Waaah Waaaah- Somebody Call the Waaaambulence!

        Finally, I have a clean balcony with a bar table and chairs.  I am sitting here right now looking down at my kingdom and all my minions.  This is amaze-balls.

No commoners allowed.

       Life isn't all tiled tables and fancy bar stools, though.  I just started running last week after having taken a three week hiatus (Eric and I both agreed I needed to start up again so no one would get murdered.) I went on three, appropriately spaced out, teeny tiny, baby runs.  The spot that I was worried about on my shin feels fine, but now there's a new spot.  It hurts to walk, and I did a poor man's bone scan (ie: jumping up and landing as hard as you can on the ground) because I find the doctor's office highly inconvenient. Bad news: if I were a radiologist reading my poor man's bone scan, the report would say, "Painful. Epic fail." BLERG.

These x rays belong to some random fool I found on the Internet with the help of Google- diagnosis and plan of care is found below.

Above a 24-year old runner with pain in his lower leg since four months.
Initially the pain was only present during running, but finally it was present even in rest.

The x-ray was initially reported as normal.
A bone-scan (not shown) showed a focal increase of activity.
A CT-scan was performed for further differentiation and revealed a vertically oriented fissure at the insertion of the flexor digitorum longus muscle.

The patient was treated with six weeks of rest, followed by a gradual increase in training-activity.

        Do you see?! That fool went to a doctor, and all the advice he got was to take six weeks off.  I could have told him that.  I would also like to point out that plain x-rays, a bone-scan, and a CT scan seems a little excessive - I bet the bill was excessive too.  That's what you get for going to a doctor.

        Besides, this could just be some kind of "-itis" (ie: tendonitis,) in which case, all I need to do is ice my leg. Would I tell a parent reporting similar symptoms in their child to, "Have Sally jump up and down really hard.  Does it hurt?  How bad?  Could be some kind of an '-itis.'  Have her ice it and cross your fingers."  I would never give someone the advice I am currently following from myself.  I'm pretty sure I've heard somewhere that nurses are the worst patients.

These guys are awful

         I know what you're thinking, "Oh you poor fancy balcony owner.  If I couldn't go for a run, I would be thrilled."  You're right.  At least I have my balcony, so I can wave at all my subjects.  What you may not understand is that if I can't run, the amount of times the phrase, "I want to stab somebody right now," comes out of my mouth becomes less and less infrequent.  As you might imagine, Eric gets a little jumpy.

        If you have ever been slightly or incredibly obsessed with an activity, you know how I feel.  I am quite certain if there was some kind inexplicable cable drought, and there was no NFL RedZone during football season, Eric would start feeling a little murderous too.  Imagine you missed a whole season of USC, Husky, or Green Bay Packer football.  Imagine you couldn't watch movies or go to concerts or sail your fabulous yacht.  Whatever your favorite hobby, or activity is that brings you great joy and mental stability, if you suddenly couldn't partake- wouldn't you feel... Am I the only one that gets stabby?

Don't let the google eye fool you- I see what's going on here ... as a side note, this is me tan. Sad,  isn't it.

        What is your "must-do" activity that keeps you from wanting to punch something or someone?

        How do you cope when you can't do said activity?

If a doctor ever tells you not to do this favorite activity- fire that fool.

        

What [Not] to Watch

        If you are an individual whose fear of being murdered is disproportionate to the actual likelihood that you may or may not be murdered, then I have to warn you...

        Do NOT watch "I Murdered My BFF" on the Bio Channel.

One minute it's sandwiches and Diet Cokes, and the next minute some one's BFF is dead in a field.
Also, I am NEVER going anywhere with my friends again.  NEVER.

        I am telling you, people.  That is some scary shit.  Also, don't be friends with fools who rob tire stores for fun because that's how it starts, apparently.  Luckily, Eric is home so I don't have to sleep with a Gerber knife under my pillow tonight.

She has obviously never felt the need to sleep with a weapon under her pillow.

        Now I am starting to get suspicious of "accidentally" crossing paths with my friend, Jenny, at Target today.  Is she the type of BFF that would murder a ho?

No, she's not.  However,  I certainly am trying to murder her with my mind in this picture.

        If you like hot guys that are also sensitive and want to help people, then I have another warning for you...

