Updates

We put Luke down.

He attacked Rocky again. The vet said it would be unsafe to give him to another family.

It sucks.

And 2 days later I had my surgery. That went fine. I find out the results in a week.

Finally...

Limbo over.

I got the call yesterday and now I know—severe cervical dysplasia.

Without getting terribly technical or scientific this means that I have the most advanced and developed stage of precancerous cells. Doc recommends LEEP—Loop Electrosurgical Excising Procedure—but I haven’t agreed to anything yet. I’ll definitely be having a chat (or 2) with Doc, and maybe getting a second opinion, before anything is scheduled.

But for the moment I’m just going to sit with it and let it all soak in. It’s a lot to take in.

Mother keeps saying that this shouldn’t be happening to someone so young, which isn’t comforting to me in the least. When I told Father (who had been completely kept in the closet up till this point) he took it surprisingly well. He said he would be doing some research. And speaking of research, Mother has a friend, ML, who has gone through similar procedures so I’ll be relying on her for advice and support.

I’m going to get through this.

Uh Oh

I realize it’s been quite a while since I’ve updated you on my summer shenanigans. That’s not for lack of excitement, though. Believe me, there has been plenty going on.

Papa and co came for a birthday/Father’s day visit.

We laughed. We cried. We went out to dinner and Papa didn’t trust that where I told him to park the car was safe so he moved it half way through the meal.

Only a few short days after Papa flew back up to VAB Brother, his friend Spencer Pratt* (SP) and I hopped in Brother’s sensible Volvo sedan and drove the long 10 hours (it was 11 hours for us because Brother loves to stop a lot) up to join him. The next day the 3 of us and Papa jumped in his equally sensible, but slightly more masculine Rover and drove up to DC to pick up Westchester and take in a Mets v Nats game.

The Mets won. We were happy. We were tired.

The next 2 days (which included the 4^th) were spent getting too much sun on the beach with the neighborhood families.

I think everyone of Sister’s posse got (or pretended to get) stung by a jellyfish. While this was going on the parents were drinking coconut rum.

It was a good day.

Brother and SP drove home the next day while Westchester and I did some shopping and entertained LilBro** and a friend of his in our hotel room. By entertained I mean drank a handle of Sailor, no sexual favors included.

Westchester left a couple of days later and I made my way down to the Boro.

Just like last time I invaded the Minimalist’s castle (which is the same borrowed castle as last time), but without any of the silly fears. And once again we spent (probably) far too much time laying in bed watching Deadliest Warrior. And once again, we were quite happy with that.

Once difference from last time is that this weekend was full of belated birthday celebrations. The Minimalist’s 21^st birthday was the 5^th so in honor of the momentous day I gave him a nice bottle of whiskey. And in honor of my less momentous birthday he swallowed his masculine pride and walked in Victoria’s Secret to buy me a gift card (because he knows I love undies but also knows that if he had bought me any it would have been a tad creepy [and probably the wrong size]). After that he also swallowed some fake chicken at Boba House, my favorite vegetarian restaurant. He swore he would never go there, even refusing when ManLove wanted to go.

I was grinning like a fool, to say the least.

I returned to the Dirty Dirty Monday after 12 days away.

And that night was spent hanging out on Adult’s porch listening to Grill Master teach ChiChi’s Frenchie*** incorrect English. Or just say outrageous things to here. My favorite:

GM: “If you hang out here too much you’ll shoot your friends and bury them in the backyard.”

F: looks confused

GM: “Why am I like this? Maybe because when I was younger my father put dimes in a sock and beat me with them. But don’t worry, I got used to the bruises and learned to hide in the closets.”

Why that’s not exactly something to joke about it was ridiculously funny because all Frenchie understood was “dimes,” “father,” and “hide in the closest,” leading her to believe Grill Master was Looney Toons because his father hid his money in the closet.

I think you just had to be there.

This all seems like fun, but not terribly noteworthy summer fun, right?

If this was the whole story it sure would have been, but there’s more.

About a month ago I went for my yearly physical, which revealed that I had abnormal cells on my cervix. This find lead to another test, which turned into a biopsy, the day before leaving for Vagina Bitch. I was supposed to get my results the 7^th, but that date has come and gone and I’m still waiting. And I’m still nervous.

I probably shouldn’t be (I’m young, healthy with no known family history of cervical cancer), but I am. I can’t help it.

