Busted Up

For the last few years I’ve had a really rough time with TMJ. My jaw locks and clicks and pops…sounding much like a bootleg bowl of Rice Krisipies when it wants to. For years there was no pain involved, just the annoying noise and occasional lock up. Fast forward to last year. I was in paaaain and my jaw would just lock closed for inordinate amounts of time. One day it was stuck closed for 6 or 7 hours. The lockups would send me to the ER or urgent care and I’d be sent home with an Rx for painkillers and instructions to follow up with my dentist.

I never took the last part seriously until one day my jaw got locked open. I had to ride train home with my mouth wide open looking like I was either trying to catch flies or prepare myself for the bl*w job olympics (sorry, my mind is crazy raunchy today…blame the painkillers). I made a beeline for the dentist who sent me to the oral surgeon. Of course, just before Christmas, I had to have surgery. I was fine with it though…no more popping, clicking, locking, or pain. I thought I was cured forever but I should have known better.

Over the last few months, I’ve been experiencing soreness and fatigue in my jaw. I’d wake up in the morning feeling like I’d been chewing stale gummy bears all night. I knew I was headed back down the road to oral surgeryville but figured I had a few months before things got crazy. On Saturday morning, though, I woke up and I couldn’t get my mouth open at all. Like –” ma’am you’ll be drinking your meals through a straw type” stuff. Of course the oral surgeon isn’t open on the weekends and one emergency phone call later, I was headed for the urgent care yet again. Of course the urgent care can’t do anything but give me muscle relaxers and pain meds, so I was really on my own for the weekend. I had to grab hold of my face and actually move my jaw around so I could eat. D wanted to get ice cream so I was at the ice cream place looking like crazytown holding my face and mushing the stuff around my mouth. *I half think he took me there to embarass me as a way to get back at me for making him clean out the garage*

So anyway, I was FINALLY able to get to the oral surgeon yesterday. I figured he’d inject some medical-grade WD-40 in my jaw and send me on my way. Absolutely not. “Ms. Natasha, I’m going to have to operate on that right now”. With those words I saw pain, more pain, and dollar signs. After watching his secretary assault my credit card (because they make you pay up front and will send the claim to your insurance to have you reimbursed), I went back.

An IV of whatever anesthesia and an hour later I was done. The surgeon said, “Wow! I basically had to break your jaw to get things realigned. You’ll be really sore for a day or so but you can go back to work when you feel ready.” The secretary looked at me and said, “yikes” as I was being wheeled out of the office. That right there let me know that I wouldn’t be going back to work today.

So here I am, still swollen and looking like I went twelve rounds with a lead pipe. The painkillers I got plus naps on the couch are like little pearls from heaven for me. I’m working from home thankfully and my boss said, “I’m going to need you to stay home” after I sent a picture of myself post-surgery. I’m not sure if I should be offended or not!

Anyway, I’m finally getting through some things on my nook (so much for working, right?) and I believe it’s about time for another couch nap. Happy Wednesday ūüôā

 

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Picking Up the Pieces

As usual, I’ve neglected this blog again. However, it’s not really for lack of things to say but because I wasn’t so sure the things I have to say belong on this blog. My lupus has changed the way I look at things, and my perspective really isn’t the same as it was when I first started this blog. I’m not bitching about dating and life isn’t all jokes like it was almost seven years when I started this thing. But I guess that’s the beauty of it all, I’ve got a cyber time capsule that lets me go back and see what was going on at different points in my life.

I’m rambling now (but rambling is part of the title of this blog, right?) so let me get to the point. My life has been scattered for the last two years or so, but I’m trying to put the pieces back together and get back to that part of me that writes for the love of it. Grammar be damned, my little voice needs its own space too.

Life goes on and so do we….

