Shhhh.. don’t tell the cats…but I really like the dog.

Published January 4, 2018 by Malia

My dog is scared of popping bubble wrap. She’s also scared of the crinkling sound plastic bottles make. She always looks worried or sad or both. The boy says she gets her anxiety from me. When he’s home she doesn’t seem anxious at all.

Anyway, here’s a bunch of pictures of my precious 11 year old lady puppy; because she’s the best, I love her, and we all need more dog pictures in our lives! (I don’t care that she’s old. I’ll always refer to her as a puppy.)

This is her, “Please, mom, stay home with me and don’t go to work for 9-ish hours.” face.

See, she’s totally at peace when the boy is home. He claims he no longer has a lap.

She looks so precious in her coat, but ahe refuses to leave the hood up.

LOOK AT HER LITTLE PAW PRINTS IN THE SNOW!!!!! She, however, hates the cold and the snow.

She loves sleeping under the covers. This is not an unusual early morning sight.

Puppy-ball and cat-loaf. This is the closest they get to getting along.

I adore her underbite and snaggletooth.

I love her little nerd shirts ❤

My little super hero dog. Her Wonder Woman cape and harness were a bit expensive, but soooooo worth it! She’s so adorable in them!

Bonus: adorable Doctor Mew!

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Even Netflix isn’t safe

Published January 3, 2018 by Malia

Have you noticed the new thing Netflix is doing? When I pick something to watch, they’ve started running previews for other things that I could be watching. I can, and do, skip the preview but they still start the preview before I actually get to start the thing that I picked.

Now, I understand the thinking behind this marketing. They want to make me aware of these other programs that they have, ones that I may not know about. But, I have a really hard time making decisions and if Netflix would just check their data, they’d see I spend way more time digging through their offerings trying to pick something, than I actually spend watching anything. So, these little previews that come up as soon as I’ve made my decision are almost like Netflix is saying, “Yeah, we don’t think you made a good choice. Here, watch Dave Chapelle instead.”

Because this is such a new thing, I keep forgetting that I’m going to have a preview come up. So, I’ll make my selection, and then am confused and surprised (and not the good kind of surprised, it’s more of a, “This really doesn’t look like Fuller House. Did I select the wrong thing? Why can’t I operate a remote correctly??? THE SKY IS FALLING!!!” panicked surprise) when something else starts playing. It’s not until I notice the little box in the lower corner of the screen with my show in it that I realize I’m watching a preview.

So, yeah, it’s very much a first world problem, but I swear Netflix has figured out how to make my constant indecision even worse.

You take the good, you take the bad…

Published January 2, 2018 by Malia

When we driving home from my in-laws on Christmas Eve I had this thought enter my brain, “Next year, there might be three of us.”  And for the next 48 hours I was in a pretty happy, pretty hopeful place.

No, I’m not pregnant.  I didn’t think I was.  But, there was this smidgen (and boy ,do I mean smidgen) of a chance, that in the next year I might be.

So here’s the deal, last Wednesday, I was supposed to have a surgery.  My doctor was going to shrink my stupid giant ovaries down to normal size by cutting wedges out of them.  There was no guarantee, but there was this chance that it’d undo a lot of my PCOS mess.  There was a chance that I’d actually be able to make some progress on the weight loss front.  There was even a chance that it’d make me a little less insulin resistant.  There was a chance it’d make the mystery pain go away, and that it would lessen my mood swings.  And…there was this chance that I could get pregnant and stay pregnant.  I was so excited.  I was weirdly calm.  I think I was so desperate for just one of those many things to be a little bit better that it outweighed the anxiety and fear I was also experiencing.

And then I went to my pre-op last Tuesday…

Picture it…9 a.m. the day after Christmas.  I got to my appointment, and things promptly went downhill.  My first warning sign came when I was going through my paperwork, verifying that they had my info correct, and noticed that they had down the doctor from my work’s employee health clinic down as my primary doctor (she’s nice and I have seen her in the last year, but she’s not my primary doctor, or even my ob-gyn).  I pointed this out, and the receptionist told me that she wasn’t able to change that, and that someone in the surgery center would need to fix it on the day of my surgery.  I remember feeling confused as to why she’d asked me to check to make sure everything was correct if she couldn’t actually change any of it.

I then got taken into the exam room.  Both the nurse and the anesthesiologist were either really annoyed they had to work the day after Christmas, or were super hungover, or both.  I just know that they were both in bad moods, and every time I tried to be even a little funny I got death glares from both parties.  First, the anesthesiologist was upset with me because of my diabetes and my difficulty keeping my blood sugars down.  Then, she was annoyed that I’m overweight.  To make it a trifecta, I frustrated her because I snore so I must have sleep apnea and I really need to be getting that treated.  I should probably be undergoing a sleep study (at least, according to her).  If I hadn’t been stressed and anxious before, I was at that point.  A great way to feel the day before surgery.  More than once the anesthesiologist informed me that I was ONLY having an elective procedure and I really wasn’t in any condition to have any elective procedure.  I kept thinking, “I’m not here for bigger boobs.  You know those things that you’re really frustrated and annoyed with me about?  This is a procedure that could actually make those things better.”