        DO watch "Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition" on ABC.

This anonymous person is not featured in that show

        I will tell you a secret.  I cry approximately 3.7 times during each episode, and if you know me at all, you know I don't cry.  However, I also laugh during each episode.  There are moments that are supposed to be serious in the show, that just get a little too melodramatic for my taste.  My favorite quote of tonight's episode was when the trainer said to his client,

        "I hope you don't mind, but I hired a private investigator, and, welp...  I found your father."

        Now, people who have been abandoned by a parent is not a laughing matter.  Obviously, it is a very sad painful thing.  Which is why if some bro with a six pack and piercing blue eyes turns to you and says, "I hope you don't mind...  I found your father," you do, in fact, mind.  You start bawling your eyes out.  This is, of course, precisely what happened on the show.  It's riveting, though, isn't it?  Also, it doesn't make a person feel like they need to sleep with one eye open.

        Some people say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.  I say, keep your friends closer and your plate two thirds full of vegetables; you might end up okay.

Am I worried about calories or a killer here? Hard to say.

     

How to Defend Your Condo and Cat Against a Killer

        This morning I woke up to Kittles snorting, and then licking my ear.  Next, she sneezed all over my face, licked my ear some more, and curled up with her butt right next to my head.  Funny, if a human had done this to me, they never would have lived to tell the tale.  Since it was Lola, I just thought it was cute.

She is a disgusting person, but I love her.

        Speaking of disgusting people, I am becoming one, myself.  I haven't run since the Seattle Rock n' Roll Half Marathon on June 23rd.  I have a sneaking suspicion that I have a stress fracture in my left distal tibia, which is a fancy way of saying I have a crack in my shin bone.  One thing I have learned after spending some time as an orthopedic nurse is that if you can point to one spot that hurts (as opposed to a generalized area) it's not a good sign.

This doesn't look like a good sign either

        Not running wouldn't be the worst if the weather hadn't finally turned a corner for the better in Seattle...

Every tourist riding the Ducks is ready to move here today.

        It also wouldn't be such a big deal if I had just been eating regular food.  Bad news: since we just moved I have been eating out.  A lot.

I know, Eric, but what are you going to eat?

        Bottom line is, I am kind of a heinous B when I can't run.  Hahaha.  More so than usual, okay? Rude, you guys.

I am the one in the pink socks having the time of my life.

        So, it has been a challenging couple of weeks with the move and no running.  

        Oh, and Eric went to Kansas City for the All Star Game, so I had to sleep with a big ass Gerber knife under my pillow (obvi) just in case someone climbed onto our third floor balcony and tried to murder me in my sleep.  I couldn't sleep very well even with the knife under my pillow (it was locked shut, so I couldn't cut myself or Kittles inadvertently) because I kept thinking that if someone did break in, I was more likely to be killed by my own knife than to save myself with it.  My next logical solution was to calculate how fast I could grab the cat and my phone, then slide into, and lock the bathroom door "Panic Room" style.  On the other hand, if the killer broke in through our front door, it might make more sense to just jump off the balcony for a quick escape.  But then I would really be in a pickle with the old stress fracture situation.  In fact, it might turn into more of a bone- through- the- skin- fracture situation.  It's hard work evading killers, let me tell you, but I've kept myself alive thus far, so I suppose it's worth the effort.

        I guess the moral of this blog is that unless you are a smoosh faced cat that I rescued approximately 2 years ago and/or your name is Eric E. Engel, do not cross me this week.  I am low on sleep, I haven't run for an eon, and I have a big ass Gerber knife under my pillow.  I will cut. you.  Just kidding.  (Not really.)

I wanted to cut Bob Prill when he told the DJ at my wedding he had changed their table name to "Da Bears."  This was my face when the DJ told "Da Bears" they were dismissed to the buffet.

     

Flaming Fur Balls and Other Moving Day Hazards

        Are you like me? Do you have a tendency to fall simply while standing still?  If so, then you will not find it at all odd that I fell off the very top of my couch this evening.  (If you have a good grip on your surroundings and a fair amount of balance for a human, you will just think I am a crazy person, but that's par for the course at this point.)  It wasn't like I sat, and then lost my balance.  That's practically an every day occurrence in my world.  I mean, I completely air-balled the couch.  All I could muster was some kind of a muffled "Aaarg!" as I plummeted ass over tea kettle into a sea of moving boxes.  (I think I might have a concussion because I just typed "wright" instead of "write" for a minute in that last sentence.)  Also, Eric asked me if I am having a stroke.  It could be worse, but I think it's safe to say that these are all bad signs.  Of what, I'm not sure.  Then again, if these are just the signs, I don't want to know what they are trying to tell me.