So this is what I’m doing today…

I was about to come up in here and write something pseudo-serious, but then I remembered it’s Friday. And (not) payday. So I ain’t wanna do alladat. So instead I went ‘cross the street from work and picked up a couple of these:

 

Yeah, a (small) fistful of Me.ga Millions tickets. I know I have a snowball’s chance in Hades of winning the jackpot, but lemme tell you…whoooo….if I did, it’d be lights out for employment. I love my job, but I’d start a non-profit so I can do the work I love without the corporate clog up at the top. I’m not sure how I’d leave, but I’d make sure to go out with gusto. Like photocopy my ass and draw lips on the page and send it to Human Resources kinda ish. And please believe I’d be completely incog-negro cuz I don’t want people to come out the woodworks talking, “Aye, we were in that play in Kindergarten together. Do you ‘memba? Yo, can I hold a couple dollas till I get my check next week?”

It’s hard for me to fathom being responsible for that kinda money. Like, yeah I took some time and got my own stuff together over the years, but that much? I dont’ have the slightest idea ’bout what to do with it except spend it. And I know better than that, after all there’s some book or something out that explains 9 out of 10 lottery winners lose all their money within 5 years. I’m not going out like that. So yeah, yearly payout for me. Might not be as sexy as swimming in my millions like Scrooge McDuck, but at least I won’t be broke.

Maybe at lunch, I’ll go buy myself a few more, from a different store. You know the hood theory about getting your tickets from different neighborhoods….yeah, I’m gonna try that. My limit is $10 on this mess though, you know I’m cheap frugal. I will NOT be that woman taking up three hours at the gas station talkin bout “Did you run all my sheets through??? I want them nummas straight AND box! You hear me?? Straight AND box!!”

If you see a black woman wearing sunglasses, holding a giant check in front of her face, and doing the Dougie/Pass Out¬†on the news this weekend, go ahead and assume it’s me.

More Stories From Mama G.

My mom thought it would be cute to regale D with some stories from my childhood when she called¬†this past¬†Sunday. Wait, who the hell am I kidding? She was telling stories simply because the day ended with “y”. I think it’s part of motherhood to have an innate ability to tell the worst stories about your kids. Anyhoo, this is one that D refuses to stop laughing at and has since told a bunch of his friends, who have in turn decided to tease me mercilessly. I really wish I didn’t remember this in such detail, but since half the state of Maryland has heard it, I may as well share it here:

When I was about four or five years old my mom, my brother, me, and my mom’s boyfriend (RIP) went to the movies. Standing in front of us was a very large man wearing Wrangl.er Jeans. You know, the kind with the “W” embroidered on the back? See here:

This was a big azz man so¬†of course¬†his pockets took up maaad space on his behind. DOOOUBBLLEEE-YOUUUU and shyt. My smart, Kindergarten-educated self didn’t know that the “W” represented a brand. Ohhhh nooo, not me. Nevermind the fact that I knew what Levi’s and Sassoon’s were (I’m showing my age with the Sassoons). Nevermind the fact that my brother refused to part with his Lee’s (ol’ New Edition wannabe azz), and all of those brands had their own back pocket designs. Nope.

Me (loud as hell): MAMA!! Do the W’s on the man’s booty mean WIDE??

*mom gives me that ‘I’mma need you to shut up rat now’ look*

Me (still loud): WHAT!!?? Does it mean WIDE?? (Brother’s name), does it mean WIDE or what? Why is mom looking at me like that!!?

Brother (through gritted teeth): Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup!

Me (loud, not seeing the need for the hostility): Is that his SIZE? WIDE? LIKE HIS BUTT?

Brother: Jesus.

Mom’s Boyfriend (kind of whispering): No, that’s the brand. And that’s not nice!

Me: So you’re saying W is a brand? I’m not being mean! His butt is WIDE!

Brother: Jesus.

*man walks toward the theater*

Brother: Do you see? He moved away because of you.

Me: He’s getting popcorn.

Mom: It’s a brand, child! Wrangler!! Wrangler!! Now stop talking. We need to get popcorn.

Me: How is that? Wrangler starts with an “R”, mommy! His butt pockets are spelled wrong!

Brother: Jesus. I’m going to play a game. I have quarters.

Mom’s Boyfriend: Wrangler is spelled W-R-A-N-G-L-E-R. It’s right.

