Examining The Serious Side

Having Celiac's Disease is tough. Having a combination of Celiac's Disease and Lactose Intollerance is even tougher. I sit in this coffee shop, smelling the beautiful aromas of hazelnut lattes and almond mochas. People walk by me carying plates stacked with scones and turnovers. Flakey, buttery crust sizzling from just having spent twenty minutes in the oven. The scent of fresh blueberry muffins reaches my nose and I can almost remember the taste. Almost.

Let's take a break and define this widely unknown disease. According to a source far more eloquent than I am:

"Celiac disease is an autoimmune digestive disease that damages the villi of the small intestine and interferes with absorption of nutrients from food. What does this mean?
Celiac disease is triggered by consumption of the protein called gluten, which is found in wheat, barley and rye.

When people with celiac disease eat foods containing gluten, their immune system responds by damaging the fingerlike villi of the small intestine. When the villi become damaged, the body is unable to absorb nutrients into the bloodstream, which can lead to malnourishment. "

There was a time in my life, only a year ago, when I could have indulged in whatever my heart desired. A sundried tomato scone and a hazelnut milkyway would have been a regular treat for me as I worked on homework here at one of my favorite haunts. Now, however, it would throw me into intense pain for several days - occasionally even up to a week - after the initial indulgence.

I ate a piece of pizza last night. It was the first in months. I nearly did not go to class this morning because of the pain. Was it worth it? Not really.

There are worse things in this world to live with. I keep reminding myself of that. A dear friend of mine is going in for heart surgery, one of several, this month. She is 22 years old and has had health problems all of her life. Another friend of mine had a brain tumor. My disease limits the foods I can enjoy, but is not terminal. I enjoy a wonderful life in spite of having to avoid many foods.

And now it is time to take another Alka-Seltzer and count my blessings instead of crying over those things I don't have.

Cheers!

Beauty Pagent Catastrophe

Here’s a quick synopsis of my personality. I’m the girl in the cowboy boots and cow-crap stained pants behind the fence at the rodeo. I’m the girl in the beat up tennis shoes, holey jeans, and a baseball cap. I’m the one who climbs trees, builds houses - breaks things. I am a tomboy.

Enter character number two: a good friend of mine from the theater department at school. He’s the kind of guy that you would do anything for. One of those guys you just can’t say no to. He’s the teddy bear, the Bon Jovi fanatic, the I smell like Captain Black cigars and beef jerky and three in the morning McDonald’s runs guy.

Now enter the situation. The college was having its annual “Miss Wayland” pageant. This is a beauty pageant in which all of the clubs nominate a girl to represent them and then the girls battle in three areas (talent, question/platform, evening wear) to decide which of them represents the school for an entire year as Miss Wayland.

From the very beginning of the nominations, several clubs were trying to get their sticky little fingers on me for their representative. I remained strong. No way was I going to get up on stage and prance around in a dress and heels. That is until my friend from the theater department asked me to represent their club. A feeling of defeat swept over me. I couldn’t say no. And so I was launched headfirst into a foreign world of group dances, high heels and lots of giggling.

The big day came more quickly than I could have ever imagined. I had this great blue dress and a pair of beautiful silver heels, which I duct tapped firmly to my feet. And with those duct tapped shoes, everything went perfectly. That is, until the talent portion of the competition.

I was doing a monologue entitled The World’s Fastest Lawn Mower (complete with a turbine engine), playing the part of a journalist telling the story of her ride on said lawnmower. I was dressed perfectly in black pants, a white collared shirt and awesome black stiletto boots. It was fantastic. Until I sat on the very edge of my very lopsided and top heavy desk (the only prop I had) and it tipped up on its end, spilling me onto the floor in an uncoordinated mess. I recovered flawlessly and it would have looked part of the monologue had the stage crew not flooded the stage and turned the desk upright once again.

Needless to say, I was not voted that year’s Miss Wayland. I didn’t even get into the top ten. They wanted someone with poise and a certain grace about them. As I enjoyed my extra large piece of pepperoni pizza backstage while Miss Wayland was getting chosen, I decided that I didn’t mind losing that particular competition.

