31 thoughts one has whilst their AC is on the fritz

1. It’s kind of hot in here.

2. Yeah, I’m sweating.

3. It’s kind of like a sauna.

4. THE THERMOSTAT SAYS 84.

5. I did not set it on 84.

6. Lemme just turn it way, way down, that should work, right?

7. (Hour later) Nope. Not working.

8. The good thing about home ownership and living by yourself, you can walk around your place naked or close to it.

9. I really need to get curtains for my living room.

10. How many more nights can I go sleeping whilst sweating?

11. Like, I sweat in my sleep even when the AC isn’t messed up.

12. Sleeping naked isn’t bad though.

13. This condo is now a sweat lodge.

14. I think I just hallucinated.

15. One should not have to reapply deodorant in their house this much.

16. Oh, it went down to 83, that’s good.

17. Nope, back up to 84.

18. Maybe if I sit really still it won’t be so bad.

19. You can sweat even when you’re not moving.

20. I’ve drunk (drank?) all the water.

21. Why does drank sound like it’s not a word right now?

22. Maybe I’m still hallucinating.

23. Well there’s a big chunk of ice on the AC unit, so the air is going somewhere.

24. Let me just message my HVAC pro friends.

25. Yeah something’s officially wrong with the AC that no amount of turning up or down can fix.

26. Payday is Friday.

27. I might be delirious/a puddle on the floor by then.

28. I could just stand in front of the open freezer door a while.

29. Or go outside.

30. Nope, definitely the same temperature outside as in.

31. Time to text Chuck.

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Big life changes – its about time


Ohhhhhh 2014…

(Hey there, btw. I realize I have been slacking on this whole writing in this blog that I love and miss and think about all the time but have been a little busy for. Never fear. I’m back, bitchezzz..)

OK so in 2014, a few major things happened.

Numero uno: I turned 30

Dos: I bought a friggin’ condo.

Three: I got myself a puppy.

WHAT???!?!?!

Yeah it was a bit of a busy year. So busy, in fact, that I still haven’t gotten curtains for my living room. But, the blog’s higher on the priority list right now. I can live without curtains a little longer. I’m almost never naked in my living room.

ANYWAY. Focus.

Today we’re gonna talk about home ownership. Because I know about it now. (No worries, the next entry will have the puppy pics…I know my audience).

So about this time last year I started making serious efforts to get out of the parents’ basement. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to live with them or because they did anything to make me want to go. It wasn’t because I didn’t want roommates or free Showtime… 

A personal goal I set was to not be 30 and living in the basement of my parents’ house. If my birthday came and went and I was still there, it better only be because I was waiting on closing on my new place.

And wouldn’t ya know it, third time is the charm. The third time looking for a place to live, I mean.

A family friend from church was my realtor and had been looking off and on for places for me the year I lived with my parents. My ignorant-of-real-estate self only wanted a townhouse for a long time. And I came awfully close to getting one. But then the owner wouldn’t come down on the price and then wanted me to decide on it within like two days or else he’d rent it to someone and I can’t make decisions that fast that involve that much money.

The house-hunting process itself wasn’t too eventful, really, just nothing that I really liked for a while and one townhouse that had concrete floors on the main floor and I’m pretty sure there was a seance room upstairs.

A few years ago I looked at places and fell in love with one. And then I couldn’t afford it and figured I’d never find a place I liked that much again because I am a fatalist.

But then I saw the place I’m in now. Out the window went all my thoughts about only wanting a townhouse. My condo looks and feels like a house, and did from the first second I walked into it.

I was sold pretty close to immediately and made an offer, and wouldn’t ya know it, I could afford it. I could afford one I liked, a lot. Take that, pessimism.

I’ll not bore you with the rest of the process but I will say my hand felt broken from signing my name so many times and it’s really annoying to deal with mortgage companies because they want copies of every time you’ve ever used money, basically.

It’s still a work in progress to some extent to make it completely mine, but since I moved in May 10, it’s felt like home. We’ve already repainted two rooms and I’m planning on some flooring changes and more painting in the next couple of months. But for now, check out my crib (imagine the pictures with awesome zooming effects and maybe listen to your favorite rap song while you look at them so it’s just like MTV).

They’re bound to be tired of me by now

It’s been a little over a year since I moved back in with the parents…something I should have done after college to save some cash and pay off some bills but I’m stubborn and didn’t so here I am now.

For the past year, I’ve taken over the “home theater” in the basement, and I’ve been working on paying off some bills so that when the time comes for me to get a house (which should be soon, I got REAL close about a month ago, but alas…seller sucked) I have enough money not to live paycheck to paycheck and have to eat Ramen noodles every night.

