How I Became Convinced that my Eardrum had Burst and I Would Never Hear Out of my Left Ear Again

So, over Christmas vacation I somehow acquired dual ear infections. I mean, how does that even happen? How do you even get an ear infection as an adult? Let alone TWO ear infections?

I didn't even know I had them until I got on the plane to go home for the Peterson's, where we spent Christmas. Halfway through both flights (yes, I had to suffer through this TWICE), this incredible stabbing pain seared my eardrum. The first time was bad enough, but the second time was too much. I just cried. 

I couldn't help it. I just curled up into my jacket and started bawling. There was this fourteen year old boy flying by himself next to me, who had absolutely no idea what to do. Poor kid. It was honestly one of the most excruciating things I have ever felt. And I am no stranger to pain. I have fibro and chronic migraines. But ooooooooooooooooooh.

And that's how I became convinced that my eardrum had burst and I would never hear out of my left ear again. 

But no. It's just infected. And- surprise!- the right one is infected, too. So now I'm on antibiotics and weird ear drops and am slowly dying.

Remembering the Words Doesn't Matter: Christmas I

So I was binge watching Buzzfeed videos tonight, trying not to fall asleep until an appropriate hour (I was crashing hard at 6:30 and knew I needed to entertain myself with something. So obviously,to the internet! YouTube in particular. And Buzzfeed tends to be a pit of quicksand: once you get in, it slowly drags you into its infinite stash of videos and articles and Pinterest boards of totally random, silly, sometimes serious, but always relavent everyday topics). 

Anyways. So I'm watching this video of people trying to remember the lyrics of Christmas songs, and the first one they do is the iconic song "All I Want for Christmas is You" by Mariah Carey. 

But here's the thing: the words to that song don't matter one bit. Who cares about he words? I mean, everyone knows the jist of it, but that's not the point. The point is, that every time you hear that song, you automatically get one of three visuals:

1. You envision yourself shopping in some crowded mall or department store blasting Christmas cheer at you

2. You see a montage of other people shopping and/or wrapping presents with dramatic Christmas cheer in some old Christmas movie, or

3. You envision Mariah Carey lip synching the song on a float in the Macy's thanksgiving day parade in some ridiculous fur outfit.

That's what Christmas is all about. Associating random things like certain songs and cookies and ornaments and traditions with memories and people you love and emotions.

So with that, enjoy your December. Don't let it rush by. Take the time to do all the little things, because that's how make big memories and big bond and big relationships. It's important to slow down and just take it in, and make sure to make time for things you actually want to do (it's so easy to get busy and forget to do the things we were looking forward to). This is a time to enjoy the little things, do little things for others, and make sure little ones make good memories.

I Dig Freeways, Just Not in the Rain

So, Californians are known as fast drivers, who are pro at driving on the freeway. Because, basically, if you want to go anywhere farther than the mailbox, it's more practical to use the freeway. Freeways are basic surface streets for us.

But today I discovered the REAL reason why everyone is pro at driving in California: we never have to drive in anything but perfect (if somewhat hot) weather. Cause today it started raining buckets while I was on the freeway, and suddenly no one knew what to do. Everyone lost all ability to function. 

Now, I learned how to drive in the rain (meaning, I had my first drivers ed session during the entire 3 hours of rain we got in 2006), so I've always considered myself a bit more abled when it came to driving in imclimate weather than the average Californian (which is nothing but BS, but whatever). But this afternoon, even I was disoriented during this sudden micro-burst on the freeway. Suddenly I had anxiety over switching lanes, like whether or not I would be able to switch into the right lane before my exit came up, because suddenly the freeway was no longer a community where we all watch and anticipate the needs of others and work to together to all get to where we're going, but suddenly it's a free-for-all, and dang it, no one's going to let me over!! Is this what everyone else feels on the freeway? No wonder everyone else hates them. That's so stressful. It's like any other aspect of life: you can't just look out for yourself, because nobody is ever going to get anywhere. If you want to progress, or simply make things easier in yourselves, you gotta be looking out for each other, too.

I don't know how to figure the rain into that metaphor, though. Rain just makes things complicated. And wet.

(But yay! One thing Californians love is their rain. ESPECIALLY right now, cause we're going through one terrible drought. One of the worst droughts in our history, if I remember correctly. So bad that even with this predicted Godzilla El Niño, even if we got the max amount of rain, it wouldn't get us out of the drought. That's pretty pathetic, when you think about all the dangerous flash floods and houses crumbling in mud slides and cars floating away... But mostly I think about how the last time the streets were flooded, I was a teenager and apparently Stephanie's friends took their boogie boards and went skim boarding down the streets and towed each other behind cars trying to water ski, and it reminds me that fun can be had even in the oddest of situations.)