Velcro

Today is a velcro day.

Velcro...as in "everything sticks to me today."

I walk by the kitchen island, and I get stapped in the leg by the corner. That will leave a bruise. I walk by a pile of papers on the end table, and I knock all of them over. Now I have to clean that up. I reach over the desk to pick up a piece of paper and knock over my coffee, spilling it onto my new jeans. Now I can't wear them tomorrow.

Today is a velcro day.

A Violent Shove into Chaos

As a society, we usually encourage keeping Chaos tightly locked in the closet along with the broom, dust bunnies and any laundry that we haven't gotten done. Organization is lifted onto its pedistal and is the ultimate goal. Order is what we, as human beings, strive for. Many of us would describe ourselves as somewhat chaotic, but even we have struggle for a sense of balance within us - even if it doesn't make sense to everyone else.

On this ordinary Sunday morning, I was feeling quite at peace with myself and my decision to push myself a little bit out of my comfort zone. I had agreed to lead sunday morning worship with the praise team at church. This team consists of four ladies, myself included, and a pianist. I hadn't sang in front of people in a long time, so my nerves were on edge.

As I sat down in the back row, my usual spot, I congratulated myself for this much progress. Maybe next year I would step out from behind the music stand and out from the crowd and do a solo. Nope. Maybe a duet.

I had no idea that I'd be given a violent shove from the music stand in about ten minutes.

Apparantly somebody had opened the closet door and let Chaos out for some air that morning. Everybody that usually led the more serious part of the worship service was either sick or on vacation. Nobody was there to take their place. So it fell to me and my friend to lead a congragation of people three times our age to worship. We stood up there, alone, with only a hymn book between us and the people in the front row.

Needless to say I was stretched a little today. I guess the moral of this story is that sometimes, when you agree to give a little you end up giving a whole lot. So when you open the door an inch, be prepared for it to be flung open wide. Or to be unceremoniously shoved into something you weren't expecting.

Death By Automatic Toilet

Working at the Olive Garden was rarely boring. It was never quiet, either. Always present was the sound of forks clinking, people laughing, the manager telling me to seat guests faster, the servers telling me to seat guests slower, and the busboys generally keeping all of us in a good mood.

One particular day, before opening, my fellow hosts and I were rolling silverware and listening to the drones of the vacuum cleaner. I realized if I was going to have a chance to hit the bathroom at any time during my shift it would be at the present.

This particular Olive Garden had automatically flushing toilets, which in theory are wonderful. They, however, gave us quite a few problems, clogging and breaking fairly regularly.

On this spring morning there were no problems on the bathroom front; that is until I showed up. I slipped into the first stall, which was my favorite stall, and went on with business. As I stood up, my key ring, holding car and house keys, slipped out of my pocket and landed with a giant kerplunk into the toilet. Panicked, I of course froze and the magic porcelain gateway to the sewer opened its wide mouth and devoured all of the contents with a flush, including my keys.

Horrified, I simply stared into the now tranquil pool of water, watching the light reflect off the bottom of the brilliant white toilet bowl. It looked so innocent, so pure, so completely incapable of doing something as horrendous as stealing my car keys. This toilet with its shining silver hardware and gleaming white body, I decided, was a master con artist.

My sister delivered my spare set of car keys later that day. I am sure, however, that a rat somewhere has a new set of bling around its neck. I also can’t help but expect my car alarm to suddenly go crazy when that hypothetical rat pushes the panic button on my car keys. Until that day, however, I am forced to accept the death of my first set of car keys, a death by automatic flushing.

Taking the Plunge

Blogging.

When I think of blogging, I think of a fourty year old man in his parents' basement, pretending he has a life. Orange Cheeto stains cover his shirt and his keyboard. He thinks that the life he's created for himself is real - he forgets that he is a pathetic, overweight man still mooching off of his parents' income.

Maybe I'm wrong.

I've decided to take the plunge, though. Maybe blogging isn't just for the deadbeat in his parents' basement. Maybe it's for people like me, people struggling to get their foot in the writing industry.

So here it goes.
Hope you enjoy.