New Doctor TOTALLY doesn't get me.

I have been a little out of sorts lately. So out of sorts, that the boy walked up to me last night, handed me a Xanax and told me to stop screaming at the dogs. Seriously. They were pissing me the fuck off by JUST BEING DOGS.

Out of sorts.

I went to the doctor yesterday because sometimes the crazy isn't at an acceptable level anymore. Sometimes it reaches PANIC! and medical professionals need to intervene. They are running a lot of blood work because the crazy is actually being caused by physical symptoms, not mental. I know, I know, who expected that one? Not me, that is for sure. I was expecting a padded room...the doctor told me that total lack of sleep, dizziness, and hives (accompanied by irrational bouts of scratching my skin off) are probably my thyroid or the 400 types of anemia I have had forever. And never treated. Which, just, I don't know. She is the first doctor to every say, you are a little anemic in three forms, which is a nutrition lesson I don't care to share for right now, but the only one I don't have is sickle cell. Because, duh. So, you know google if you're interested.

She also confirmed what I already knew and "The Crazy" is, in fact, not a medical term or condition. Fuck. This is what happens when you start seeing new doctors...they have to be all, taking your boyfriend's Xanax is not OK and if you can't stop scratching wear oven mitts. It's like I'm two.

The moral of the story is fasting, blood tests, blah blah blah. But? But! If I start sleeping, I may not be so crazy. I would be totally OK with that.

On a totally unrelated note, my sister sent me an email that was a veiled apology and mostly just a desperate plea for me to come to her wedding. It was the best apology I think I will ever get from her, though, and I guess that is good enough for me. So, our problems are resolved? Or at least they are behind us for the sake of her wedding. Even though I still feel weird and icky about the whole thing, I know when to stand my ground, and this is not that time. So, bigger person and all that shit.

Is it bad that I want to be petty and whiny and stomp my feet on the ground? The old doctor would have totally gotten this and laughed when I called it The Crazy. I miss her.

People who should be forced to grocery shop online.

1. The lady with the 6 screaming children who is not even TRYING to control them as they pick things up off the shelves and throw them on the ground.

2. The woman who HAS to save that extra two cents on a gallon of milk, even though it is taking every single clerk in the store to get the coupon to work and I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO TELL THE FUCKING MACHINE I AM 21 SO I CAN LEAVE.

3. The man who is clearly only there to look at women inappropriately.

4. The woman who brought exactly $20.01 and is going to keep adding and removing things until her bill totals exactly $20.01.

5. The couple who decided, hey, why make out on the couch when we can just make out in the aisles of the grocery store.

6. The woman who hit me with her cart not once, but twice, while having conversations with an infant that obviously did not yet understand language. Little Timmy does not need you to point out all the colors on the soup cans.

7. The dude on the motorized cart. Not because he couldn't walk, but because he is just that lazy. Seriously. Order them online. Save us all from having to hate you and then hate ourselves for hating you.

8. The woman who spent all day getting dressed for the grocery store. Seriously. Heels are only appropriate when stopping in for a bottle of wine or beer on the way over to a friend's house.

9. The man who would not stop asking me questions about produce. Seriously. In and out. That is how grocery shopping works.

10. Me. Who is clearly to crabby to be allowed in public. Ever.

I have nothing appropriate for a title to this post.

One of the local photographers that I follow bought her son his first camera and posted some of his first pictures. I have the utmost respect for this woman, truly, I do. But am I the only person who sees this as pretty horrifying? And can anyone identify what it is actually a picture of? Because I dramatically gasped and immediately came here for advice.

The whole story...feel free to skip this, because holy fuck, emotion.

I am emotionally drained and I have decided to tell the story of what happened at my sister's bachelorette party. I may regret it later and pull the post, but for now, I am telling the story.

The night started off awesome. Covered in penis paraphernalia we went out for Sushi and then bar hopping in downtown St. Louis. About midnight, I became extremely aware of how drunk my sister was. Now, here is a little background on the situation, at least that I have blogged about. Over the last two years, the following things have happened.