Well This Sucks

Well, my Halloween was going to be lame enough when all I was doing was staying home and watching Netflix. Then Netflix crashed.

My life is nothing more than a sad, cautionary tale to be told to teenagers with introvert tendencies.

In Which I Recall Snorting Random Food Products For Fun, But They Weren't Fun To My Sinuses

So, I just watched a YouTube video about how to make yourself sneeze, in which they snorted a mixture of ground black pepper, cayen pepper, and red pepper flakes. They definitely sneezed, but I'm not sure they still possess sinus cavities.

So, of course this reminds of the snorting experiments I've done in the past. I know I've mentioned some of these in the past, but they're too good not to tell again. Especially the last one. Well, at least to me.

Seeing as I've never done drugs, these were very.... creative... experiences. I was twelve, okay? One does not make smart decisions when twelve. Especially when you're at a slumber party. We'd been hanging out at a park down the street from the house we were staying at, pumped because it was Friday, and it was a birthday sleepover, which made it a thousand times more exciting. The first few hours of a sleepover are always the best. Then some one pulled a packet of Kool-aid out of their pocket and I don't know if someone was dared, or did it to be funny (probably Stephanie, because she enjoyed snorting weird things. More in a minute) but somehow we decided to snort it. 

But this wasn't just any kool-aid. No, this was lemonade Kool-aid powder. I laughed and snorted it, too. After approximately four seconds deceptive calm, the burning kicked it. I could have shot fire out of my nose and set the world on fire. It stung like I'd snorted a hive of those massive Chinese hornets into my sinus cavity instead a pinch of powdered drink mix. Can you say migraine?

A few years later, and Stephanie and I have become besties. We establish a tradition of going to the pool every Christmas Eve eve, because, you know, Southern California. And what do we randomly discover? If you inhale water through your nose, it goes straight down your throat. YOU CAN DRINK THROUGH YOUR NOSE. And that, my friends, was the coolest thing we'd learned in a long time. (Like I said, we lived in Southern California. We had to educate ourselves--anatomy included-- because the government sure as heck wasn't going to do it.)

But the best of the best came when we were seventeen. Stephanie, myself, and our friend David were eating at a pizza parlor, having a grand old time when Stephanie decides to snort one of those Parmesan cheese packets. (Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't go for the red pepper flakes instead. Wait, no, I'm not. Because the more random the item, the more likely it was to go up Stephanie's nose.) 

The cheese-snorting induces the most violent sneeze attack I've ever witness. I mean, Stephanie is the kind of person who sneezes like eight times in a row anyways. I'd always count them when we were younger, cheering her on and annoying her so bad. One time I also said, "Come on, big money! Big money!" I'm pretty sure that was the last time I commented on her sneezes.

Anyway, she sneezed a record amount of times, practically convulsing, blowing chunks of phglemy cheese out of her mouth all over us and the table, and I hadn't laughed that hard in ages. I'm sure they considered kicking us out, we were so out of control. She kept sneezing cheese all night, and we just giggled ourselves silly.

So, moral of the story: you don't need anything as dramatic as burning spices to make yourself sneeze. Parmasen cheese works wonders, there's no burn, and according to Stephanie, at least your nose smells nice for a while.

In Which We Enjoy the Blood Moon

Scene: Three Empeys standing in their driveway, watching the Blood Moon. They watch quietly, making small remarks here and there.

Three minutes in:

Holly: You know, this would probably be more exciting if I was wearing my contacts.

Lori: You can't see?

Holly: No, I can, it's just not very sharp. These glasses are just really weak.

Quiet contemplation, in awe. A conversation begins about how primitive cultures would have seen these kinds of events.

Lori: Can you imagine how many sacrifices-- like, human sacrifices-- have been made to Blood Moons?

Holly: Gosh, Mom. Way to ruin it.

A few more minutes go by. The small sliver of moon gets smaller and they wait for it to disappear.

Holly: You know, on Doctor Who, they recently found out the moon was an egg. [briefly explains episode. Realizes it sounds really, really nerdy out loud and shuts up. But it was a really good episode]

A discussion of tides ensues for a few minutes. Then:

Derek: "Can you imagine-- all of a sudden, BOOM!!! It explodes. Every little boys dream!"

You know, we may not be the most intellectual family, but the things we discuss sure are entertaining.

In Which I Exterminate a Mouse and am Traumatized

So, I had a run-in with a mouse the other day.

See, my parents were gone for almost two weeks up helping Steph and her family while Leah had surgery and recovered in the hospital. (Did I mention Leah yet? Leah is my new, sweet niece! Stephanie and Greg's third kid. Baby Peterson #3. So I'm an Auntie^3! That's cubed, right? Sweet! She's super cute and apparently very cuddly and sweet-natured despite having bad jaundice and having to have major intestinal surgery while only a month old. I get to meet her during Halloween, when I go up for a visit to the Peterson household. I can't waaaaaaaiiiiittttt!!)

