1. It’s in March in Salt Lake City.
2. It’s all about telling your personal stories, which is obviously right up my alley.

You should read up on the conference, and then if you’re into that sort of thing you should sign up for it and come hang out with me. Really, even if you aren’t into that sort of thing, you should come hang out with me, because I’m just that awesome.

Anyway, I was pretty excited to win, because I wanted to attend the conference but didn’t want to shell out the money for the ticket because we’re poor. When Car came home for lunch today, I attempted to share my excitement. The (possibly exaggerated) conversation went something like this:

Me: I won a ticket to a blogging conference! (Yes, I know it’s not specifically a blogging conference, but whatever.)

Car: (After whining about how I’ll probably end up spending money on other stuff even though the ticket is free.) You should probably actually get back to blogging then, shouldn’t you?

Now that it’s a full hour after the conversation ended and now he’s back at work, I have this to say, “Go ahead, Car. Show me the last thing you wrote.“

Booyah.

*I totally told him I was blogging about this, lest you think I’m a terrible wife who bitches about her husband behind his back.

**If I really wanted to bitch about him behind his back, I’d need to start another blog, since he reads this one.

***NOT THAT I ACTUALLY WRITE ON THIS BLOG, RIGHT, CAR?

****Sniffle.

I really should know better than to ask these questions.

Dude.

A few things here:

1. Who asks a question like that? 
2. Who googles it? 
3. Why the hell did it lead them to my blog?

I know I talk about poop a fair amount on this blog, but to the best of my recollection (though I’m sure I killed a few brain cells with the drugs), I’ve never named—or even contemplated naming—a bowel movement.

I thought the “megatron baby birth certificate” search was hilariously random until I realized someone was probably looking for proof that people actually named their child Megatron based on the number of likes or fans or something received on Facebook. If I cared more I’d look it up but honestly, I’ve lost interest now that it isn’t a cartoon baby Megatron.

I do find it hilarious that I consistently (seriously, every day) get hits from “Billy Blanks,” since the only time I’ve mentioned him on my blog is when I talked about how phenomenally creepy I find his peek-a-boo nipples.

FYI: I’m perfectly aware most of my readers are my friends and family. Bless you for finding me amusing enough that you’re willing to a) maintain contact with me and b) read my nonsensical ramblings. As for the rest of you—those who found me through blogging, mutual friends, Twitter, or (heaven forbid) freakish search engine requests and have, for some bizarre reason, come back for more—please seek professional help.

*I totally just upped my search ranking for “Billy Blanks.” BOOYAH!

**I think we all know if I had to name a bowel movement, I’d name it Bob. Partly because I name everything Bob, and partly because Mr. Hanky is already taken.

***Wait, did I talk about Mr. Hanky in a blog once? That might sort of explain the naming of feces. But not really.

****If you don’t know who Mr. Hanky is, you probably shouldn’t look it up. You might be scarred for life. I’m looking at you, mom and dad.

*****Wait, how would I know it was my last bowel movement? Are we talking about the last one I had (say, this morning), or the last one I would ever have? That might make a difference. If I actually know it’s my last crap on this earth maybe it means I’m on death row and I’ll want to name my poop something more bad-ass than Bob. You know, something like Slash. Or Killer. Or Captain Huggy Face.

******I’m trying to not contemplate the implications of having poop named Slash, but I’m failing miserably.

*******I also might be snort laughing.

********From now on, every time I need to use the bathroom, I’m going to say, “I gotta go make a Captain Huggy Face.”

*********I so win at blogging right now.

Unlike this little gem Big G brought home from school back before Christmas:

It came with little cut-out figures Big G had colored.

Oddly enough, that doesn’t make it any less nonsensical.

FYI: It’s exceptionally creepy when your 6-year-old son dances around the house repeatedly chanting, “Mommy, Daddy, I love you!” in a babyish voice.

Unrelated but awesome Big G gem of the week:

Big G: “Mom, is there a state called Vixen?”

Me: “No.”