So during all this family, friendly, sunny fun I’ve had this little gnawing thought at the back of my mind. Not fun.

But really more than nervous I’m just ready to know. Once I know I can get out of this horrid limbo situation I’ve been living in. And we all know how I feel about limbo…

*Spencer Pratt-I call him this not because he shares any of SP’s qualities, but because they once both sported flesh-colored beards.

**LilBro-a fellow GuilCo sophomore-to-be who reminds me unbelievably of Brother, especially when drunk

***Frenchie-ChiChi’s mother is the definition of Francophile and somehow managed to find a teenage French girl to stay with them for a month a few years ago. Well, the girl has come back for another month-long visit.

Counting the Days

Praise Jesus and Allah and all their cousins!

At approximately 11:07AM I walked out of my last midterm into relative freedom. Spring break is still a few days away, but those few days will be filled with readings and short write-ups, not hours spent clicking through art history slides until I can’t close my eyes without seeing pictures of Transitional, Early and Late Classical Roman statues. No longer will I drive the Minimalist out of his own bed by listing off Egyptian tombs and artifacts.

^Imhotep, the stepped tomb of King Djoser from the Old Kingdom in Egpyt^

You know what I’m doing instead?

Reading interview transcripts of Quaker Conscientious Objectors during WW1 who volunteered to be semi-starved so the government could study starvation and rehabilitation. Creepy, right?

^Here’s one of the participants.^

Only slightly better than comparing cave paintings, but at least it’s something different.

Speaking of something different, there have been a few changes around the ole dormstead:

My rugby season has ended early. Very early.

It started when I would get short of breath at practice. I’ve always gotten short of breath (especially during sprints), but this was more than normal. I chocked it up to getting out of shape over Christmas break. Well, practice continued and my ability to breath continued to get worse. Very counterintuitive. So after spending the last part of far too many practices standing on the sidelines trying to get rid of the spots that were clouding my vision a equally-asthmatic ruggirl suggested that the cold must be aggravating my asthma.

Hell, the cold was aggravating all of me, but no other parts of my body were refusing to work. Damn asthma.

A week or so later a doctor confirmed the diagnosis and prescribed A) lots and lots of medicine (mainly steroids) that make it nearly impossible to eat soup, climb into bed and other things that require stability OR B) no more outdoor activity until the weather warmed. As much as I lovelovelove rugby I wasn’t willing to put myself through more meds just for the slim chance that they wouldn’t sap all my energy and I would be able to play.

So I’ve gone from bruise-sporting ruggirl to support staff. I carry water bottles, pump up balls, and keep time. Far less fun, but at least I’m not ditching the team like other girls.

I’m also trying veganism.

Why, you (and Mother) ask?

Why the hell not!

(To which Mother responded that I looked thinner than normal in some recent pictures. Mother has thought I have an aversion to food practically since I started making my own food choices. Me? An aversion to food? Really? Exhibit A: FoodBaby)

But frankly, I’m always up for a challenge. And anything involving food always peaks my interest. So with a little help from Fresh Market, a large handful of vegan blogs (especially Peas and Thank You), and the vegan station in the dining hall I’ll be saying “veganize me, Cap’n” for the rest of the week.

For the last few days of this little foodventure I’ll be on…Spring Break! Woohoo!

Roomie-Dearest, Frenchie, Mr. Jackson and Westchester are all accompanying me to Vagina Bitch for a week of drinking, me cooking amazingly wonderful and healthy food, and relaxation. Maybe 1 or 2 other things thrown in there, but you’ll just have to wait and be surprised about those.

The Minimalist and his crew are going to the mountains for their break. I was invited to go (and I know it would be ah-maze-ingly fun), but I kind of want to do my own thing (don’t take that as a sign of problems. Everything is better than ever. I promise.) And I don’t know if we could handle each other for a week straight. No need to put undo stress on our lovely little arrangement. (Though their house rental ends early, so he may come up with a friend anyway.)

So until Friday, when my posse and I get to escape the little brick boxes we live in, I’ll continue reading about starvation (while snacking on trail mix, of course) and dreaming of the free laundry and bathtub that awaits me.

Thoroughly Modern Martha

This has been a thoroughly sweet, thoroughly V-filled weekend.

It started Friday night with Vagina Monologues.

Vaginas can talk? What?!