Anyway. So I've got the house to myself and I'm loving it. (Being an adult child at home is hard, y'all. In case you wondered.) So late one night I go to the kitchen for a snack, and out of the corner of my eye I see movement. Mouse movement, to be specific. There is a mouse on my countertop. 

Two thought immediately go through my brain:

1. How incredibly appropriate is it that I JUST watched Ratatouille on TV yesterday?! I mean, what are the chances?!

2. I'm going to have to kill this thing, and that is the last thing I want to do.

The mouse and i lock eyes for a moment, both of us drowning in dread. I slowly take out my phone to snap a picture, and the mouse darts across the counter and jumps down behind the stove. I then send the following text message to my parents:

AQAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! THERE IS A MOUSE. A MOUSE. IN THE KITCHEN. IT JUST RAN BY ME ON THE COUNTER, THEN SAT DOWN NEXT TO THE KNIVES WHERE WE STARED AT EACH OTHER FOR A FEW MINUTES BUT WHEN I TRIED TO TAKE A PICTURE OF HI, HE DOVE BEHIND THE STOVE. THERE IS A MOUSE BEHIND THE STOVE AND I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT TO DO.

To which my Dad instantly called me, using soothing tones because there was nothing to be afraid of. Well, duh. Of course there was nothing to be AFRAID of. I wasn't afraid of a mouse. I was panicking. I was in panic mode because I knew I was going to have to man-up and kill it. And I didn't want to. 

So Dad made arrangements with my dear Uncle Kevin to bring over some traps the next night-- some glue traps so "I wouldn't have to hear the snap of a regular one in the middle of the night." So we set them up, and two days later, there he is. I actually heard him first. He was in the trap underneath a cabinet, where I wasn't expecting him, so I just heard a desperate squeak squeak squeak to herald his presence. And there he was. Trapped lying on his side in the glue trap, desperately trying to free himself. I could see his muscles straining so hard as he tried to move.

Now, I had resigned myself to killing this mouse. I knew that it wasn't sanitary for him to live in our house, much less the kitchen. Ratatouille's remarkable timing be darned. That house had to go.

But when I saw him struggling like that, when I heard him squeaking, I realized this was the least humane thing I had ever done. I had to fix it. I had to free him. I took the trap outside, ran to our rose bushes, and tried to brush him off the trap with a broom. But it didn't work. The mouse was getting more frantic, and so was I. Diseases also be darned, I took hold of the mouse and proceeded to pull the thing off the trap.

But, dear goodness, those things are nothing like the various adhesive crafting products I've used. The substance coating the trap, the mouse, and now me was nuclear-strength military grade sludge for holding space crafts together. Billions of years from now, when all life and civilazition is long gone, that stuff will be utterly unchanged, chilling with the cockroaches. Somehow, I manage to get him free, although I was convinced I was going to rip his paw off at one point. But then I finally have to acknowledge the fact that he could never survive. He was coated in the stuff. I hadn't even gotten on the ground yet, and he was already coated in mulch. It didn't matter if he wasn't stuck to the trap, he would take the trap with him. He'd stick to the ground. To a bush. To himself.

I couldn't let him go.

So I stuck him back on the trap.

Do you realize how traumatizing this was? Do you? I think his nose got stuck in the glue that time, and I was glad. Now he would probably suffocate instead of the long grueling death of starvation, or frying in my trash can.

I fled to our trash bin outside, trying not to let it sink in what was happening, but most failing. I tried to fling the trap with the suffocating mouse into the can, but it was glued to my hand. He was literally suffocating at my hands. 

It took half a Costco bottle of Canolla oil, nearly as much Dawn dish soap, and 10 minutes of scrubbing my hands with a dish scrubber to get the stuff off. The glue may be gone, but I can never regain my peace of mind.

Glue traps are the most evil contraptions we have invented. (In regards to pest control.) getting rid of unwelcome visitors is never fun. Removing opossums, skunks, bunnies, and yes, the stray mouse or two, doesn't always mean having to kill them. In fact, you should always try other ways first before resorting to killing them. Especially if they're outside, and just being a nuisance instead of a real health and safety hazard. But when the situation arises that you gotta kill that mouse USE THE SNAP TRAP. Yes it's loud. Yes it's scary. Yes it's disgusting and awful and violent. But it's over in a second. That mouse doesn't suffer. It's over before it realizes what's going down. But glue traps are the most awful things you could ever inflict upon an animal. It's like trapping them in their own tar pits and just letting them starve or whatever to death. How incredibly cruel. Yes, it's just a mouse. But if someone was exterminating ME, I'd hope they would have the decency to finish the job and not make me suffer.