Big G: “Why not?”

No matter how hard I try, I can’t come up with a good answer for that one.

*Yeah, this post is about something from before Christmas. Deal with it.

**Because really, you should just be happy I wrote something.

***If you whine about it I might not write again for, like, a month.

****That was not an invitation to whine, you jerks.

*****I’m suddenly very paranoid about my comma usage.

******But not my asterisks.

*******Thank goodness.

********I know the title has nothing to do with the actual post, but what was up with that extra “Ho!” inserted at the end of the first sentence on Big G’s handout? Is Santa some sort of pimp-daddy now?

*********He does have a fur coat and, apparently, a sweet funky ride. Ho!

**********Genius idea of the day: instead of “Jesus is my co-pilot” I’m going to make bumper stickers that says “Santa is my pimp.”

***********I haven’t been sleeping well. I can’t decide if this makes me completely looney or just amplifies my awesomeness.

For those who have always wondered, "What is this 'ice' and why is it here?"

]]> http://likeswimming.wordpress.com/2012/01/01/file-under-o-for-obvious/feed/ 3 jenndola Duh http://likeswimming.wordpress.com/2011/12/20/sometimes-lying-is-okay/ http://likeswimming.wordpress.com/2011/12/20/sometimes-lying-is-okay/#comments Tue, 20 Dec 2011 23:58:39 +0000 Jenny http://likeswimming.wordpress.com/?p=2725 ]]> We were watching The Electric company, and they were doing that thing where they change around the letters at the beginning of a word to make different words. You know that thing, right? Because that’s all you’re getting. I’m too lazy to explain it any better and the only reason I’m telling you that much is to explain this conversation:

Big G: “Mom, is shat a word?”

Me: “No.”

What? You thought I’d say yes? We all know where that answer leads.

*The WordPress Proofreader is also unaware that shat is a word. Are we surprised?

**Oh, and hi. Sorry about that month without blogging. I’ve been in a cave.

***Not a real cave.

****But you knew that, right?

“I am grateful for being aware that I have choice. I choose happiness, I am happy, It’s simple, but funny how I used to think that it was out of my control. Those were bummer days:(
Could it be as simple for you too? Yes! Say it over and over, you will start to believe it, . . . I dare you to be happy! I triple dog dare you to choose Happy! lol Choice, it’s that simple.”

I’m going to set aside my grammar snobbishness and dive straight to the heart of the matter: Major depressive disorder is an illness. I have not chosen to be depressed.

Has anyone ever suggested schizophrenia is a choice? Next Facebook status update: “I triple dog dare you to stop hearing voices!”

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, “depression is caused by a combination of genetic, biological, environmental, and psychological factors.” Sadly, there’s a good chance my brain is not wired like the brain of the average person. MRI studies have actually shown that the brains of depressed people look different from those of non-depressed people.

I’m not removing personal effort from the equation. If I sit by passively, depression will kill me. I choose to see my therapist and psychiatrist. I choose to take my medications. I choose to get out of bed in the morning even though there’s nothing I’d like more than to pull the covers over my head and spend an entire day in the fetal position. I choose to fight.

But telling me to choose to be happy? That’s like telling a type I diabetic to will her pancreas to produce insulin. It just ain’t gonna happen. So she’ll take her medications and her blood sugar will stay under control, but she’ll still be a diabetic.

I take my medication. Sometimes my depression is under control. But underneath it all, I’m still depressed. There’s a good chance I’ll always be depressed. That fact alone is…well, it’s depressing.

But it’s not my choice.

Saying it’s my choice suggests that in some sick and twisted way I enjoy being miserable. I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. Those of you who read my blog regularly know how much I love laughing. I despise drama in my life (unless the drama revolves around how unbelievably awesome things are).

Could I do more for myself? Of course. I need more sleep, more exercise, more time spent on myself. But I don’t know many people who wouldn’t say the same.

I choose to be happy, but for some reason beyond my understanding, God has chosen a different path for me. Does that mean I spend every minute hating life? Well, duh. Obviously not.

