"I have two boobs because God did not give me a third boob."

Tonight, as I was holding a little red-haired girl in my lap, she started asking me some pretty tough questions about life.

Namely, she wanted to know why I have two boobs.

The best response I could think of: "I have two boobs because God did not give me a third boob."

My favorite small people age is when kids are walking, but not talking. Once they know how to talk, life gets pretty complicated.

I'm going to have to come up with better answers for the hard-hitting questions.

Smiling and grateful.

This will be a short post, as I purposely haven't had my computer out at my house for a while now.

Taking a break from screen time is sometimes a good thing.

Here's my message for the day: I love my physical therapist.

She's the first person to actually sit me down and explain my problem to me. That spot on my side that I've been feeling pain in for more than a year?

It turns out there's a reason that spot hurts.

No way? Get out of here!

So many people told me that my problem was in my head that I kind of started to believe it. It's nice to finally have found the right doctor. I think I'm on the path towards eating like a normal human being...kind of.

Just don't make me eat red meat, because for the life of me, I can't.

Chicken and shrimp seem to be all right, as long as it's not fried.

A hamburger? Settle down, people. I'm not that brave or adventurous yet.

After eating what seems like 900 pounds of oatmeal in the past few weeks, I had a very, very not nice surprise when I tried eating salsa over the weekend.

I downed three cups of water at the restaurant. I am not used to spicy food.

MY MOUTH IS ON FIRE.

Anyway, back to physical therapy.

While all the other old ladies at my PT's office get the very young, very attractive male doctors, and while the old ladies bring their friends to meet their very young, very attractive male doctors, my PT is an adorable 9-months pregnant woman.

We talked about make-up for an hour last week.

Did I mention that I love her? Because I love her. I give her money, she listens to me and she helps me. She's also very nice to me.

I lucked out with doctor #17, folks. She's a keeper.

The past year of my life has not been fun, and I've encountered and fired many a doctor who didn't believe me or do much to help me.

There are doctors in the world who care about their jobs and will help you, though. And for that, I'm smiling and extremely grateful.

That dream never goes away, does it?

Last night, in my dream, I could not find my class schedule, I couldn't go to class, and I couldn't graduate.

I am 32 years old. I own my own home. I finished school nine years ago.

That dream never goes away, does it?

The coolest

A little red-haired kid crawled up on beside me on the couch yesterday afternoon. 

"Monica, do you ever get wedgies?"

It seems like yesterday the twins were little baby burritos. Now, three years later, they can carry on a conversation about butts. 

They are the coolest people I know.

Soulmates

I think this dog and I are soulmates.

I can't say for sure why, but yesterday I cried most of my mascara off before the sun set.

It's a combination of things, really. My daily dose of sadness wasn't aimed at one specific thing.

It all accumulated yesterday, and I decided to cry it out.

This dog did not leave my side. She knows, and she understands. We made out for a long time yesterday - against my will - and I ended up laughing at her because she was so relentless with her kisses.

This dog and I were meant to be in each other's lives.

"Go outside" actually means go belly up in the covers. Look at her smug face.

10 years

 My Dad and I were in my house a while back. The conversation we had made me laugh.

What year were you in Emporia, he asked.

I thought for a minute. I moved back in 2011.  I moved there in 2010.

Then I asked him where I was 10 years ago.

Not Wichita, he said. That was 14 years ago. You were probably in Winfield, he said.

No. Not the school year 10 years ago. I mean the summer of that year 10 years ago.

Oh, he said. You were in Oklahoma City!

I never imagined myself playing a game of “I don’t remember what city I was in a number of years ago” with my family.

But life is life, and sometimes you just have to go with the flow and go wherever life takes you.

Ten years ago, I moved to Oklahoma City for a summer internship. I was determined to do it myself. I was 22, which is older than your average intern. In my mind, I was an adult, which meant that I could move myself to a city in a neighboring state without help from anyone else.

I couldn’t find my apartment. I drove around forever. It was raining, and I was crying. All the buildings looked the same to me, and all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and cry.

When I finally did find my apartment, I was really, really hungry, but I was too nervous to drive to get food and because I was afraid of getting lost again.

I should note that this was before the invention of iPhones, Siri and map apps. This was the dark ages, guys. This was 2007.