1. She didn't realize she was low (I suspected it and was told she was fine) and while driving from her apartment to my mom's house, she went too low and crashed her car into a median. The cops thought she was drunk (diabetics often slur their words and have an alcohol-like smell on their breath when low) and only released her when we arrived on the scene and explained the situation. Her blood glucose was around 40.

2. I was on the phone with her and she passed out. Turns out you can't call 911 from Ohio and have it work in Edwardsville, IL. It took me almost a half an hour to get to someone who could help. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. The paramedics broke down the door. Her blood glucose was around 20.

3. The incident at Thanksgiving.

These are the incidents that I am aware of...I see her, maybe, twice a year. I know that her fiance has called 911 multiple times, but she never tells the family about those situations, so I am not really sure what happened.

Those of you that do not understand diabetes, your blood glucose should be about 120. Over 200 is considered high. Under 80 is considered low. Most diabetics are unconscious and in a diabetic coma at about 50. My sister has always been able to go extremely low and be conscious.

So, I went into the bathroom and found her leaning against the wall, her eyes rolling around. These are symptoms of someone being extremely drunk, but they are also symptoms of an insulin reaction/ low blood glucose. I insisted we test her blood sugar. I couldn't get the machine to work right and she was being anything but helpful. She started getting pissed at me because I was "being paranoid" and "overreacting" so I left the bathroom. I went to the bar and got a drink.

Her friends came out a few minutes later and said that the machine continued to say that her blood glucose was 78, but that they thought that was her last reading and, oh, by the way, she threw up everywhere. She then started to throw up all over the bar. They took her outside and I sat at the bar and finished my drink. I walked outside and she was still throwing up. Her friends insisted that it was because they kept making her drink water.

I didn't know what to do. I was drunk. I was in no condition to be in charge of her medical health. And, frankly, I was pretty pissed off for being put in this position. I talked it over with one of her friends, who we will call Jane. Jane said that Kristen did this all the time and that she thought she would be fine, but it was up to me whether or not we called 911. I didn't know what to do and had started crying, knowing she would hate me if I called. I calmed down and weighed the information. The only reading we had was 78. She was throwing up. She hasn't eaten in 5 hours.

I dialed 911 and handed my phone to Jane. Then I bawled like a freaking baby because I knew she would never forgive me for this. I just couldn't risk her life. I couldn't.

The ambulance arrived and I stood outside the door waiting. They came out and told me her blood sugar was 385 (or around there...this is kind of foggy) and what did I think we should do. I told them I was drunk and I just didn't know, but that if she was high, everything was OK, right? The paramedic basically turned to his partner and said "the responsible party is too intoxicated to speak on the patients behalf. I am calling the hospital." He called the hospital and they required that she come in. The paramedic asked me to step into the ambulance and ride with them.

I got into the back and she started screaming at me. She said some horrible, horrible hurtful things that I am not going to repeat here. Mostly because I don't think I have the strength to type them. The paramedics said it would be best if I sat in the front of the ambulance. She continued to tell the other paramedic how much she hated me the whole way there.

We got to the hospital and I went into the lobby and waited for her. She started screaming that she wanted her purse. I walked over to tell her that my cousin had it and she just yelled fuck you to me over and over. The hospital personnel asked me to step outside.

I called my mom and they said they were on their way. My mom went in and she said some equally awful things to her. All she wanted was her fiance. He finally showed up and I waited in the car with my mom's husband until all was resolved, about 5:30 am. My mom walked out of the hospital and told me that my sister was furious at me and all of her friends. The diagnosis was extreme intoxication and the doctor ripped her a new one about drinking like this with diabetes.

Last week, my dad called my sister and talked to her. She didn't remember any of this. My dad recounted the few points I had told him about and she appeared to be stunned, but said her friends insisted that I just freaked out and called 911 when it wasn't necessary. My mom talked to her last night, when she called my mom to apologize. She said that my mom didn't know the whole story and that I was lying. When my mom expressed that I didn't feel welcome at her wedding, my sister said nothing.

At this point, I don't know if I am going to go. I really don't.

She claims that I abandoned her, because she doesn't remember screaming at me and never saw me again. Even though I stood outside the emergency room the whole time, watching her to make sure she was OK. I even went inside a second time and she started yelling at me, so I went back outside. Admittedly, I also had to pee. But, still.