Pretty much. If you’re out of the loop Vagina Monologues is a collection of monologues and short skits that are re-enactments of actual women talking about their vags. Sound…interesting? It actually was. I walked away with a goodie bag of condoms and flavored lubes, a chocolate vagina lollipop and a desire to “reclaim my cunt” by wearing sexy undies and doing something dirty. So a very worthwhile experience.

Saturday was FINALLY a rugby day once again. Sadly, due to my newly uncontrolled asthma I was unable to play. That didn’t mean I couldn’t cheer on my teams (and yell quite a few obscenities) as they slipped and tackled in the mud. The men won. The women lost. We all drank. And I finally had to shoot the boot (for messing up a song). Luckily, I was wearing my rain boots so I was able to drink my own foot sweat, not somebody else’s. Lovely thought, right?

I woke bright and early Sunday morning so I could trek over to Starfucks (slipping on some ice and busting my knee in the process) in order to study. After which I spent a lovely afternoon laying in the Minimalist’s bed, watching Rescue Me and talking about which woman was craziest and which woman we would bang. Not terribly romantic, but enjoyable nonetheless.

One would think I would romance on the BIG day. The day far too many people are bitterly bitching about. To those people I say:

Shut the fuck up. Valentine’s Day was not created by Hallmark (though they may perpetuate it). It was not created as a way to mock single people for being unloveable/undesireable/ugly. If you don’t want to celebrate it, then don’t. But for the love of God and all things chocolaty, don’t ruin the holiday for everyone who wants to celebrate it with your constant complaining and woe is me attitude. Suffer silently.

I, as you can probably tell, adore Valentine’s Day. Not because I have a Valentine every year who showers me with handcrafted candies and roses and champagne. I had a Valentine once and I don’t even remember what we did. No, it is because I relish any opportunity to channel my inner cooler, more modern Martha Stewart. This year, I really went above and beyond.

I made my own Valentine’s candy. White chocolate covered pretzels, cayenne chocolate pretzels, white chocolate truffles, cayenne chocolate truffles. They were time consuming to make. The chocolate wouldn’t cooperate. I spent too much on supplies. But they can out wonderfully delicious, so it was all worth it.

I packaged them up in adorable little goodie bags for all my loves.

I decorated my room with cute little cupcake window gels. Because they were cheap and the little draddle window gel I stole was lonely.

I made my own cards. While the little packaged cards you gave out in elementary school are fun, I couldn’t find any that weren’t Twilight, Hannah Montana or SpongeBob. So I collaged my own. They were far cheaper (as in free) and not in any way annoying or corporate.

I’m wearing a pink shirt, pink bra, frilly pink undies and pink socks with little red heart-puffs on the back (a Valentine’s present from ChiChi a few years ago).

I helped Frenchie decorate her room. Honestly, it is bordering on nauseatingly pink and sparkly. I’m sure her roommate thoroughly appreciated it.

Frenchie, Westchester and Roomie-Dearest and I even had our own little party (in Frenchie’s room, again to annoy her roommate). We gave out goodies and played Secret Cupid. I pulled Roomie and gave her the softest little bear ever. Westchester drew my name and gave me a stuffed cupcake.

Adorable, right? There’s more.

It’s a pupcake!

And of course there were the usual plethora of candy.

Frenchie is gave out more equally adorable personalized M&Ms.

Roomie-Dearest gave me a cute card. (For several reasons, some people call me Hampster, so this was relevant.)

And for the icing on my modern Martha cake:

I’m learning to knit.

Right now it looks like shit, but it will improve. Then I want to make a pair of the warmest, fuzziest socks ever (hopefully sometime before summer).

But for now, Martha 2.0 is exhausted. I hope your Valentine’s Day was lovely. G’night, m’non-bitter bitches.

Pink Highlighter

Sorry for being a stranger lately. It’s not that I’ve been terribly busy, it’s just that things haven’t been terribly exciting. So let me hit the highlights (done with a pink highlighter, to be festive):

I made some delicious drinky drinks that you should try as soon as you get that chance (which probably means as soon as you get Triple Sec, because very few people have that lying around).

Despite the fact that I am taking a class on the history and literature of New Orleans I did not watch the Super Bowl.

I did get some super cute personalized Saints M&Ms, though, courtesy of Frenchie.