Just saying.

Closet World Update: Closet World Part IIII

(It's been at least a month since I last ranted about the Closet World commercial. So I've pretty much gotten over it, right?

Then I'm sitting watching the news with my Dad, and, of course, the Closet World commercial comes on. And immediately, Dad says, "Hey, can you dance like this robot guy?"

And I sigh.

"Where is it? Did they get rid of it?"

"No, it's just at the end," I reply sadly. "Mom hates that thing."

And internally I laugh at the way each one of us, individually, have brought up the fact that this commercial is awful. The creepiness of the dancing animation is unanimous.

And I also give a rueful chuckle that neither my mother or father had read any of these on-going rants and updates I've released into the internet. 

Conclusion: eat poo, Closet World.)

In Which I Rant About Doctor Visits and My Inability to Process Pain

So, it's no secret that I go to a lot of doctors appointments. I see half a dozen specialist for my half a dozen issues, so doctors offices have become almost a home away from home. Okay, not really. But I've got the routines down pat. I know to come prepared with my medications list/changes in medication, I know that the nurse will always be surprised at my high pulse and am prepared to explain it, I've learned how to be an advocate for myself. (But most importantly, I've learned to always prepare small talk to make the situation less awkward. Complimenting the nurse on her nails always goes over well.)

But there's one thing that I hate about doctors visits, especially when it's for an urgent issue. I don't know how to rate pain. When the doctor presses on the malfunctioning body parts and says "Does this hurt?" I'm always extremely confused. 

Listen, lady, I have a disease where my nerves are constantly malfunctioning and sending signals of great pain to my brain for no reason. I can't process pain. My nerves are not something to be counted on to do their job, you see? So when you jab at my stomach, yeah, I feel it. It's uncomfortable. I might even go so far as to say it's tender. But does it hurt? Who knows?

I have a chronic pain disease. Which means I hurt all the time. Which means I've gotten really used to it. Which means, in addition to having haywire nerves, I have a high tolerance for pain. So my scale of "pain" is a whole lot different than the average persons. 

(Like there was this one time that I was at the doctors for something completely boring and benign, and I just so happened to mention that my throat was feeling sore the other day, and it turns out I had really bad strep throat. My doctor actually asked me if I'd been swallowing lit cigarettes, it looked so bad. And he was serious. I just don't understand pain.)

Today's experience: 

Dr. "Does this hurt?"

Me: "Ummmmmmm, kinda."

Dr. "And here?"

Me: Contemplating pause: "not really. I mean, it's kinda sore."

Dr. "Here?"

Me: "yeah, I think so."

Dr. "Show me where it hurts."

Me: "Well, I feel it just feels sore right here, and on the side, and that side, and right here-- no, up a little, yeah, there. And down a little."

Dr. Exasperated: " that's everywhere."

Me: "Well. Yeah."

So then she said what all doctors end up saying in the end: "Well, since you're not jumping off the table when I touch it, it's probably not anything serious."

And then I'm sent away with a list of over-the-counter drugs and shooed away with assurance that I'll be fine. But it's not fine. 

So when I have a distrust of Primary Care physicians, I think it's pretty accurate.

In Which I Contemplate that Bodies are Beautiful, So We Don't Need Tattoos

So, I was thinking about how I would explain to someone why I don't support getting tattoos, and it led me to remember some phrase I read on a "Mom-aesthetic" Facebook post (you know the ones I mean... Random quotes, usually some joke about getting older, With the weird clip art and some cheesy font that middle-aged and older women pass around).

Anyways:

"Why don't I have tattoos? Would you put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari?"

And I think, well, that's pretty rude to all the people who DO have tattoos. What are you saying, that they aren't Ferraris, but you are? Or that they're idiots for putting the bumper stickers on their less-than car selves? Either way, it's no good.

And I don't think it makes all that much sense, anyways. Because while there are a lot of terrible tattoos out there, bad enough to be equalifized as a bumper sticker, there are a lot of really gorgeous ones, too. Incredible works of art. 

So, instead of the bumper sticker on a Ferrari analogy, I'd suggest something more like: "would you ask Picasso to paint on the side of your car?" No, because that's ridiculous. Those are two things-priceless paintings and vehicles of transportation- that have nothing to do with each other. Just like bodies and tattoos. Bodies are already works of art themselves. You don't need to add to them with permanent ink to make them beautiful, or interesting, or different. If you have a great love of art, sweet. Support artists! Just leave the ink on paper, not skin, where you can give it the proper admiration it deserves. That way, both the art AND your body get their time to shine without having to compete with each other.