Now who looks like they're having a stroke?  (No offense to stroke victims.)

       By the way, sorry I haven't posted any hilarious blogs for a while.  I have been busy packing up all our junk and directing laborers on where to plop it down at our brand. new. CONDO.  

For those fools who haven't seen this already, this is the view from our balcony

        We've all moved before, and we all know it blows.  This move was no exception.  First, you have your packing.  In this instance, we had all our crap to pack up while my little sister was living in our second bedroom taking up valuable space.  This resulted in boxes piled almost to the ceiling in the living room, which wouldn't have been a big deal except for I have a facially challenged cat who kept climbing the boxes and either trapping herself in them or knocking them over.

        One night we had soup for dinner from Met Market (kitchen packed up- obvi.) Eric set a steaming bowl of soup to cool on a box dangerously close to where Kittles was Indiana Jonesing her way across the living room.  

        Me: You better move that soup.

        Eric: It's fine.

        Me: It's not fine! The cat's going to knock it over!

        Eric: The cat is not going to knock it over.  She's not even near the soup.

        Me: She will knock it over! If she knocks that soup over and burns herself, we are divorced.

        Eric: Nicole, she is not going to spill the soup.

        Me: Fine.  Do you want to deal with a burnt cat!?

        Imagine, of course, that my voice is getting screechier and screechier by the millisecond.  I would also like the reader to note that I often argue with mute points.  Of course Eric doesn't want to deal with a burnt cat (and yes, it should be burned cat, but burnt sounds so much more severe.)  Nobody wants a burnt cat.  He did, however, move the soup; though I would like to point out it was only after my mute point was made- not after the threat of divorce.

Et tu, Eric?

        If any of you ever move in the near future, I would highly recommend a Gerber knife.  My dear friend Joe has given me more than one, actually, but the one that has come in most handy this week is...

This bad boy

        If you are an individual that thinks that pocket knives are for hicks and boy scouts, then you, Sir, are sadly mistaken.  As you can see by my delicate hands, I am neither a hick nor a scout of any kind; thus, rendering the Gerber Dime a renaissance knife for a man or woman of equal caliber.  (Shouldn't Gerber be paying me right now?)  It's true, though! With this one tool, I have opened many a box, filed my nails, and trimmed a hang nail.  Anyway, I highly recommend it as it also includes many other valuable features, not the least of which is a tool that can help one effortlessly open the hard plastic on packaging of, say, a new Gerber knife.

        My sister recently had some advice for me as I was bemoaning the fact that I am not one of those likable people that everyone wants to be friends with.  I just don't have that magnetic personality.  I more have the "f- you- if- you're-an-idiot- personality." (You know the one?)  In fact, many people tell me, "I thought you were an asshole when I first met you."  Usually, when a conversation gets to that point with another individual, they have peeled my onion layers to discover that I am not really an asshole; I just make a lot of faces, and if I don't like something or someone I will make it clear.  Some people think that makes me an asshole, but others find it endearing.  My sister's words of wisdom were as follows:

        "Yes, but Nicole, if you were one of those really really overly nice people, you wouldn't be you."

        Right.

        I feel like in some strange way it applies to the whole difficult/wonderful experience of purchasing our first home and moving into it.  Yes, there has been drama.  Yes there have been near death experiences for both myself and poor Kittles.  Yes, we have packed, moved, and unpacked until  we can't stands no more.  But if this had magically happened without a hitch overnight, with no meltdowns to be had, it just wouldn't be ours.

In case you haven't seen me lately, I am not actually bald.  I only play a bald person in this photo.

Animal Nightmares

        Many of my peeps know that a vast majority of my knowledge is gained from channels like Animal Planet and National Geographic.  It is also well known that I have an obsession with "Shark Week" and shows such as, "Animal Nightmares."  I heard a real gem of a quote from a narrator on the Wild Channel this afternoon.  The name of the show?  "Snakezilla." Obvi.  Here it is:

        "When you see a wild python out in the Everglades, you better bring your A- game because that snake is going to want to eat you alive."