They drew my blood.  The anesthesiologist gave me many print outs (all about the health problems that she had concerns about), gave me another lecture about how I really shouldn’t be having an elective procedure, and I went home, my calm now tinged with a small amount of dread.

That evening, I was about to go flush out my system (yeah, that’s as nasty as it sounds), and I got a phone call.  From my doctor.  And it started with her saying, “I’m so sorry, I was so sad when I heard about tomorrow.  I was really looking forward to seeing you.”  (I should mention here that my doctor is a beautiful, kind, sweet woman who genuinely gives a crap and actually listens to me and I kind of love her.)

To which I replied, “What about tomorrow?”  Dread amount was no longer in the small category.

“Didn’t the hospital call you?  They said they called you.”

“No, they didn’t call me.”

Turns out that blood draw (the one that a week later I still have a bruise from), sent a result back that the anesthesiologist didn’t like.  And just like that, my surgery was cancelled.  The hospital called my doctor  while she was performing someone else’s surgery, and left her a message regarding the cancellation.  They gave me no chance to redo the tests, or to fight to stay on the schedule.

I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut.  The sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe something was finally going to get fixed in my body, was gone, at least for now.  I cried all that night.  I cried the better part of surgery day.  And then, I think my body just ran out of tears.  It’s now been a week, and I’m still hanging in there.  I’m disappointed that I have to shelve the surgery for now.  However, it’s not like it’ll never happen, and even if it doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world.  I have an amazing husband, adorable pets, precious nephews and a niece, and a collection of graphic novels that should keep me entertained for the next two years (possibly more, it’s amazing how cheap you can get them on Ebay.  The boy need not know how much I’m adding to our already large collection…).

And for now, I’m going to refuse to give up hoping that someday, in the future, I’m going to be a better, healthier me.

Dear 2018, I refuse to make a pile of resolutions I’m just going to break in a day. So, let’s just promise to be kind to each other. Okay?

Published January 1, 2018 by Malia

I have been standing in my kitchen, washing dishes for the last 20 minutes, thinking about what I could say as we head into 2018.  Did I come up with anything wise?  Well, if you think that, “at least it’s easy to turn a 7 into an 8, so when I write 2017 on everything for the next two weeks and have to change it, it won’t be that difficult,” is wise, then sure, I’m super wise.

Actually, I’m feeling grateful.  Things were bad a year ago.  The boy was working a nightmare job.  His only income was commission based, and he worked 12-14 hours every day, 7 days a week.  To make matters worse, he rarely had sales, so more than once we went an entire month with him not having a paycheck.  Our bank account more frequently had a number that was red with a little minus in front of it, than it had a number in black.  It didn’t help that I had this constant mystery pain on the left side of my abdomen that no one could give me an answer about.  The worse things got, the more frozen in depression and anxiety I got.  I got to the point I was having trouble functioning as a human.    Things were bad, and dark, and I spent most of my time feeling completely and utterly hopeless.

Now, it’s January 1, 2018, and the boy no longer works the job from hell.  Our bank account, while not super healthy, hasn’t had bright red minus numbers in months.  I still have my mystery pain, but hey, two out of three bad things aren’t bad anymore.

So, here’s to 2018.  Here’s to starting a year with a bit of hope and a lot less fear.

Hello, 911? I’m a mess.

Published October 28, 2017 by Malia

This week was a big pile of Bantha poodoo. Not only did I end up in the e.r. for chest pains on Wednesday night (that’s a whole separate post that will be coming soon), but then on Friday morning I had one of the scariest experiences of my life.

I awoke at 5:30 a.m. because Gracie was standing on the bed, staring at the door, and barking. This was a little alarming to wake up to, but the truly scary part wad that I could see light from out in the house streaming under my doorway…and I knew I had turned all the lights off before I went to bed.

Oh, and I was home alone because the boy’s new job requires some overnights out of town.

I grabbed Gracie, my phone, and a knife and locked us all up in the master bathroom. Since I knew the bedroom door was locked, I figured I’d at least bought myself some time.

Now, my first thought was that maybe the boy had gotten home early. So, I tried calling him. And I kept trying to call him. I sent a text. I got no responses.

I could hear faint noises from out in the house, but was unsure if I was hearing the cats, or if someone was in the house.