When I first moved back, there were some rules set up – had to wash my own dishes and put them in the dishwasher and had to save some money. Oh and there was the one about throwing stuff away from the coffee table so the dog wouldn’t eat it.

My only rule for them? Gimme about 20 minutes of silence when I get home. On account of I really just don’t feel like talking to anyone right after work. Especially about how work was.

I’m happy to say all rules have worked out pretty well, except for the couple times I forgot something on the table and Dad forgot not to talk to me after work.

Other than that, we’ve had a pretty good year, I think. The food’s been good, I’m pretty sure the pantry is a magic closet that never runs out of tequila, we’ve watched a bunch of new shows and I’ve let them hijack my Netflix account (shhh).

They’re some of my favorite drinking partners, especially when I can convince them to get up to El Toro and have two-for-one margaritas every other week. (Or sometimes twice a week, we really don’t have a set schedule there). Also, they have like, all the TV channels.

There was that one time when Dad couldn’t open a drawer that doesn’t have any of his stuff in it anyway, so he threw out my makeup bag with a brand new eyeliner in it. Luckily I saw it about 3 minutes later and he bought me two new eyeliners for Christmas to make up for it.

I make jokes a lot about living with them but I of course am only kidding. They’re kind of the awesome-est and I’m ridiculously lucky to have them. They’re not rushing me out of here and they’re also not treating me like I’m still in high school(which was the last time I lived here full-time).

They’re helping me a lot, and I hope to be able to pay them back for it someday. But for now, they seem to be settling alright with the occasional dinner paid for by me and access to Netflix. It evens out, right?

My girls

I’m the oldest of three girls. I without a doubt have Oldest Child Syndrome. I’m bossy, protective and afraid to be a rule-breaker, most of the time.

My sisters and I are three and nine years apart, and these past few years we’ve reached ages where it doesn’t feel so far away. Our friends are just that – “OUR” friends, because we all hang out with most of the same people most of the time.

I’m currently the only one full-time in Louisville and the others have left, but they’ll be back. Sami’s in Lexington, being all smart and whatnot at school, and Rachel’s in Boston, with her HUSBAND (AHHH!!) who is studying for two years at MIT. Because he’s a genius. No seriously. Frigging MIT.

The three of us stay in touch in as many ways as we possibly can – texting, calling, Facebook, Skype, FaceTime, Twitter, Instagram. It’s safe for me to say these two know me better than just about anyone else and I’m pretty sure I know them just as well. And we all three know that if given choices somewhere on something, we will all pick completely different things.

We have songs. The High School Musical 3 Soundtrack is one that never gets old, and with both of them I have a special song just for car dancing. And both, strangely, are by Enrique Iglesias.

When Sami gave her MOH speech at Rachel’s wedding, she talked a little about our bond. She talked about how we’re kind of weird in that we are sisters who enjoy spending time together, want to hang out with each other and aren’t just sisters, but best friends as well. That doesn’t always happen. I know siblings that don’t even speak to each other and haven’t for years.

I’ve thought about that a lot since the wedding, since both of them went to their respective second (temporary) homes, away from the town we grew up in. Because I miss them.

Growing up comes with its perks – like driving and being able to go to bars and weddings and babies – but it happens too fast. Wasn’t it just the other day we were all under the same roof, fighting over whose turn it was on the computer and what to watch on TV?

I take comfort in the fact that my relationship with my sisters will only continue to grow as we do, as we get older, get married, have babies, find jobs doing what we love.

One of my jobs at the pre-wedding festivities (in addition to keeping the bride calm, keeping the drama out, making sure Liz was on time, putting together a playlist and various other things) was to take some pictures during the time the professional photographer wasn’t there.

Oddly enough, probably my two favorites from the weekend taken on my camera, weren’t taken by me.

But they were taken of me, surprisingly, with my two girls, when we looked all pretty and when we did that thing where we have a group hug and sing that song from The Hangover.

I love these two more than anything in the world, and I’m damn lucky to have ’em.

Home sweet home

One day I’m going to make a playlist full of songs all about home. And send it to somebody that’s homesick. Or would that be counterproductive?

Regardless, this song will be on it. No doubt.

The last day

By the last day I had decided a few things.

I’d decided that I 100 percent plan to make my next significant purchase a Nikon or Canon fancy camera.

I’d decided I kind of want to live in London.

I’d decided I was no longer grossed out by eating either cucumbers or salmon. (But not together.)

I’d decided not to kidnap a British child – I really want one with that accent.