        There is one thing that concerns me about this statement.  If you do not know that wild pythons can grow to over 30 feet long (there was speculation that a 49 footer had been found in Indonesia, but when official measurements were taken it was something closer to 20 feet long and only about 1,000 pounds,) and you are wandering around in the Everglades, you probably don't even know what A-game means.  In which case, you have a bigger problem than a giant reticulated python- you're stupid.

Look at these fools

        I was in the wild myself this weekend.  I camped on an air mattress in the primitive outdoors of Mattson Farms in Cashmere, WA.  I did not come across any Snakezillas, but I did come across this deadly combination...

Deadly cute, that is.

        This deadly cuteness almost turned fatal when a stray horseshoe flew toward this pug puppy's head.  Look, if I had any control over where I was throwing, I wouldn't have lost the game 2-6, nor would I have plotted the death of a puppy in front of dozens of people.  It was an accident.

       Besides, this puppy was a little bit of a fool.  He was way too occupied with sniffing the ground to notice giant metal objects hurtling at his miniature noggin. Well, he might have been blind in one eye, too, so not really his fault.  It was an accident.  If you want to blame someone, blame the idiots that let me throw horseshoes with people and small pets around.

        I watched in horror as the ultimate party foul unfolded 20 yards away from me in slow motion.  My feet were frozen next to the stake, and all I could do was screech, "Oh goooooooood!"  Luckily, I was not as strong as I anticipated and the horseshoe landed several feet away from... 

        Okay, I'll tell you.  The. pug's. name. is. Tebow.  I almost killed TEBOW.  Of course.  It's like I'm trying to go to hell.  

Hey Nicole, what's a really good way to secure a spot in hell?  

Easy.  Just smash the skull of a puppy who is blind in one eye and was named after Jesus' favorite NFL quarterback.   

     Lucky for me, Jesus saved him- as always.  Also, I am quite certain his owners were more pissed that I took the Lord's name in vain than at the fact that I  practically crushed their puppy's face in [even more than it already is.] 

        And since this has gone from a deadly animal post straight to a religious commentary, let me bring you the good news: 

         If you find yourself in the wild, watch out for giant snakes and/or blonde freaks chucking horseshoes in your general direction. They can be equally deadly- especially if you are a tiny smoosh faced puppy named after Tim Tebow.  (I don't teach Sunday school anymore, it's okay.)

Don't worry, if I ever see these two together near a horseshoe pit, I will be the first to run screaming in the opposite direction.

Just because you have a trick knee, it doesn't make you a hooker

        I'm going to give you all a little lesson on what I like to call "The ol' trick knee scenario."  I have been putting in about 20 miles per week over the last several months training for my half marathons.  Now, that's nothing for elite runners and marathoners, but those guys are assholes (not you Jaimie and Katie.)  If you're a regular human, running twenty miles in a week is a fair amount, if not a lot.  Also, if you are a regular human, running twenty miles per week will catch up to you at some point, perhaps, in the form of a [minor] injury.

It's all smiles and waves until somebody gets plantar faciitis

        This brings my to my scenario of "The ol' trick knee."  I was running with a friend the other day, who knows I have acquired a trick knee.  (I don't really have a trick knee.  I am pretty sure I have IT band syndrome, but 'trick knee' just has a better ring to it.  Eric hates it when I refer to it as my trick knee because he says it makes me sound like I'm 90 years old.  Rude.  You're 90 years old, Eric.)

        Anyhow, this particular friend is probably one of the least sympathetic people I know- you know who you are, and you can't deny it.  I should say, he has no sympathy for injuries, whether real or imagined, that haven't plagued you for more than a few months.  Also, as an aside, he doesn't really believe in physical therapy... especially if you are prone to imaginary diseases and/or fake tumors, which I am-obvi.  My point is, we were running the other day and he noticed I was limping a little (the old trick knee just needs to warm up) and told me, "You know, you probably won't believe I'm saying this, but maybe you should see a therapist." 

Maybe YOU should see a therapist- Rude.