I will admit I overreacted. I did. She would have been fine had I not called 911. But, I had no way of knowing that. And I didn't know what else to do because I was not sober enough to feel comfortable making that decision. And all of her friends just blew it off like it wasn't a big deal.

I go back and forth between feeling like I ruined her bachelorette party and being furious with her for putting me in that situation. And I don't know how to forgive her for the things she said.

Hell, I don't even know if I am welcome at her wedding. If my sister is anything, she is stubborn and she is always right. And she may never forgive me for this, but she is alive. I guess that is something to hold on to.

UPDATE: Her friend just sent me a message on Facebook...and I quote..."hey, while you're posting all these pics of your dogs, you should post some from the bach party. i want to see. apparently we only have so many days to access the evite after the event. stupid."

I am officially surrounded by ass holes.

Alfred Hitchock, radishes, and I blame sleep deprivation for this entire post.

I really fought the whole social media trend. I did. I had a blog for years, but I kept it private. I still have a lot of the posts, actually. And they are poetry and a bunch of emo posts where I talk about how I wish my life was all sunshine and rainbows, but really it is all dying flowers and other emo shit. I don't know, I went through a phase. OK, I lied. I am kind of emo. In a "heh, I am totally not emo (OMG! DO YOU THINK THEY KNOW?)" kind of way. But, seriously, there are moods only Dashboard Confessional is appropriate for. Please still love me.

I just told you that, didn't I?

So, when I finally joined MySpace I was skeptical. I didn't want to find 100 people from my past that I don't talk to for a reason. And, really? I didn't. I found a few, a happy few, and followed a bunch of local bands and filled out the "All About Me" surveys. A lot of the surveys. Sometimes I even googled surveys and copied and pasted them and made the subject line look like I copied it from someone else. I almost never told the truth on them...I made up the answers or answered them all with "I am Batman" or some shit because I thought I was funny or ironic or something else it totally was not. Alcohol may or may not have been involved.

I was at my sister's apartment when she was in college and her friend made me sign up for Facebook. I felt kind of stupid because at the time it was a college thing and I was a college drop out ten times over. But, I did it anyway and it was sort of, meh. I had, like, four friends. Over time, most of my friends joined and it was a fun way to keep up with everyone.

Then it happened. (please read the rest of this post to horror music, preferably Alfred Hitchcock style.)

A friend from high school recommended that I join our high school graduation year page.So, I became a fan or joined or some shit and all of a sudden EVERYONE I ALWAYS HATED was there. Friend recommendations. Friend requests. I got friend requests from people I didn't even remember. I looked at my yearbook and STILL didn't know who they were. It died down and all was OK. I was fine. It was people I could live with and it was whatever.

Then...(climax of Alfred Hitchcock related music)...they started coming out of the woodwork. Girl who has 1500 friends and is wearing her underwear in her picture. Guy who now lives in San Francisco and is a club promoter and possibly jaundiced. Or tan. I am going with jaundiced. Giant dork who became a model. All of the people who somehow validate their existence by the number of friends they have on Facebook. They all sent me friend requests. And I accepted. Because I am a fucking nut case.

I now have 182 friends. Can we talk for a second about how I talk to, like 15 of those people regularly? There are still 20 or so that I can't remember. Maybe I never even knew them. Maybe it is some giant social experiment where they say they went to high school with me and post subliminal messages through Facebook and eventually I am in a cult in Utah farming radishes.

I sort of lost my way on this post a few rants ago, but seriously, I hate Facebook. Oh, and you should probably turn off the horror music now. Thanks for playing along, even if the music was only in your head. Fuck that, ESPECIALLY if the music was only in your head.

(I have more updates and info on the drama of the past weekend, but I just can't yet. I need some more time to process. And I know a lot of you are concerned, or feigning concern, and I promise I will provide closure to this story when I finally have an ending. )

I have radishes to attend to.

Choices

I am a fixer. I tend to be the person who is "on both sides" and trying not to take sides. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I take sides, but rarely when it isn't appropriate. I prefer that people leave me out of their conflicts and act like adults and resolve them on their own.

