January 17, 2014

This is how we deal.

You guys. This week.

Okay, not just this week. The past two weeks. This YEAR, even.

Well, no. That might be a little dramatic.

But I’m pooped.

I’m so behind on Downton Abbey that I just finished the first episode last Friday. And it was exhausting.

Maybe it’s just me getting used to spending Sunday night without Nathan Fillion or the Walking Dead, but Downton was thoroughly underwhelming. I mean, I’m not giving up on it yet, but it was a rough week. I’m not sure if I need to give the show an “It’s not you, it’s me” talk or just redefine the boundaries of our relationship in a “You entertain me while I knit and drink tea. Your job is to keep me interested, or at the very least awake. Okay?” kind of way.

Speaking of the Walking Dead, guess what the first baby  of the year here was named? Darryl. After you know who. I think it was pretty ballsy of that couple to admit to the world that their baby was named after a character off a zombie killing show. I mean, the kid has a lot to live up to. At the very least he’ll have to learn to hunt squirrels with a crossbow.

I totally understand wanting to name your children after fictional characters. Who else would you name them after? Parents? Grandparents? Friends? Friendly grocery clerks? I guess, but that gets awkward. How is the person bagging your groceries going to feel? Totally left out.

Be honest, the names you like the most are totally ones from books or television. Or possibly old elementary school crushes. My nephew’s name is Michael, a name I love, but not because it’s Karl’s dad’s name, but because of Meg Cabot. Anyway, there are already enough Michaels in this family so that’s out the window. When I name my kid Ron, I’ll pretend I chose it because it’s so nice and old fashioned. But really? Weasley all the way.  

I got acupuncture last week and I don’t get weirded out anymore when she unhooks my bra and does it up again later. Maturity, folks. I might actually name any future children Kristy after my acupuncturist because I love her so much. I mean, she has chickens and undresses then redresses me, but she might be magic. Actually for realsies. It’s been 18 and a half WEEKS since my last migraine and, believe you me, I have had enough stress in the last month to give me one every day. That’s over four months in case you’re keeping track.

I’m doing a little happy/victory dance right now. On the inside. I want to do a cancan or something. Maybe some sort of Russian dance that involves lots of squatting, kicking, and yelling “HEY!”. Yep. That’s how I feel every time I think about how long it’s been since my brain tried to kill me.


Anyway, at my last appointment she tried cupping on my back and it left me with some freaky-deaky  back bruises. My back looked like someone had hit it with a two-by-four in two different places. Or, as I prefer to think of it, my wings were coming in. She also put some teeny tiny little needles in the top of my ears. They look like those little round Band-Aids that you put on your toes when they rub in new shoes, but they’re on/in my ears and have been for over a week. I plan on taking them outMonday.

In other words, I’m getting acupuncture RIGHT NOW. Jealous?


On January 2nd Karl asked me why the tree was still up. I asked him to move out, but told him he could stay when he flexed his manly arms. Not in a menacing way, but a manly way.

Confession time. My Christmas everything is still up. I was going to take it down on Sunday for sure, but I can’t even remember what we did that day except that I was exhausted when we got home at 9 and there was no way I was going to stress about putting away my beautiful, lovely tree. Then the rest of this crazy week happened and here we are. But tomorrow. For sure times a million. It’s not something you can rush, though. The tree needs to be taken down as contemplatively and lovingly as it was put up. Treat that sucker with respect and its plastic needles will never wilt and its lights will always shine brightly.

I’ve been drinking so much decaf coffee the past two days you’d think I was confused. I’m not confused, just sucking every meager drop of caffeiney goodness out of that stuff that I can without actually causing myself physical, mental, and emotional damage by reverting to my hopelessly caffeine addicted ways. Because I can quit decaf anytime I want. I can even drink it before bed! It’s just a comfort thing. A bitter, bitter comfort thing. It’s addicted to me, okay? Enough with your judgement. Who’s the one with the plank in their eye, eh? AMIRIGHT?

Go home, Anna. Go. Home.

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