For the first night, I cried in my brand spankin’ new apartment because I was lost and hungry.

But at least I was an adult about it!

I cried many times that summer, mostly because of my own self-doubt. I never had to worry if anyone would catch the tears rolling down my face, because that summer it rained every single day, and you honestly couldn’t tell the difference between my tears and rain drops.

That makes me laugh now.

I talked about that summer with someone from work a while back. It turns out that many people experience the same thing that I did that summer.

It was the first time that I got paid for doing what I wanted to do. It was the first time I was surrounded by people who had the same passion that I did in life.

It was addicting. It was life-changing.

It turns out, if you’re really lucky in life, you get to experience what I did that summer.

The only thing that I really remember is that I had crippling self-doubt the entire time, both professionally and personally. On the way back from lunch one day, I caught the heel of my shoe in an elevator and tripped in front of a lot of people.

I was horrified at that incident. Actually, I was terrified and horrified the entire summer.

(Looking back now, I’m proud of myself that I was once young enough to wear heels. Now, they would probably kill me.)

Last summer, I tripped and fell in the middle of a street as my town’s annual parade was starting. Hundreds of people were there, and I fell flat on my face.

Some things never change.

One day, word got out that the floor above me had ordered donuts. I was too scared to get any. I shared that concern with another intern, and he told me he was too scared to get any, too.

It makes me laugh now, because donuts no longer scare me.

When I see summer interns now, I can spot them a mile away. I can smell their fear and I recognize their fresh baby faces. I wonder how some of them are even old enough to drive, because they look so young.

Oh, interns.

It makes me laugh, because I remember being that person.

There are several things I remember about that summer. At the time, I was self-conscious because I had spent five years in college. (That happens when you go to three different schools.)

Most of the interns were younger than me. Some weren’t even 21 yet. And here I was, old balls, at 22, and I had been drinking legally for more than a year.

Obviously, I was already well-seasoned at life. A veteran among babies, if you will.

I was talking about being on the 5-year plan to a full-time employee that summer. Her response was amazing.

“You’re more of a loser if you don’t finish,” she told me. “It doesn’t matter how you get there. You just have to finish.”

That summer, no one gave a crap about my age, or about how many years I spent in school. It didn’t matter then, and it turns out, that employee I was talking to was right.

It doesn’t matter now.

I think I’ll remember that advice forever.

It turns out that that particular city was not in the cards for me. I love it with all my heart, and I would probably go back in a heartbeat if money and life circumstances allowed me to (if I was married and made $200,000 a year…haha).

For now, I’m happy where I am in life. I’m thankful that God, or an alumnus at my alma mater, or whoever, gave me that experience of being totally lost, unsure of myself, but mostly just drunk a good amount of the time that summer.

I loved that experience. It was the first time that I realized that I could maybe do this thing for the rest of my life. It was the first time that I realized that I was in college for a reason, and the reason was going to eventually pay off one day.

I think Oklahoma City was my first love.

And just like your first real love, you never really forget it.

You move on and move away, but that first love is always a part of you.

And that’s okay.

I am why I can't have nice stuff.

Today's blog post is inspired by The Bloggess.

Is there a medication I can try that makes me angry-cry less when life doesn't go my way?

Among my first world problems: I left my favorite lipstick in my car this weekend. It was 100 degrees on Saturday.

Said lipstick is now a giant pile of goo.

Text message I just sent: I hate myself for this. It was expensive. I am why I can't have nice stuff.

It was so hot on Saturday, I cleaned my house and did all of my laundry, just to avoid going outside.

In other not so depressing news, I got a little bit of house work done over the weekend. On Sunday, mind you, because it was too damn hot to do anything on Saturday.

I screwed up and bought one bag of mulch that was a different color than the rest, and it turns out I need probably 6-8 more bags of mulch. But my front yard is looking better.

It takes time, people.

I'm also working on my back porch. My white trash solution to the problem a month ago costs $10. I won't even post a photo of it, because it's embarrassing. Some wood and some white paint later, it looks promising.

I think it will look nice when it's finished. It's amazing what some paint will do to a 117-year-old house.

Serene.

I can't tell you if it's science or if it's mental gymnastics.

The only thing that I know is this: Ever since I got my salt lamp last week, I've slept amazing each night and I've woken up in a happy mood.