I’m trying to think of something funny to tell you to prove I’m a happy-go-lucky gal, but go figure, for once in my life I’m at a loss for words. Crapsticks. BUT I’M FUNNY, DAMMIT!

I promise I’m not turning this blog into a big platform to talk about my depression issues. That would be boring and lame, and I’m not boring and lame. SHUT UP. I’M NOT.

Jerks.

*I totally have the supplies for my advent calendars. Now I just have to actually make them.

**That’s the easy part, right?

***Y’all get the Pokemon reference in the title, right? No? Crap. I’m such a geek.

****Speaking of geeks, you should’ve seen my reaction when I discovered they have the Dungeons & Dragons cartoon on DVD on amazon.com. Oh yes, they do.

I have a really great story to tell you from work, but I can’t unwrap myself from the minutiae of every day life well enough to actually write it.

Bah. Y’all know how much I hate depression. It robs me of my patience, and that’s not a good thing.

Still, it’s not all bad news ’round these parts. After all, I didn’t sell my children today! What? I’m calling it a victory. Stop judging me.

Depression aside, I’m pretty sure nobody enjoys cleaning up a feces-covered six-year-old, which is what I did last night. No matter how many times I try to remind myself there are medical and emotional issues at play…yeah.

Speaking of Big G’s issues, last Friday he popped one of his classmates in the face. When I asked why he did it, he said, “I don’t know why. I didn’t want to do it.” Folks, when he tells me the devil made him do it, I’m calling in a Catholic priest, just to cover all my bases.

Today when I picked him up from school, I saw his teacher walk in my direction and my heart dropped. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Ah, crap. Apparently he flipped out on a kid who was looking at the class scrapbook because he wanted to look at the scrapbook.

Also today: While I was in the shower, Big G pulled the towel rod off the wall and Little G sprayed hairspray all over the mirrors. Then Little G gave himself a fat lip, I burned the tip of my thumb with my straightening iron, and I discovered Little G got in the fridge and left it open the whole time I was in the shower.

Oh, and I yelled at my kids. A lot.

I don’t like the depressed me. I’m not very much fun.

Okay, I have to share a few entertaining things, because this post is far too mopey.

I’m letting the boys watch far too much TV, and Little G’s show of choice is one of my childhood favorites: Inspector Gadget. The best part of this: I get to hear Little G say things like, “Go go Gadget lasso!” and “Wowzers!” The worst part: I completely forgot what a moron Inspector Gadget is. Seriously, what kind of detective relies on an elementary school-aged relative and her pet dog for survival?

Then there’s the newsletter I got in the mail from BYU’s Monte L. Bean Life Science Museum, which included this photo:

What's he do, nibble your bum?

I can’t help it. I have the sense of humor of a 13-year-old.

That’s why you love me, right?

I know.

I’m not talking about some sort of hand-stitched tomfoolery. I’m not that cray-cray.

Still, there’s something inside of me that wants to create. This frightens me, as I’m not a particularly creative person. I’m going to chalk it up to motherhood, that bizarre creature that whispers, “Look at these beings you created! Now don’t you want to make something for them?”

Dear voice inside of my head: I brought them into this world. How is that not enough?

(My friend Meredith’s answer to that question: “Pinterest.” Sadly, she’s not entirely wrong.)

So this week I embark upon a grand experiment: make an advent calendar. I have a plan in my head, but I think you’ve all seen how well my plans tend to turn out. Should be good times! Overall goal: Complete advent calendar by December 1.

*Yes, I know I can buy an advent calendar. THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

**Seriously, if you tell me to buy one, I’ll know you completely missed the whole point of this post.

I’m getting sick again. I had bronchitis at the beginning of October and now, less than a month later, I feel the vise tightening around my lungs.

I am so. Very. Angry.

In rehab I learned that anger is a secondary emotion, and if I stop a minute I can admit that I cried for an hour on Sunday because I can’t bear the thought of another winter like last year—you know, when I got pneumonia and then had bronchitis something like six times.