Me: I don’t like it at all

For whatever reason, I wasn’t pleased with Wrangler Jeans for spelling their brand that way. My mom says after the movie, I asked if I could get help writing a letter to the company to tell them they need to spell the word R-A-N-G-L-E-R instead because the silent “W” wasn’t working for me. I don’t remember all of that, but knowing me…it happened that way.

Monday Randoms

-I just couldn’t get it together to blog about Whitney. My heart was just broken. Tore up and all of that. Yeah, I still don’t have the words so I’ll leave it alone.

-My birthday is in two days and I still don’t know what I want to do. I think I want to keep it way low key, especially because it’s on a Wednesday

-Today is my first day in the office since last Tuesday. I have bronchitis and have been laid completely the hell out since then. I’m¬†really not¬†right today, but I guess I should put in at least a half-day of face time.

-My rheumatologist told me that my SLE may have started to affect my lungs. She didn’t give me any advice after that. Word? That’s how you treat patients now?? Needless to say, I’m in the process of switching, but it’s hard to find doctors who know how to treat Lupus properly

-My girlfriend wanted to go dancing (read: prowl for men in DC while wearing shoes of questionable height) but I declined because that was the first¬†time D had been home on a Friday night¬†in 9 weeks. She knows he and I work opposite shifts and barely see each other, but still got completely FONKY with me for “never being available for her”. Never mind there have been several recent instances of her calling me at 2 or 3 AM resulting in me either going to her or listening to her b*tch while I fight sleep. I can’t take needy bishes so yeah, guess I’ll be seein ya homie. Deuces chunked. I let the softie in me almost get suckered.

-I need the Bra.xt.ons to get their weave game together a little bit more. Everytime I watch that show I wonder if maybe, just maybe the weave addiction contributed a bit to Toni’s $ issues back in the day. I hear they spend good money on those wigs/weaves/lacefronts yet they can’t manage to get a real looking one with a decent “skin” part.

-I intended to do the February post a day, but it’s March now. Ooops *whistles and looks down*

-The Girl Sco.ut Cookie hustle is real. They sit out there in front of the grocery store and the gas station and the post office…even the damn doctor’s office now. I’m not sure what they’re teaching the girls these days, but hustling must be high on the list. In the 10 minutes I sat in the car while D got gas, I watched 8 small girls put the heat on like 5 people…all giving up their money in the end. And yeah, they got me too a few days later. When I was a Girl Sco.ut, we went door to door and shyt, hitting up family and friends like you needed a kidney. None of this sit and sell as a group mess. We were out there alone with an order form and a pen.¬†My individual cookie sales record from 1992 for my region¬†still stands. 20 years yall!! *sits down in my rocking chair to tell stories to the kids*

-My google reader is a mess. I have so many to read, but I think I’m just going to hit “Mark all as read” and keep it trucking. Last time I checked, I had like 1142 to read. I dunno. Maybe I’ll ditch the reader all together. I like to visit actual blogs and such.

-It’s about that time for our yearly pilgrimmage to Vegas. At this point, I don’t even care if we get to Vegas; I just need to get away from DC for a little while.

-Like so many others, Pinterest is my crack. It really is every little thing for me at the moment.

The Day My World Went Black…

Growing up, I had a huge amount of respect for my mom. After all, she was a single mom raising her kids and doing a pretty good job at it. There was also the fact that she’s 6’1″ and I was¬†a lot shorter than that, so I had to literally tilt my head backward to see her whole face as a kid. Umm…yeah, I still tilt my head back since I’m 5’7″. Even in heels, I’m only to her eyebrows. Being that much shorter than someone makes you have additional respect…and fear.

Even though I had lots of respect for my mom, I still¬†got to acting¬†a stone cold fool when I was 14 or so. I had my first real boyfriend and he had a car, so you couldn’t tell me nuthin. I was as good as grown in my own eyes. I even had the nerve to sneak out the house a few times to go sit in the park with the boyfriend who’d also snuck out his house. Nothing went down in the park, but just the fact that we were there — after midnight, *gasp!* — with no one knowing was good enough for us. I’d always been a pretty good student and I continued that, but I started getting sarcastic with teachers and random adults.¬† One day my biology teacher said something about me¬†not totally understanding what I’d read in the textbook, so in response I snapped back, “Well maaaaaybe I need to learn to read again. Hmph!” When mom dukes caught word of that, she grounded me faster than Usain Bolt can run a 100m race.