New doctor in Wichita had me pick up something at Bed, Bath and Beyond when I was there last week. Oh darn, she said. You'll probably have to shop at Really Cute Area while you're there.

Oh darn is right.

I've never really given that area of town much consideration or attention. When I lived in Big City, I lived on the other side of town.

But shopping in this area of Big City means I'll likely run into my brother's ex and not my own ex, so I consider that a major win for this side of town.

I think I just found a new favorite shopping area.

Anyway, this lamp was calling my name. I've wanted one for a long time, but I could never justify the expense. After dealing with my colon issues for so long, I decided that yes, I did deserve to buy myself something.

Think of it as a reward for having a complicated butt.

I think The Raven likes having a lamp on at night, too. Since I've had it, her blind(ish) Pug self has not gotten lost or cried for help in the middle of the night.

I'm sensitive to sounds and noises when I sleep. The condition has to be perfect and serene in order for me to actually get some shut eye. But this lamp doesn't bother me. Waking up to that orange light when the sun is starting to rise is a little glimmer of paradise in southwest Kansas.

Beard gnat.

Intended message: I hadn't even heard that.

Actual message: I Haden even beard gnat.

Go home, phone. You're drunk.

Cow.

My brother told me at a grocery store in town that he wanted to go visit the next town over to get something.

I looked at two little girls in the grocery store, who switched between holding my hands and running away from me.

Oh no, I said to the girls. Do you know anyone in town who could watch you? Where in the world are you gonna go for an evening? With the dogs in the doghouse?

I was informed that I was silly.

Of course, I know of a place they can go. There's a pretty cool house in town that's big enough for visitors, and happens to be a block away from a playground.

That would be my house.

The girls came over (all three of them!) and I called in some reinforcements in the form of grandparents.

At the playground, we saw a cowboy strolling down the road on his horse. I showed the twins, and we waved at him.

The cowboy waved back at us.

The next day, I tried to get the twins to tell their parents what they saw on the playground.

Little red-haired girl, what did you see at the playground? Remember, we waved to him?

Little red-haired girl: A cowboy!

That's right! What was the cowboy riding? What animal was he on?

Litle red-haired girl: A cow.

At this point, I died of laughter. Close, child, but not quite. The cowboy was not riding a cow through the center of town.

Contrary to what the world thinks about Dodge City, Kansas, we don't normally have bull riding in the center of town on brick streets in broad daylight.

Try again, child. What was the cowboy riding?

Said child thought a minute, then said: Horse!

Ding, ding! We have a winner.

I think she's going to be a brain surgeon when she grows up.

A sign of solidarity

Eric Church on Serving the Fans, Not the Country Machine

I love this. 

"They would probably stay for five hours, because they’re not like other fans — especially country fans. They sing along and know every word, and are more excited for deep cuts than singles like “Springsteen.” The camaraderie in the crowd, the fervent dedication, the way people in the audience respond to each song — offering up some Jack Daniel’s during “Drink in My Hand,” or raising a shoe during “These Boots,” as a sign of solidarity, but also in hope that Church might grab one and sign it onstage — are more like the rituals of the traveling rock cults associated with Phish or the Grateful Dead."

-

“It’s taking the power away from the entitled,” says Church. “It’s all about exclusivity, everywhere in this country. We’re trying to take that away, and make it about the people. Everyone is equal. You shouldn’t have to pay more for a ticket. You shouldn’t have to get the record last because of the critics or radio.”

-

"Making the labels happy is not of particular concern to Church, who was once most famous for being the guy who got kicked off the Rascal Flatts tour — he kept playing over the allotted opening-act time, and was replaced with a then-little-known Taylor Swift."

-

Also, I have a lot of respect for Brothers Osborne because of this article. Seeing them live just got put on my bucket list.

Capeesh?

I had minor surgery a few months ago.

It was outpatient at a doctor's office. It was nothing to write home about. The most exciting thing that happened was the nurse's reaction to my Dad walking back to my room holding my purse.

When he went to go get the car, the nurse told me that I had a really good Dad.

I know, right?

Also, I woke up, drank some juice, and went shopping afterward.

Read: Nothing to write home about.

The worst part about it was the sniffles that the air thing up my nose gave me. (The air thing up my nose = correct medical terminology.)