I am also an intense person. When I feel something, I don't ever just sort of feel something. If I am mad, I am fucking pissed. If I am sad, I am in bed unable to move or function. If I believe in something, I believe in it with everything that I am. If I don't care, I really just don't give a fuck. I am not the person who says I don't care and then actually cares. If I say that, I mean it. And I will rarely be able to make a decision about two things I care deeply about or two things I do not care about at all.

I care too much, I realize this. I think that there are people out there who are able to shut off their emotions and not care at all. And I think there are people like me, who feel for all of those people who just can't.

My mom stopped by my sister's house and she pretended like nothing happened. She has made no attempt to contact anyone to apologize or make amends in anyway.

I am falling apart, into little tiny over emotional, under medicated pieces.

Maybe I am supposed to feel what she can't. Or maybe I am supposed to learn that sometimes you just have to say fuck it and move on. Even if it is something you care about so much.

That's where my problem is, though, isn't it? Do I choose my mental health, my sanity, my emotional well being? Or do I choose my sister? It's a decision I will never make. I know this about myself. I will lean one way and then another for the rest of my life, living a life where my family revolves around her temper tantrums and emotional turmoil.

I guess it's not always about the decision, but about the realization that you will never make one.

This Weekend

I am not sure I can tell the whole story of this weekend yet. The bridal shower went very well and the bachelorette party was awesome, until it ended with an ambulance and my sister in the hospital. She disagreed in the calling of the ambulance (she is diabetic and was vomiting) because she was drunk and insolent. And just mean. It was so much fun until then. So much fun.

Everyone said I did the right thing. Everyone said she needs to learn to take care of herself and that she did this. She made the choice to drink too much. She made the choice to not stop until she was vomiting ALL. OVER. THE. BAR. She made the choice to say some really really horrible things to me, my mother, and all of her friends.

I can't sleep because all I can think about is Saturday night. I feel like I ruined her day, her very important day. And I am just so hurt by the things she said and the way she behaved. I don't want to talk about it because I just lose it. I start crying and I experience it all over again.

I don't know what to do next. I will not call her. I will not just let her get away with it this time because we have always let her act like this. Because she is sick and she had a hard childhood and blah blah blah. I have spent 26 years just letting her hurt me over and over and over and not saying a word. My mom is taking the same stance, because she was much nastier to my mom than to me.

The paramedics said I made the right choice and THEY made the decision to take her to the ER. The ER doctor said that when a diabetic starts vomiting, it is serious. Period. And that nobody with this disease should ever drink to the point she had drank too.

I will show up at her wedding and I will make a speech and I will smile and be pleasant. But I will not just forgive. I can't. Not this time.

I am going to need to speak to Simon Cowell's stylist. Immediately.

I discovered today that I am fashion challenged. Or new-fashion challenged. Or maybe just challenged, I can't really be sure here because nobody ever thinks, "Man, I am socially and fashionably incapable." They just assume everyone else is wrong. I have a lot of friends that always look cute in the way that I want to look cute. I see people on TV and am, like, man, that outfit is cute. Or people at, say, the grocery store. OK, not so much the grocery store. I am too busy ogling produce. But, somewhere in public sometime people have looked cute.

See? DO YOU SEE THE PROBLEM? I don't even know where to go to see people of the same sex that look cute in clothes that I may want to wear. Now I just sound like a stalker.

Let's regroup.

I am the female Simon Cowell. All I wear is black T-shirts and jeans. If I am feeling mega, super, ultra hot, I'll wear a black tank top. And if it is a super special occasion, like New Year's, I'll wear heels and more than likely take them off halfway through the night.

There was a time when this was not the case. Really. I used to be cute, or my version of cute. I have never been girly. But, I was cute. I understood fashion.