We have our first rugby game of the season this Saturday and I’m scared shitless. Why, you ask? Because yesterday was the first time we’ve touched a rugby ball in weeks because the fields have been closed due to snow that refuses to melt. And I’m still yet to make it through more than one complete practice this semester.

Why, you ask? F-ing asthma has either got me coughing up a lung or seeing stars. Oh, and the icing on this cupcake—we still don’t have a full team. But as always, if we don’t win the game we’ll be sure to win the social.

Papa and co, and Brother are coming to visit soon. I’m really excited to see them all. AND the Minimalist is going to finally meet my family. I’m nervous about that. Not so much that they won’t like him (which is probably 50-50), but that this is a big step. I don’t know if I’m ready for any big steps.

Mother sent me a Fargo hat because that is the one piece of cold-weather gear that I was lacking. It’s great.

My inspiration.

Up? I feel Russian.

Down? I’m a bunny.

Valentines Day is coming up. Whether the Minimalist will actually do anything for it is highly doubtful. Luckily, having a Valentine has never really been that important to me. Westchester, Roomie-Dearest, Frenchie and I are planning our own little party to ensure we get yummy pink and red candy (and to annoy Frenchie’s horribly cynical, bitter and generally unattractive roommate).

I’m beginning to get involved with an amazing viral art project that benefits the children of New Orleans. It’s called the Fundred Dollar Bill project. The gist of it is that there is an extremely high level of toxic lead in the soil in New Orleans, which gives anyone (mainly children) who drink the water lead poisoning, which has been linked to learning disabilities, lower test scores and higher rates of violent crime. All bad stuff, right? Well the artist, Mel Chin, found a way to fix the lead problem all for the low low price of $300,000,000. Mel said he couldn’t raise the money, but he could make it.

So he made a blank $100 template and is asking anyone and everyone to color it in and he’ll trade them to Congress for real money. That’s about as condensed as it gets, but it is super cool. Have you made your Fundred?

Back to the Future.

These past few days have been quite the blast from the past. On Friday, a friend of the Minimalist’s, Toolman, came for a visit. He had visited I believe the third weekend I was here, the same weekend Twin visited. Orginally, Toolman was supposed to go after me and the Minimalist was supposed to go after Twin (I suspect due to height). We all see how that worked out.

He came for a visit, and it could have just been because his girlfriend was with him this time, or I could really be maturing, but I saw him for the douche he really is, not the goofy-but-endearing guy I thought he was. Don’t get me wrong, on a purely platonic level he’s fine. But he continued pursuing me IN FRONT OF HIS GIRLFRIEND! Smacking my ass so hard it left handprints, telling me he’d “tear that up” and, the piece de resistance, reaching between my legs while his drunk girlfriend is not two feet away falling on the floor and bleeding. Talk about douche.

The next blast from the past came Saturday morning as I’m lying in bed. Everything is fine, until I sit up and reach over the Minimalist to grab my phone. Everything goes black and I can barely hold myself up. I regain my sight, but can’t stop shaking. I do a mental inventory of my body. That’s when I notice my breathing, which is short and labored. And my heart, which is beating far faster and harder than it normally should.

No, I wasn’t having sex and not realizing it. I was having an asthma attack. At this point let me paint you a picture:

Me, completely naked crawling over the Minimalist, off the bed and across the room to my purse. From my purse I pull my bright blue inhaler and begin attempting to take several slow deep breaths off of it. Remember, all of this was done silently and completely naked.

Maybe a bit scary, because of the silent part, but I certainly don’t blame the Minimalist for laughing. That’s better then hysteria or unneeded concern.

I eventually got up and Roomie-Dearest drove me to pick up my prescriptions. I then began heavily medicating myself in preparation for the big night…Halloween.

At a little after 9, Roomie-Dearest, Westchester and I, dressed to the nines in our sexiest black “clothing” and garter belt gun holsters, made our way over to the Devil’s Dance Party, which included 3 kegs, countless shots, a DJ, black lights, and two bands. Needless to say, it was a grand night, minus Toolman’s behavior, a slight rumor about some supposed indiscretions on my part (completely not true and not worth repeating) and my inability to smoke. When all the cool kids were puffing on their cigarettes, I was puffing on my inhaler.