I knew it would cost a butt load of money (someone with a malfunctioning colon loves making butt jokes), so I made a payment the day I had the procedure done.

That payment did not show up on a bill that landed in my mailbox recently.

If I've learned anything in the past year, it's that you can't always rely on doctor's offices to be right. Just because they say something doesn't mean it's true. Just because the receptionists say they did something doesn't mean they actually did it.

And just because they send you a bill doesn't mean that's what you actually owe.

I trust no one in life. It's one of my most endearing qualities about my awesome personality (sarcasm).

I called the doctor's office up. I was nice, as were they. Yo, I said. What's up with my payment not showing on my balance?

It turns out that the payment I made went towards the facility fee, not the doctor's bill for the procedure. I haven't gotten the facility fee bill yet. It's coming, the nice lady over the phone told me.

Because of course there's a bill coming to me that I didn't even know existed until now.

Yo, I said. That's great. You send me an updated bill that shows the money that I already paid you, and I'll send you the rest of the money.

Wam, bam, thank you ma'am, that problem got crossed off of my Stuff to Have Anxiety About list.

In the back of my mind, I'm thinking, you know, you get to charge me a facility fee for having minor surgery in your own practice? And then you charge me your time and talent on top of it?

I'm in the wrong profession, guys.

-

In case anyone is wondering, the surgeon I talked to last month recommended that I try physical therapy out first for my colon. Um, do I even want to know what that involves? I will find out this Friday during my first appointment. I'm going to whip this colon into shape!

Actually, I probably won't. Surgeon says there's a 20-40 percent chance PT will work.

Welcome to my life: Hey, you there. Yeah, you there with the colon problems. Go do something six to eight times and drive 300 miles each time for something that probably won't help you.

Capeesh?

-

Some people go through this and get diagnosed with colon cancer. I am thankful that did not happen to me, and I am thankful that I do not have colitis.

It's my blog, and I'll whine if I want.

-

I keep track of all my health appointments in a Word document. I've done that for a few years now. I have a dental one and I have a colon one. 

It's kind of fun to look back after the problem is fixed and realized what I went through.

My favorite lines from a Word document, which details my dental crisis...crises? crisises? Whatever the plural form of that word is:

• You know how they fish out a needle in your head? They stick more needles in your head.

• I think I deserve some kind of award for how many foreign objects are in my mouth. 

• One of these days I’m going to get good news at the dentist’s office. Today was not one of those days, but at least I didn’t cry about it this time.

•The assistant came in the room and noted that the tooth they worked on last time no longer exists in my head.

What happened, she asked?

I shrugged and said ‘I don’t know.’

What was I supposed to say? Up until two weeks ago, I thought it was your fault. Given enough time and a few bottles of wine, I could probably come up with an explanation, but right now we’ll just settle with the ‘I don’t know’ answer.

• I should have known, but I didn’t.

• And then it didn’t end. The floodgates opened up and the bad news just kept flowing and flowing and flowing.

To say that I hate this is an understatement. I loathe it. I would rather have my fingernails torn off and get chased by a pack of rapid dogs (small rabid dogs, but rabid nonetheless).

But you know what? Part of being an adult is dealing with your problems and not hiding in a corner and crying all day.

I’ve spent a lot of time fixing the problems. Well, technically I don’t really fix them; I just lay there, slobber all over myself, pay and then go back to work/life. Whatever.

The weekend I realized that this was nowhere near being over, I drove past the house I wanted to buy. The one that was $10,000 below my budget, with a huge giant backyard.

I drove past it and told it goodbye.

Someone once told me that you can have anything you want, you just can’t have everything you want. And you definitely can’t have it all at once.

Sigh.

There might have some tears involved. After I told the house goodbye, I went home, became friends with a couple bottles of wine and cried some more.

• All I want is a stupid popsicle, not your opinion.

These are all entries from a Word document on my computer titled Toothpocalypse from 2013 and 2014. It goes all the way to this year, but I don't have it in me to keep on reading what I wrote back then.

I know how it ends.

Anyway, I'm glad I kept track of my health problems back then. Going back and reading what I wrote is really funny now. 

(The only way it will ever be read by anyone else is if I die and someone gets ahold of my laptop.)

Years later, all I really want is in life is that stupid popsicle and not anyone's opinion. 

Some things never change.