Then I went to culinary school. And got a job that required a uniform. And I go from uniform to uniform. When I do actually venture out, I am tired. And I throw on flip flops or Converse, jeans, and a black T-shirt. This has worked for me. I have had no need to find alternative clothing options. Until...this week. My sister's bachelorette party is this weekend and I need to look cute. Like, real world cute, not black tank top cute. So, I went to Target and Old Navy. This is where I shop for things I will likely only wear once. There is no sense in spending $50 on a shirt that will get worn MAYBE 3 times. And I've lost a lot of weight, so I don't even know what size I wear anymore. And the whole thing was just one big anxiety attack, but I did it anyway because it is what civilized people do. Here is what I learned:

I cannot tell the difference between a shirt and a dress. I stood in Target for 10 minutes debating whether it was a really short skirt or a really long shirt. Granted, I would never wear it either way, but I had to know. Then I was too ashamed to ask and just hoped it was a shirt.

A LOT of people want to know whether you are Team Edward or Team Jacob and prefer you wear a shirt advertising your status.

There are two sizes in everything that is even remotely cute; XS and 3X. I am neither.

Ugly comes in every size.

I do not understand a single thing that is fashionable right now EXCEPT for various versions of black T-shirts and tank tops.

"Bohemian" + my boobs = maternity wear. Or giant tent wear...or something that involves everything sticking out as far as my boobs, which is, well, far.

I'm wearing a black tank top. And flip flops. Fuck it.

Remember that time we talked about that thing?

Erratic: "Boy!"

The Boy: "Yeah."

Erratic: "Denise Richards."

The Boy: "Oh, yeah, Charlie Sheen."

Erratic: "From the other night."

The Boy: "Right."

Then we both laughed because we seriously were trying to figure out who he was married to like 4 days ago. And it just miraculously came to me for no particular reason.

Happy Easter everyone! And those of you who don't celebrate Easter, happy stores are closed for no reason day!

Weather, Infection, and the tickets are now diamonds

I am still alive, I swear. I have just been, well, blah. I haven't really had anything of interest to write about. Plus, the weather has been fucking awesome. Like, I sat on my deck and got sunburned the other day. SUN MOTHER FUCKING BURNED. It hurts in the most awesome way. And, "It Hurts So Good" just popped in my head. This, right here, is why I haven't been posting. Nobody and I mean nobody needs to hear about sunburns and random songs popping in my head.

My sister's bridal shower/ bachelorette party is this Saturday and I am kind of freaking out because she is bridezilla and I am not exactly the perfect picture of calm when faced with adversity. So...I am going to overdose on Xanax and hope for the best. Oh, and beer. Lots and lots of beer. More than likely, I will just grit my teeth and bear it because it is her moment and I will suffer her misery only to give it back tenfold if/when I ever get married. Yes, I am mostly evil.

I also had a tiny little medical problem that everyone I have told has freaked out about. I got a staph infection on my neck, which they think is MRSA. Yeah, google that shit. Just, ew. BUT! I am keeping it isolated and covered and antibiotics and OMG I AM NOT A LEPER. I had problems with this as a kid/teenager. Like, I spent hours upon hours seeing doctors at the center for disease control. So, the first sign of a bump, I rushed to the urgent care across the street and am hoping it is a rare isolated incident I picked up at work. I mean, work is essentially a hospital, so work with me here. I picked it up at work. Say it with me (for, you know, support.) If I have to go through this again, seriously, this blog is going to get really fucking whiny.

I have also started having some serious nightmares about becoming a chef. Like, the other night I had a sit straight up in bed, covered in sweat, can't catch your breath nightmare about Polenta. POLENTA. I know that it is just insecurity and due to the fact that I am working at getting a real, holy shit I am legit, job in a kitchen. Like, cooking food and shit. And I am freaking out because if I fail, if I just plain suck, that's it. It's not like my former world, where you just find another job. Your reputation follows you for a long time in this industry. And I feel just so fucking...unworthy. Oh, the joys of insecurity. Typing this right now, my heart is racing. Holy fuck, I need medication.

I am going to leave you with the best fucking commercial ever made in the history of ever. Like, I stop fast forwarding through commercials to watch this. I just watched it when I got the link for the video. Then I tweeted it. I love this commercial.

I would have just embedded the video, but that is what the boy is for and he is currently in the basement having sex with his iPad. I expect to see him around September.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owGykVbfgUE