Sunday passed with little excitement. Monday started bright and early, except I wasn’t feeling so bright. My asthma had not improved as it should have, in spite of my constant medicating. Mother was picking out hospitals and practically demanding that I admit myself. Papa was repeatedly offering to drop everything, drive down and tend to me. I refused both and instead made the same trip I’d made many times in my life—to my neighborhood doc-in-a-box. The diagnosis: the early stages of pneumonia. The treatment: two more prescriptions to bring my total to four and a full day of bed rest (which really means laundry, sleep, and an Alfred Hitchcock marathon).

And now, for the last blast from the past, which is not quite fully blasted yet. I recently got on Myspace (don’t judge, it’s almost retro) and saw a message from an old friend who I have quite a history with—Mr. Mayhem*.

A brief synopsis: we met when we were 15 (though few knew how young he was). He was the lead singer in a band, the apple of every scene girl’s eyes, and in with the “cool” kids. Moral of that story—everyone wanted to be him, be friends with him, or fuck him. I wasn’t excluded from that first group, but I wasn’t nearly as a part of it as others. One night he introduced me to his newest band mate, Mamills (who I’m still dear friends with). I became friends with Mamills. I hung out with Mamills. I didn’t know Mr. Mayhem had a thing for me. Mr. Mayhem believed Mamills had a thing for me, which was not true, but it caused some tension nonetheless. That tension caused Mamills to leave the band, which caused the band to end. Not long after Mr. Mayhem moved back to Florida.

Fast forward. The message he sent me informed me that his band was going to be playing in my adopted city Tuesday. We chatted a bit and he kept saying how “stoked” he was to hang out with me. I must say, I’m a bit “stoked” as well. After so long without seeing each other (about 3 years), it’ll be interesting to see what’s changed.

All I have to do now is make sure I look hot as hell.

*Mr. Mayhem-a nickname he gave himself. Other include Omaha and the Kid. He did cause quite a bit of mayhem when he swept in from nowhere (aka-Florida) and took the town by storm.

Full Disclosure.

When I decided to start this blog my intention was to chronicle my life at college as honestly and completely as possible. I thought it was necessary because before starting I had no idea what to expect. Very rarely had I come across a true and comprehensive account of what it’s life to be a freshman, and even more rarely did I find accounts of what it’s like to be a freshman at a small school with no Greek life. So I wanted to give people a way to peak into my new life and watch as I adjusted and (hopefully) flourished.

I wanted to show people what is to be expected from college.

That being said, something has happened. Something that a lot of girls, women, deal with in their lives. Something that I’m certain a lot of freshman deal with. With the mix of stress, poor diet, excessive drinking, maybe some drugs peppered in there, and general risky behavior it’s a wonder it doesn’t happen more often. Maybe it does, but no one really wants to talk about it. I promised as much honesty as I could muster, so that’s what I’m going to do.

I’ve had a miscarriage. Technically, it’s called an early miscarriage because it happens during the implantation stage as opposed to once the bundle of cells has already implanted and is growing.

Lovely images, right?

My thoughts exactly.

I found out Tuesday, promptly had a drink (or more) and with little to no tact or sugar coating I informed the Minimalist, who could have used another drink or so before I told him. I then proceeded to drink more, make a bit of a fool of myself, and go to bed promptly at 5 (with an 8:30 class looming). If you can’t tell, I don’t handle emotions or stressful situations well.

How or when this happened, I have no idea. It couldn’t have been that long ago. We always used contraception and it’s supposed to be a bit harder than normal for me to get pregnant. It really just baffles me. And weirds me out. And a couple of other indescribable feelings. It’s just hard to wrap my mind around the idea that, for at least a day or two, I was pregnant. I was incubating the Minimalist’s (demon) spawn.

I spent a day or two a little bluer than normal while trying to process the gravity of the situation. It’s not a huge deal, though. At least to me it’s not. I can understand how it could be for some people, but at this point in my life a baby is the last thing I need. I’m happy, possibly happier than I’ve been in a very long time. Or ever. The Minimalist is great. College is amazing. The only responsibilities I have are class and rugby, two things I certainly don’t mind. Reproducing would certainly complicate all of those things in ways I don’t want to imagine. And I don’t have to.

So that has been my life this week. No need for sympathy or prayers because, as I said, I’m fine. I just thought you deserved the honest account I promised.

And now…it’s Halloween weekend. There’s a ton of parties to help me celebrate and I’ve got a killer costume. So I’ll fill you in on Monday.

Happy Halloween!