I am so. Very. Depressed.

My doctor doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with my lungs, but that makes no sense to me, because normal people don’t get bronchitis multiple times a year, right? Yet when I’m between my bronchial issues, my lungs sound like those of a perfectly healthy individual. I don’t cough. I don’t wheeze. I’m as normal, health-wise, as someone with all my other health issues can be.

Speaking of my other health issues, this pesky Antiphospholipid Syndrome I have—you know, the one that caused a blood clot and all my pregnancy issues? I take a medication to keep it under control. It’s considered a DMARD—a disease-modifying anti-rheumatic drug—and though nobody is sure of the mechanism it uses, it’s believed to interfere with communication of cells in the immune system.

Yeah. I’m sure you see the inherent problem here, though last year was the first time I experienced such severe respiratory illness and I’ve been on the same immunosuppressant for 11 years.

11 years is a long time. I vaguely remember more joint pain, more migraines…pretty much more pain in general before my meds. I don’t particularly want to return to that. Still, if there’s a chance letting my immune system communicate a little bit better will lead to breathing easier…

Bah.

Fun fact: I can live with pain. I can’t live without breathing.

I am so. Very. Annoyed.

Enough about that. As yesterday was Halloween, I’m obviously obligated to share adorable photos.

And one of me, just for fun.

Okay, I admit it, I think I look pretty hot. In a creepy, goth kind of way.

11 years ago I’d lost my perfect baby girl and my heart was broken into so many pieces I didn’t think I’d ever find them all, much less fit them back together.

Each year I await October 15 with no small amount of trepidation. I once burst into tears in the middle of work because I couldn’t open my container of yogurt. It’s a day filled with tears and haunting memories (and soggy food). I brace myself as best I can, but it’s kind of like putting up a wood fence to protect myself from an oncoming freight train.

This year I’ve had bronchitis in the weeks leading up to Maggie’s birthday. I finally started to feel better…which meant I was well enough to work my 10-hour shift. That meant I’d be tired AND emotionally unstable. Dangerous combination.

When I woke up in the morning Car had gone to the store and bought me a rose. He was making coffee cake.

Work was busy in the morning, and I didn’t have time to think about anything. When I finally sat down I checked the online classifieds and found the perfect bike, for an amazing price. I emailed it to Car, who then arranged for my parents to watch the kids and made a 3 hour round trip drive to buy it. My day ended riding a grown-up trike with a built-in kid seat (big enough for both boys), listening to Big & Little G squeal with delight.

Because i love it so, behold The Bike!

At church today, Little G wandered over and climbed into my lap. He wrapped his arms around my neck and let me rock him for quite a while—a rare occurrence, now that he’s 3. As I rocked my youngest and looked at my oldest, sitting next to me and lining up his cars in neat little rows, I got a little weepy.

I had a moment.

In that moment, I realized something amazing: losing Maggie was a horrible tragedy, but dwelling on the sadness of that event would be so very ungrateful of me. Is it okay to be sad? Of course. But I’ve been so richly blessed in the last 11 years. My boys aren’t a replacement for Maggie, but they’re miracles and I cherish them. (I almost typed “I cherish every moment with them,” but we all know that’s a load of crap. I definitely cherish them, though.) Because of my religion I have a strong belief that Maggie will be part of our family again, and I’m grateful for that. I have a husband who’s stuck by me in situations that would’ve driven away any sane lesser man. I have a home, a job…heck, I even have a 14-year-old low-rider labrador retriever.

I ask you, how can I keep from singing?

My life goes on in endless song
above earth’s lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

*No, Google! Bad Google!

***How can you keep from singing lyrics? Try humming! Ba-dum-ching!

****I totally killed the whole uplifting vibe thing I had going there, didn’t I? Sorry about that.

*****Here, I’ll fix it: Yay! Life is great! I’m so blessed! Bad things happen, but I’m grateful for all of the good in my life!

******All better? Coolio. Carry on, then.