And I’d decided I could totally live in a city with public transportation like London’s and no car if possible. Cheaper and easier. And I can read on the way to and from work.

Our hosts had decided we were their favorite guests so far. Naturally. How can you look at these two ladies and not realize they’re a couple of good ones?

They’d also decided they didn’t want us to go home – at least that’s what Matthew said standing in his kitchen right after we’d lugged all our stuff down into the foyer.

We felt the same way. We could have stayed in for another month, which I’m sure our hosts would have loved.. ha.

But after our goodbyes and loading our stuff into the car that would take us to Heathrow (yay for not having to lug heavy suitcases up and down stairs while trying to make the train on time. Also, woo, fancy!) it was really over.

Sadness.

We had a long day ahead of plane riding, airport sitting and please God don’t let them show Jane Eyre again on the plane.

The first plane – that took us all the way from England to Hotlanta – had Ashley and I sitting across the aisle from each other. She was next to a normal lady (as far as I know, haven’t heard otherwise) and I, of course, was next to a lady I thought might get escorted off the plane before takeoff.

Yeah. She apparently didn’t have the proper documentation for her 1-year-old daughter and was yelling at the stewardesses and stewards (is that what you call the guy ones?) that it was ridiculous and if she had done something wrong how had they let her get this far?

Eventually all calmed down and she got to keep her seat and the seat in between us was occupied off and on by her 1-year-old, who was one of the cutest kids I have ever seen.

The same cannot be said for the children sitting behind me.

Now I love kids. I have a lot of patience with them, I think. But after the second hour of kicks to the back of my chair by the 3-year-old and the accompanying loud crying by his baby sister, I was kind of over it.

The baby next to me? An angel. I kept looking at her and thinking “God bless you for behaving.” Like, even when her mom got up to go to the bathroom and left her with me (I’m so trustworthy-looking) she was fine. Oh and we watched a little bit of Green Hornet together.

Thank God for headphones to drown out the baby behind me, because that’s what saved me. That and two blink-and-they-were-over naps. I watched three movies on the way home and once we started our descent into Atlanta, I thought we were in the clear – a couple hours of relaxing and reading in the Atlanta airport and then a quick flight (especially after the marathon we’d just been through) and home to sleep and sleep and sleep. And upload pictures.

Oh I wish that was true.

You see, the landing in the ATL was a bit rough. So much so, in fact, that the troublemaker lady next to me, got her tummy jostled and threw up. Yeah. In the aisle on the other side of her, luckily, but then, she elbowed me in the shoulder with chipmunk-like cheeks, looking for another barf bag.

Fun fact: Delta does not put puke bags in everyone’s seat pockets. Because I had to ask four people for one before I found one.

Yeah. All this time, her cute baby girl is crying because she has no idea what just happened to her mom, she just knows its not good. Oh and also it smells like VOMIT.

Another fun fact: When Rach and Swarles brought back Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans from Harry Potter World earlier this year, several of us tried the vomit-flavored bean. Very and disgustingly realistic.

So. Baby Girl is crying, Mom looks like she could puke again at any second. Breathing out of my mouth, I offer to hold the little one while Momma gets cleaned up – because I’m nice like that and the kid didn’t have any puke on her, otherwise…

All this time, though, WE’RE STILL LANDING, and I’m thinking two things – thank God and all that is holy that this happened at landing and not takeoff and also remember to breathe through your mouth.

Someone was kind enough to throw a Delta-provided blanket over the mess, which saved some from seeing it, but yeah, still smelled like puke. And then I saw it had gotten on the lady’s leg across the aisle from her and I almost lost it myself.

Needless to say, we were as quick to get off the plane as we could possibly be. But not before we saw a baby with an apparently weak stomach (this is the same annoying baby that was behind me on the plane the whole time) throw up. On top of the blanket on top of the other vomit.

GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Then we get on the plane to go home. The last leg of this hellishly long and puke-filled day. Quick and painless, right?

HA. Would have been, had we not been seated to the back and left of the most annoying family ever. Seriously. Grandparents that talked like babies to their twin granddaughters who were 2 years old and had the highest pitched voices I have ever heard outside of someone inhaling helium. Not that bad if they were quiet, but yeah, pretty sure they talked/squeaked/yelled/screeched the entire ride home.

Add that to the fact that you’re not allowed to turn your iPods on until you’re at the right altitude and Ashley and I had both decided we never wanted to have kids. Not really, of course, but nothing screams birth control like, well, screaming kids.

Maybe we were pissed already because we didn’t want to come home yet.

Maybe we were pissed because we had to taxi all the way to the gate from the landing breathing in the smell of puke.

