinced that whatever this was, I’d have it all figured out and better before it got to that point. Now? Not so much.

Over the last couple of weeks — and more so the last couple of days — I’ve had a really rude awakening. The person I once was is gone. She’s dead and buried. As much as I’ve tried to come to terms with that, I couldn’t. Now it looks like I’m going to have to.

It started a couple of weeks ago, when I was house sitting. Actually it was the night after the Fourth of July, the night after the party Mike and I went to. (The one I went to wearing wedges, walking gracefully for the first time in my life. See what alcohol does?) That Sunday my right ankle ached a little. I wrote it off as a twisted ankle, considering the previous night’s shoes. I perhaps stupidly ignored the fact that the pain was awfully similar to the pain I get in my arms and sometimes my thighs and toes.

It went away — for a couple of days. Then it came back, and sometimes occurred in my left ankle, too. It came and went, and after a couple days I had to admit to myself that whatever was wrong with me was also now wrong with my ankles. I saw my PA on Friday and told her about it. She checked for pain and swelling, to make sure I really hadn’t twisted it. Nothing hurt when she poked at it or bent it, but she did notice a slight swelling in the tendon next to my ankle — which she said could occur with Lyme Disease.

I’ve been tested for Lyme Disease before, and the blood test results came back negative each time. Pam said that Lyme isn’t always detected in blood tests, and that it’s a great imitator of other autoimmune diseases — which would explain my crazy grocery list of symptoms. She said she might just put me on the treatment anyway, but that she had to check with Dr. Mongelluzzo (the practice’s head doctor) first. I also got my second B12 injection, and we also discussed the possibility of sero-negative arthritis.

At home, I did some research. No other doctor had ever told me that Lyme doesn’t necessarily show up in tests. They had all just written it off and gone on to the next thing. I was pissed. “If it’s been Lyme Disease the whole goddamn time, and I could have had treatment and relief two fucking years ago,” I said to Mike, “I’m going to flip shit.”

Saturday I was supposed to go play miniature golf with Mike, Robbie, and Jaysa. I was excited, but by the time it was time to go my right ankle hurt so bad that I couldn’t walk on it much. I canceled at the last minute, and convinced Mike to go without me. Granted, I got to go see Harry Potter instead, but I still felt bad. Here I was, giving up more because of the Disease With No Name.

Sunday it was a lot better. I felt a little twinge now and then, but in comparison to the day before I felt okay. I spent the afternoon at the beach with my mom and sister and made plans to go to Lake Compounce on Monday with Lauren and Mike.

By the time we got to Lake Compounce, my ankles ached a little but not enough to stop me. We went on a couple water rides and I let them talk me into riding Thunder and Lightening (which was actually cool, even though looking straight down at the ground the first couple of times was a little scary). But by about 8:00, both of my legs were aching, sometimes sharply, with the pain radiating up and down and all over. I could barely walk. In line for rides, I leaned on fences. While walking, I leaned on Mike. I went from amusement park Indiana Jones to feeble old man in less than a couple of hours. As much as I wanted to ride my favorite, Boulder Dash, I could barely stand the thought of standing in line for twenty minutes for it.

So I made us leave. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

The walk from the park exit to my car was beyond excruciating. I’ve always been good with words but the closest I can come to describing it is saying that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I literally look teeny, tiny baby steps, shuffling at Mike’s side while Lauren tried to slow down and stay with us. People kept going around me. I think the old people were even moving faster than me. I kept joking about maybe stealing someone’s stroller, or where was that security van when we needed it, but I honestly don’t know how I did it. I remember thinking at one point, “wow, this really fucking hurts.”

My only consolation was that it’s probably going to get a lot worse.

Meanwhile, I’m not noticing any difference from the B12 shots. Pam says if it’s going to work, I’ll feel a difference by the third shot. If anything, she said it would make me feel less lethargic. I think, if anything, I’m feeling more fatigued — even on the days when I get a lot of sleep.

Today I’m having a hard time smiling. Because now, to me, “what’s next” is not a joke. It’s a nightmare and my reality. Am I going to be in a wheelchair? Will I lose yet more of my independence — my self? I used to be able to carry things, play with my friends’ kids and little cousins, go hiking. I’m losing more and more of who I used to be.

On a totally different note, I will be blogging during Blogathon 2009 (July 25th) with Donnie of Voice the Silence to raise money for RAINN. Please read my blog post about this over at Scars Can Speak, and thank you for your support.

I made it almost twenty-one years without ever going to the emergency room. Well, wait. I went once when I was fifteen, when I was more depressed than I’ve ever been in my life and didn’t want to be in my head anymore. But I went to the Behavioral Health section and spent the night locked in a narrow room, lying on a narrow bed. I didn’t get any IVs, though I did get to wear a gown (never understood why hospital gowns have open backs; they’re so freaking cold!), and little booties. The only other times I’d been to the ER were to bring someone else, and I almost went in that time I got stung by a wasp and my hand went numb but decided not to sign in and went home instead. (I like to push my luck, what can I say?)

So I pretty much made it twenty-one years without anything really major happening to me, until Tuesday.