This is where things go bad. I was NOT appreciative of being grounded and having my computer, TV, and phone taken out of my room and I felt the need to protest. Loudly. To my mom. Lawd.

Me: You¬†CAN’T take those things from me. And you will NOT ground me!!!

Mom: *whips around to look at me* What!?

Me: You heard what I said, mom. You’re NOT grounding me. And that’s that.

Mom: *through gritted teeth* Li-tt-le girl… (I should have known better by that statement)

Me: Who are you calling little girl? Bitch!

Suddenly from the corner of my eye I saw a hand came flying at me¬†from my left¬†and there was darkness. Fade to black. When I woke up I was in my bed with dried tears on my face. I have no idea how I got there, nor do I have any idea how long I’d been there. However, there was no computer, no TV, and no phone to be seen.

When I got myself together enough to get up, I went to find my mother. I found her sitting in the living room with a glass of wine watching TV like nothing happened. “Hi. Woke up from your nap?”, she said. Touch√© mama, touch√©. My heart wanted to protest again about the unfairness of my punishment but I reached up to my face, felt the sting, and thought better of it. Not to mention my pride was bruised. “Yes ma’am. Sorry about earlier.”, I managed to squeak out.

She accepted my apology and left me grounded for a week. For a good two weeks I swore she knocked me unconsious but it turned out that¬†she just¬†backhanded me so hard that I¬†stood there stunned and¬†started bawling¬†so she carried me to my bed where I sobbed myself to sleep. Boyfriend and I broke up later in the week because I wasn’t about to sneak out the house again to hang out with me. Not with the incredible hulk mama sleeping a few doors down. I may be a lot of things, but completely stupid ain’t one. I realized that 14 isn’t exactly grown, and learned perhaps the most important lesson of all: Do not in any way call your mama out of her name, no matter how old or how grown you (think you) are. I’m *cough*hoveringatagethirtyforever*cough* and I’d still never try that mess. The memory is too fresh. Anytime after that when I wanted to cuss my mama out, I just did it in my head. Even then I’d be scared that she could read my mind so I would start reciting scripture in my head instead, Jesushelpme.

We don’t talk much about ‘the incident’ now, but every now and again when I’m getting too big for my britches in her eyes, she’ll say, “Wake up from your nap?”. Yeah. Ouch.

Happy 500

When I logged into wordpress the other day, I saw a little congratulations banner but didn’t pay it any attention. Today I paid closer attention and noticed that wordpress was congratulating me on reaching 500 posts. This post is actually 502, but hey who’s counting? Anyway, the number surprised me. I couldn’t believe that I had so many posts. I’ve been blogging on and off for the better part of five and a half years now, so I guess it’s right.

In the years since I started this blog (first on b.lo.gs.po.t and now here), I’ve dated some hellacious characters, met PoliceBoy (aka D), married him, bought a house, had a miscarriage, attempted nursing school, put nursing school down, decided to move on to grad school in a field I love, moved from a job into a bonafide career, and got diagnosed with SLE. I may go back to nursing school one day, but my heart wasn’t in it. I’m having a much better time in grad school now. I’ve shared all of those things with you and truly any one who’s read fairly consistently¬†watched me grow up. Looking back to 2006 compared to now, I’m a completely different human being. I’ve fought off some serious demons related to my self-worth and depression and still fight to this day, but not nearly as hard. I’ve¬†bared my soul, laughed, cried, and got angry as I wrote. Thank you to those of you who read as I shared. Even though I’ve neglected the space as of late, it always carries a special place in my heart for being my cathartic outlet.

So I said all of that to say, I’m going to keep on sharing, laughing, crying, etc.¬†Even if no one were to read this¬†blog anymore, it would still be my lil spot on the interwebs and I’d keep on writing. Yay for 500 and here’s hoping for another 500 (or however many I get to before blogging goes the way of the 8 track).