Finally, I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher that I thoughtthere was an intruder. She stayed on the phone with me while I waited for the cops to arrive. It only took a few minutes, but those minutes felt like hours. Eventually, I heard what sounded like faint knocking. I asked the dispatcher if it was the cops, and she confirmed it was and said it was okay to go answer the door.

I crept out from the bathroom, convinced that an attacker was lurking, waiting to grab me. When I opened the bedroom door, my heart nearly stopped because all the lights in the house were now off. I knew that at least one light had been on, which confirmed my fear that there was an intruder.

I made my way down the hallway, freaking out on the phone to the dispatcher, because I was convinced something terrible was about to happen. I must have looked super intimidating in my pink, fluffy bathrobe, phone in one hand, knife in the other. And by intimidating, I mean hilarious.

And then, I entered the living room…

“Hey, babe.” The sleepy voice of my husband greeted me from the couch.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that relieved, pissed, and embarrassed all at once. I may have muttered something along the lines of, “I love you, but I’m gonna kill you!”

I switched on a light, and wrapped in my fluffy pink bathrobe I went to the door and proceeded to explain to a very kind/slightly amused police officer that while someone was actually in the house, it was my husband. The officer assured me that they were just glad everything was okay, and I did the right thing by calling since I hadn’t known for sure.

They left. I went in and kissed the boy and he told me his phone had been set to “do not disturb” and he’d been trying to let me get sleep since the week had been a sleepless one for me. Part of me melted because he’s so thoughtful and sweet. The non-melted part requested that in the future he either text me he’s headed home early, or turn off “do not disturb.”

And that, kids, is the story of how I called the cops on my husband.


Here I Go Again

Published October 9, 2017 by Malia

When I started this blog in 2012, it was because the year before I had moved 500 miles away from home to North Dakota. It was my way of letting people back home know I was okay, and hadn’t completely lost my mind. See, if you move to North Dakota, and claim that you actually love it there, people 500 miles away who dislike the frigid north, tend to wonder about your sanity.

I did love North Dakota, which came a complete surprise to me. I was running away from home, because the last years of my life had been mostly a giant pile of dog poo. Sometimes it was literal dog poo, but I digress. North Dakota was the only safe place available to me to run away to, so I ran.

I moved home from North Dakota at the end of 2012, and tried to keep writing regularly. Over the last few years, I got married, tried being a stay at home wife, went back to work, filled the house with pets, and tried to figure out what the mystery pain in my tummy is. Over the last three years I haven’t written much. In fact, lately I’ve not written at all.

I need to start writing again. See, life has continued on, even though I’ve been less forthcoming as of late. Life has been exhausting, sometimes scary, sometimes frustrating, and mostly overwhelming.

So, for better or worse I return to here. I feel the need to try to make sense of the overwhelming and to share cute puppy pictures while I’m at it.

Say “Hi” to Gracie, my 11 year old puppy!

This too shall pass…it may pass like a kidney stone…but it will pass

Published April 23, 2017 by Malia

“Tragedy is when I cut my finger.  Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.”  Mel Brooks

“I don’t think you can take anymore bad news.” the boy informed me when he got home on Thursday night.

“You’re probably right, but you can’t say something like that and not tell me what happened.”

Turned out that he’d blown a tire that afternoon.  As I sat there, taking in the latest bit of bad news in our life, there was this little voice in the back of my head that muttered something about, “One day you’ll look back on this and laugh.”  However, laughter wasn’t exactly forthcoming in that moment.  Instead, I sat there doing math and trying not to cry.

We’d barely been scraping by this month, but I knew that with the paychecks being deposited on Friday, we’d finally be able to pay the mortgage, and have just a little left over to finally be ahead instead of facing the red.  Now, that little was going to cover replacing tires.

Now, before I continue, I feel I should make an interjection here.  I realize that over that over the last several months, the few times I have blogged, it’s been stressed, depressed writing.  I’ve just been stuck.  Completely overwhelmed and terrified of what bad news each day is going to bring.  The thing is, I know that the more I focus on feeling crapped on, the more crapped on I’m going to feel.  So, I’m making a point to try to not focus on the bad, and I’m going to try to find the good and the funny/absurd.

And back to the story…

Thankfully, we did have just enough to cover the mortgage and the tires.  However, I am trying very hard not to freak out right now, because I have zero idea of how we’re going to pay our electric bill that’s also due this week.  I dream of a day when we can pay all of our bills on time every month.  I know that we’re nearing that day, because we’ve already made great progress since the end of last year when we couldn’t pay anything.  So, that’s a happy thought.

And despite the stress, and the fear, we’re okay.  The boy and I are together, holding on tight to each other and to Jesus.

And if we do end up living down by the river, at least we’ve got a van.