I held my face over the plastic bowl we normally use for baking, balancing on my hands and knees. My entire body kept shaking, but not from being cold. I’d been randomly twitching and shaking for the last couple of hours, but hadn’t said anything because I’d felt so out of it. Spots danced in front of my eyes and my vision kept flickering, like strobe lights. I had no idea how many times I’d thrown up in the last five or so hours.

“Mom,” I said. I couldn’t breathe through my nose, so my voice sounded strange. “I wanna go to the hospital.”

She didn’t hear me in the other room. She came rushing in with two cold cloths — one to clean my face and one to cool me off. I felt like a prisoner inside of my own head. I couldn’t calm down, but I knew that I had to stay calm or things would only get worse. I felt dizzy and nauseous, and the fact that I was still shaking and my vision was still off scared me more than anything.

“I want to go to the hospital,” I said again.

“Okay,” she said. I stayed on the floor while she called my dad and told him she wanted to take me. I couldn’t keep anything down; not ginger ale, not chamomile tea — nothing. I hadn’t taken any of the pain medication my oral surgeon had prescribed me in about ten hours because I’d been so nauseous and sick, but the pain was besides the point. I didn’t have any strength left in me, and I was terrified.

We drove to the hospital at about eleven-thirty that night. I could barely remember the day or even the last couple of hours. I remember clinging to the door handle the entire ride there, my eyes closed. I remember it feeling like my mom was speeding, even though she normally drives the speed limit.

The emergency room was nearly empty by some stroke of luck. They took my vitals and information as soon as we walked in. I couldn’t stop apologizing, to myself or my parents. “I was doing so well. I was taking deep breaths and that was helping with the nausea. I was sipping the tea.” I think I was delirious.

In less than twenty minutes they had me in a gown lying on a really comfortable gurney. My nurse — Emily — popped an IV in me and gave me fluids and some anti-nausea medicine. Within ten minutes I began to feel a little better. I could stop fighting — almost.

The doctor who saw me — Dr. Sanders — said I was dehydrated. We’d been so worried about me getting dehydrated that none of us had realized it had already happened. Dr. Sanders was really nice. For some reason, I had expected her and all of the other staff to be rushed and stone cold. Maybe I watch too many movies. Maybe they all had an extra supply of TLC because the ER was so slow. Maybe I just looked pathetic.

Once the fluids and the Zofran kicked in, the pain volume went way up. Normally, I think I’m pretty good at dealing with pain. I mean, I deal with it every day so I think I’ve gotten pretty good at managingignoring it. But at that point, I was just too tired. I had used every ounce of energy in me fighting the nausea and the pain for the last two hours. I didn’t want any more Vicodin (what my surgeon had prescribed me initially), and I didn’t want any Percocet (what my surgeon prescribed me after the Vicodin stopped working).

“Can I have Tylenol?”

Emily went to go grab Dr. Sanders for orders for Tylenol. She came back with morphine.

My eyes widened. “It’s not gonna make me sick, is it?” The thought of throwing up one more time sent me into a frenzy; if given the choice, I’ll take pain over nausea any day.

“No, it won’t make you sick. I’ll give it to you real slow. And I have extra Zofran in my pocket, just in case.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding that maybe at that point I could throw up one more time, if it meant that the mindless throbbing in my mouth would stop.

There really are no words to describe the pain. Basically, it radiated from the four holes where my wisdom teeth had been into the top of my head, my jaw, and my ears. It was like a red pulse, except I could feel it and it did NOT feel good.

And suddenly, it was gone. My head felt light and airy. I felt like all of the pain had been soaked up into some invisible atom inside of my head.

“Mommy,” I said. “My head feels spongy!” Emily, Mom, and Dad all laughed, and I laughed with them. I felt like I was floating on clouds. I could feel my mouth, but there was no pain. At all. My teeth felt like they were sinking into my head. Like a sponge.

I stayed for another little while, long enough to finish up the fluids and for Dr. Sanders to write me a prescription for more Zofran and Tylenol with codeine (AKA Tylenol 3) in lieu of the Percocet. I was advised to drink tons of Gatorade and to start out eating soups, working my way up to solid foods. Then they discharged me. I went home, had some tomato soup and some Gatorade, and passed out.

I got the best sleep I’d gotten — and would get — in days. And my underwear? Were clean the entire time.

What was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to you? Tell me, I demand to know!

A little over four years ago I was living with my parents in a three bedroom apartment down the street from my grandparents’ house. To make a really, really long story short, we got evicted even though we had done nothing wrong. You can say we had bad luck with landlords for a while there. Anyway, we literally had no time to find a new place so we packed up our stuff, put most of it into storage, and moved in with my grandparents. My grandparents’ house is a three-family house, with my great-grandmother on the first floor, my great-aunt on the second floor, and my grandparents on the third floor. My parents moved their stuff into my great-grandmother’s living room, and my little sister and I moved our stuff into my grandparents’ dining and living rooms. We were only supposed to stay for a couple of weeks, but four years and some financial issues later, we’re still here. It’s crowded and not what the writers of Full House made it all out to be, but there’s a roof over our heads.