Maybe we were confused on what time it was.

But, we were home safely, with all our luggage and bedtime in sight. Hallelujah.

And thus ends the story of Laura and Ashley Go To England.

That sounds like a children’s book – someone get on that.

The Girl Who Cried Appendicitis

An appendix looks very similar to a small dog’s tail. And it’s a completely useless organ that we haven’t needed since we were cave-people. And every so often, it swells up and causes the worst pain you’ll ever feel, after which a nice lady will tell you it needs to come out. And then a weirdo that’s supposed to give you your anesthesia explains the process and freaks you out a little because seriously, who annunciates that much?

I’ve been saying my appendix needs to go for a while. Years, in fact. And finally, last Thursday, I was right.

Ask my parents, sisters, or really, anybody that knows me at all. I’m a hypochondriac, remember?

(And then there was that whole thing with the eye cyst and the bone island and whatnot.)

Since about high school, every time I have had severe stomach/abdominal pain, one of the first things out of my mouth has always been “It’s probably appendicitis.” Cue everyone telling me I was pointing to a spot on the wrong side of my body – my appendix was nowhere near there, plus if it was appendicitis, I would know it. Plus, you know, I worry too much.

Cut to Tuesday, when my stomach started hurting something awful. I told a co-worker it must have been something I ate – a lunch that included a couple dairy products, re-enforcing my suspicion that I am mildly lactose intolerant. Seriously, I get a stomachache whenever I eat macaroni.

After work I went home and crawled into my bed and complained and whined and called my mom, like I do whenever anything is wrong. Anthony asked what was wrong with me and when I didn’t know, I did what anyone in pain would do – I looked it up on the Internet.

According to WebMD, Wikipedia and some other random websites that came up when I searched “intense abdominal pain” it could have been any number of things. Imagine that. The responses varied from “Uh, you need to go to the bathroom” to “REMOVE APPENDIX NOW.” Naturally, I thought it was the latter.

Went to work Wednesday where it hurt to do any of the following: sit, stand, lean, drive, eat, breathe, think about what was possibly wrong with my body. I complained most of the day, talking to a friend at work who also happens to be a hypochondriac. Eventually, it got unbearable and when I couldn’t take it anymore I asked to leave with the promise of an early-morning doctor’s appointment the next day.

After another night of lots of pain and not a lot of sleep, I rolled out of bed at 7:30 a.m. Thursday to get to my 8 a.m. doctor’s appointment. She was perplexed but, like the Internet, thought it could probably just be that I needed to use the restroom. Just to be safe, though, she sent me to the hospital. For a CT scan. NOT SCARY AT ALL.

I spent an hour waiting to see the doctor at the hospital, during which time I watched an entire episode of Regis and Kelly, learned how to do The Dougie and realized that there may never NOT be a time when people don’t scream when they hear/see/smell/think about Justin Beiber. Oh, I also drank a lemonade spiked with dye that would make my insides change color so they could see my organs in the machine. Delicious.

Guys, I had to get an IV. And lay on this thing that pushed me into the middle of a giant metal doughnut-looking thing and hold my breath for a minute, which hurt – on account of JUST BREATHING HURT.

Afterwards, when I was thinking of worst-case scenarios, I kind of hoped it was appendicitis, because then they could just get it done and I’d get medicine and it’d be over with and I’d be under anesthesia so I wouldn’t have to deal with anything. Fifteen minutes later, I was right. I was texting my mom and roommate – sorry Jennifer, you’ll be up there next time I have an organ removed – telling them that after years of speculation, my appendix had finally decided it was time to go. What hypochondria? Yeah. Don’t ever doubt me again.

They rolled me upstairs in a wheelchair and put a gown on and an IV in AGAIN and I waited for my parents to show up. I was seriously the only patient in the hospital. And I didn’t know what to expect at all. All I could think of was that episode of Full House where Becky’s going into labor with the twins and Jesse has to have his appendix taken out and he screams a lot but gets really good drugs.

The surgery was quick but left me looking like I’d gotten in a prison fight. My stomach still, four days later, looks like I got shanked – there’s three giant bruises on my abdomen where they went in to get that stupid thing. I have stitches that will allegedly dissolve on their own and I have to not use steps, drive, play Wii or do much of anything but sit here for the next five days.

Luckily for you – that means lot of reading material. For me, that means lots of naps, Netflix, court television and wishing I could be anywhere but confined to my bed/apartment waiting for my stomach not to hurt.

I still can’t believe I had to have the surgery. And I can’t believe after years of saying it was my appendix I was finally right.

But I was.

BOO-YAH.