        Then I realized he meant a physical therapist.  Luckily, I figured it out before I intentionally tripped him.  (Because that would have confirmed a necessity for the other type of therapist as well as anger management.)  Boom! Welcome to the ol' trick knee scenario.

        Step one:  Find something that is mostly false with a grain of truth and exaggerate.  (Trust me, I do it all the time.  My whole blog/life is based on this formula.)

        Me:  Oh the old trick knee is acting up.  *limp*

        (The limp was real.  Again, I do not seriously have a trick knee- I don't even know what that means.)

        Step two: Wait for something miraculous to happen.

        In this case, the miracle was getting a recommendation for physical therapy from a person with sympathy for neither pain nor PT.  It's not like I really got anything out of it, though, particularly because I didn't have a recording device to prove he'd actually said this.

        This technique is more functional if, for instance, you get home and you are too tired to make dinner.  (I was even too tired for yoga the other night, and I love Tuesday night yoga.)  

        Me: I am soooooooooo tired.  I can't make dinner.  There probably won't be dinner tonight.

        (I was really tired- have you been to bone tumor clinic?  BLERG.  I could have made dinner, though.  I just didn't want to.)

        Wait for it.

        Voila!  Eric made dinner, and it included all of my favorite things.  Wine and sandwiches.  

        I feel like I need to add here, that the miracle of Eric making dinner isn't because he sucks.  It's because I am a control freak and like to cook dinner every night.  It's an "I - only - want - what - I - want - when - I - want - it" kind of thing.  Plus, I like cooking- except for when I don't. 

Here I am frying pickles- which isn't really dinner.  Also, this smile is fake.

     
        Whether you're looking for free medical advice or a dinner that magically appears on your plate after a long day, the ol' trick knee scenario can work for you too.  Take a fragment of reality, exaggerate, and wait for the magic to happen.  Aaaaand that's how you work smarter, not harder.  You're welcome... again.  I really give you guys a lot of free advice.

Welcome to Earth, you little Alien.

        Nothing like throwing a baby shower only to end up with a gigantic hangover the next day.  P.S. hot yoga does not cure hangovers- I would recommend avoiding this activity the morning after one too many drinks.

One time I went to  Disneyland when I was hungover- also not recommended.

        It's true, we did put on a pretty kick ass baby shower...as kick ass as a baby shower can get, I suppose.  We included alcohol - which was a little bit of a slap in the face to the guest of honor-  but every time I go to a baby shower, I think, "I could use a drink right now."  I especially think this at the showers where you have to guess which candy bar has been melted into a diaper to imitate baby poop.  There is nothing fun about baby poop, so when someone shoves fake baby poop in your face and calls it a game...well, you need a drink.

This is my "You're welcome for the baby shower, but if you ask me when I am having a baby I will cut you" face.

        We didn't really play any games- obvi.  The only sort of game was to get onesies and Emily had to guess who brought which item.  It may sound sort of terrible (and by terrible I mean awesome,) but I was several glasses of Prosecco in, so it seemed like a fine idea at the time.

This is what I got her.  Miniature bedazzled ice cream cone tank top? Yes please. 

        Also, the food was pre-tty good, if I do say so myself.  Carly and I had to haul balls to get it all together.  Luckily, I have a different friend who has more party decorations, bowls, and baskets than Crate and Barrel, so I borrowed a bunch of stuff from her that really classed it up.  You know me- always classy.  Okay, maybe 'sometimes classy' is more accurate?  You know what? I don't think we need to quantify it.

Um, yeah.  I made this.

Individual napkin and silverware baskets- that's how fancy I am.

Cute.  If you like that sort of thing. 

sign by Shan

Table by Holly

        If you know me a little bit, you might be surprised to find that I actually had fun doing this.  Only because I love Emily.   Fine, we had a four person SWAT team that made this happen. (Strong work Shandra, Holly and Carly.) Also, Carly is hilarious, and one of the only people who can get away with telling me to calm the f@&* down.  Let's be honest, I need that person.  We all need that person sometimes.

        Moral of the story: when life gives you pregnant friends, selflessly throw them baby showers so their family and friends compliment your fabulous cooking skills, and -more importantly- so you can pick the alcohol that pairs best with onesies.

       

Carly and I several years ago before we had to booze with a bunch of pregnant people and babies.