A few days ago my grandparents’ forty-something-year-old refrigerator burnt out — literally. If my grandfather hadn’t touched the electrical socket the fridge was plugged into and noticed it was burning hot (the plastic was melting!), I probably wouldn’t be blogging right now. My grandparents had just come home and my sister, Mom, and I were watching Wall-E, so we hadn’t noticed the burnt motor smell.

So last night we moved the old fridge out and brought the fridge Mike’s mom gave to us home and upstairs. While all that was going on, I decided it was probably a good time to do what I’d been wanting to do: organize all of my books into one storage bin and clean some of the dust off of everything in the dining and living rooms. I’d already hurt my neck carrying my laptop in a backpack on Sunday, so by the time I got finished last night my back and neck were in agony. I took the last 70mg of my amitriptyline to get some sleep and hopefully some pain relief, and passed out.

When I woke up this morning, I felt a little dizzy and groggy but I thought that was normal for amitriptyline. I felt better after getting moving and eating, but I still felt pretty out of it. I took some Zyrtec, since it’s the only thing that’s been helping with my allergies, and left for work. Not long after I got to work I started feeling really woozy, dizzy, and just completely out of this world. I’m super stubborn when it comes to work; if I don’t feel good, I usually try to stick it out as long as I can. I was also determined to finish the website I was working on before I left, so I tried to ignore the dizzy attacks.

It wasn’t working very well. I couldn’t stand, and no matter what I did it just didn’t get any better. I put everything into finishing the website, and then called it quits. I had Mike come get me and my Sunfire is still downtown in the parking lot. I hope she isn’t too mad at me.

I spent the early afternoon in the recliner, and the catnap I took helped a little. I’m still getting dizzy now and then but the worst of it has passed, I think.

I did learn an important lesson, though: Next time, ask Mom first.

It should be interesting, as I’ve never house sat before, and this particular house has its quirks. There are at least ninety-nine light switchesswitches pretending to be light switches scattered throughout the house, waiting for you to flick them accidentally. These little Easter eggs usually cause power to go out in certain parts of the house, ejection from the house into outer space and, in severe cases, swine flu. The people I’m sitting for also have Comcast, and I am apparently not capable of using the remote; the various buttons on that thing could wipe out our entire planet, if I hit the wrong one.

So it should be interesting. Naturally, I’ll be blogging about it, because I owe you guys and I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of me trying to explain to my aunt and uncle why their house is on the moon instead of at their previous address: “I thought I was turning the kitchen light on!”

Anywho.

My little world has been a little crazy lately. I recently partnered my freelance web design company with my aunt’s web design and print company, and we managed to acquire a pretty big client. I’m not going to go into details, but the move was anything but simple. Luckily our client has been really understanding, and all is well as of tonight. I’m actually really surprised at myself; I guess you really do never know what you can do until you’re facing a deadline that is less than a week away and you can’t find a PHP developer. Needless to say, my basic PHP skills need to be a little more. I’m hoping to finally sit down and read the PHP book I bought over a year ago while I’m trying not to destroy my aunt’s house.

I also recently went to a new dentist. The dental hygienist kicked ass. She took x-rays of my mouth and it turns out I’m going to have to get all four of my wisdom teeth removed. That is not kickass. I knew it was probably coming, but I’m still terrified. The x-rays showed that the incoming teeth are pushing over my other teeth. I have a really, really tiny mouth, and I figured that’s what was happening anyway, but it’s still totally different to see it and hear it from a professional.

I sucked it up though and made an appointment with an oral surgeon for next Monday. My business partner and aunt said that I’ll get lots of drugs and ice cream out of the deal. I’m not too excited about the drugs, but I can definitely dig the ice cream.

I’ve been trying to write more lately, ever since I attended the 2009 NVCC Writers’ Conference a couple of weeks ago. (It may have been more like three weeks ago, but I’m so fried and brainless at this point I’m not too sure. I’m also too lazy to go check.) I recently got back in touch with Mary, my old Astrid and Dante roleplaying partner. We used to write for these two all the time, but gradually fell out of touch. Anyway, we started writing again. You can read all of our archived logs, and we are also currently writing new stuff, over at our new-ish blog. (My friends from LiveJournal might remember me posting logs or writing about these two.) I’m also planning on getting back to my novel while I’m house sitting.

I’m also currently working on a project I’ve been sitting on for a while. If you’re being followed by a freakingbookwrm on Twitter, follow back because that’s me! Freaking Bookworm is my upcoming online book club. I read a lot, and I often mind myself wanting to rant or rave to someone about different parts throughout the book. I don’t have the time to meet up with a regular book club every week or every month, so I thought it would be neat to do an online book club that anyone can participate in at any time. As far as I know, there is nothing like it out there on the net. It’s going to be kickass, so follow freakingbookwrm on Twitter (I hate that I didn’t have enough characters to keep the “o” in “worm”), and take our poll to help choose our first read.

I actually meant to be in bed by now. I’d say there’s always coffee, but my body stopped responding to caffeine a month ago.

Update: I just posted the latest Astrid/Dante, Ouch! (Part II). Go check it out and let us know what you think. (: