Today Is My Birthday

With a heavy heart and sad eyes, I must change the tag line of my blog from 24 to 25.

I turned 25 today.

I’m 25 years old. 

I’m halfway to 50.

Someone told me a quarter of my life is over… But that’s only if I live to 100! And I’m in terrible shape, I’ll be lucky if I live to 75, there is no way I’ll make it to 100. So technically then, even more than a quarter of my life is over.

So bring on the quarter life crisis, because I might not make it to my midlife crisis.

Happy Birthday to me.number_25_3

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Lord Help the Mister (and anyone else for that matter) Who Comes Between Me and My Sister

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There is many a day when I wish I could have done better in the “Big Sister” department of my life. I have only one sibling, and that is my sister who is 4 years younger than me. I look back on times that we spent together and how we used to (still do) torment each other, how we used to (still do) fight all the time, and how we used to (still do) make fun of each other – and I just see where I came up short.

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I look around at some of my friends that are my age, who have younger sisters that are my sisters age, and they just seem to have that “we are such best friends” vibe going on… And I’m over here like “How do you do that? How do you not pick on each other and get irritated with each other?” I wish I could be my sister’s best friend. Maybe later on in life we’ll get to that stage, but for the last 21 years that she’s been around, most of the years we weren’t even what you would call “friends.” 

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Sadly, I feel like I wasted a lot of years wishing my sister wasn’t around. Wishing she wasn’t so different from me, and wondering what her problem was and how it was her fault that we never got along. Which was totally wrong. It was my fault. The truth is, my sister and I are very different – like night and day different. I’m night because I’m the bad sister and she’s day because she is the good sister. I have had some major screw ups in my life and made TERRIBLE life choices. My sister seemingly has done no wrong in that area and is on the straight and narrow path. I have had a pretty healthy life, but not a healthy body. My sister is like the epitome of health, she works out, and runs, and lifts, and eats vegetables, and doesn’t drink soda – but she has had some SERIOUS health and heart issues in her life and several surgeries and procedures done. I am terrible at sports, she’s good at everything. I am a very dependent person and my sister is fiercely independent. I am outgoing, loud, obnoxious and usually rude, my sister is quiet, calm, polite and bottles all of her feelings up. My sister consistently walks the line of cute/adorable and beautiful looking and I usually look like troll. I should have been more open and understanding of our differences. How boring would it have been if my little sister was just like me? Then my parents would have 2 terrible daughters instead of just one.

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I do feel lucky to have the sister that I do, she is very understanding of my shortcomings (or maybe she’s just used to the fact that I suck as a sister). She’s never asked too much of me, because she’s never really asked anything of me. And I think that’s because she doesn’t expect anything from me, which is a failure on my part to be loving, kind, and supportive. It’s sad to say, but we get along the best – when we aren’t near each other, or at least, not living with each other. I’ve never expected anything of her, because I never wanted to put any pressure on her to be there for me. I never thought it was my little sister’s place to be my emotional crutch and my pat on the back. We also weren’t raised that way – we both seem to have the belief that “my problems are my problems and no one else’s and no one is going to help me deal with them except myself.” Maybe due to that “common belief” we share, we just figured the other person didn’t care. I hope my sister knows that I care. 

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Today, as I was whining about what an awful human being I am and the fact that I think I’m a terrible sister – I had a friend remind me of some memories: 

     She reminded me of this one time in high school, at an away basketball game, how I stood up for my sister. It was her first year on the basketball team, and my last year. She had missed a pass or a shot or something and it had upset another member of the team. During half time that other player made a snide remark about my sister. And then I basically screamed at her “DON’T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT MY SISTER THAT WAY.” 

     Another time was at summer camp, I was a counselor and my sister was a camper still I think. And there were these twin boys who kept picking on her and they called her chubby. I found out about it (and probably legally crossed a line) as I grabbed each boy by the arm and dragged them through the courtyard and threatened to take all of the free time away and making sure they would be severely punished (definitely didn’t have that authority) if they didn’t immediately apologize to her.

     I was then reminded of the time that I was supposed to be watching my sister, and I couldn’t find her (she was still with my parents at my grandparents house, they hadn’t left yet) and I called my friend to come over to help me find her and I was screaming and crying and sobbing and I called 4 different relatives to help me because I was so scared that she was going to get hurt on her own. 

    And then of course, there is the fond memory of me hearing one of my sister’s “friends” say something not so nice about her and I might have called them a “not very nice word” to their face. (Really I’m a terrible person and example.)

So it’s good to know that in any case, I can at least be verbally abusive in my sister’s defense. 

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I think it’s okay that I write all this here, because my sister tends to not actually read my blog, and I’m okay with that. I just wanted to say that I do have regrets and I do care. I regret not being able to come to her Sweet 16 – I was sad all day that I missed it. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for any of her heart procedures, but I will state that I was a crying and praying mess those days. And I want to tell her that I’m her biggest cheerleader, but I do it quietly because I know that I embarrass her a lot. And I’M SORRY that I repeat stories, jokes, and facts a lot, I’m old okay, and I’m turning into our mother, I just FORGET!  

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I hope she knows, that even if I said “I hate you” – I never ever meant it, ever. I hope she knows that I care about what she has done, what she is doing, and what she does in the future. I hope she knows that I pray for her every night and think about her every morning. I hope she knows that if there are things I didn’t tell her, it’s not because I wanted to keep secrets from her, I just didn’t want to burden her. I hope she knows that I will always be on her side no matter what. I hope she knows that I’m sorry for not being a better example. I hope she knows that the 911 call was the scariest moment of my entire life and that I still have nightmares about it. I hope she knows that when I say “I miss you” I mean it and when I say “What are you doing” it means I wish she was with me. I hope she knows that I regret that I couldn’t give her better advice. I hope she knows that she is the most important person in my life, and I hold her above all others on this earth. I hope she knows how much I love her.

Where Bad Things Happen

Kitchens are supposed to be where lovely things happen – where food happens. I love food, but I do not love my kitchen. I am fairly inept at cooking, I’ve got the baking thing pretty much down pat, and I’m terrible at doing the dishes.

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Said dishes.

To most people I have a cute, small, slightly Dr. Who themed kitchen. To most people it looks like the counter could be replaced, and there is a tad bit of renovation that could happen, but the appliances are very nice.

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Here’s my slightly Dr. Who theme going on.

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A painting my friend Beau created. I thought it matched nicely with all the little blue things I have.

But that is not the case my friends. That is not the case at all. For this week, my kitchen, became… MY WORST NIGHTMARE.

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THIS IS WHERE ALL THE BAD THINGS HAPPENED.

Monday and Tuesday were normal days concerning all of my kitchen interactions. Tuesday night, I got some frozen chicken out of my freezer to thaw out in my fridge. 

Wednesday morning I grabbed my crock pot from the cupboard, I was going to cook the chicken in it, with alfredo sauce, all day when I was at work so I could have chicken alfredo for dinner. I noticed that the crock pot smelled a little funny. The outside looked fine, but I thought “Better wash it out again just in case.” That is when terror struck. You see, as with most crock pots, the area where you cook your food is ceramic and covered in a glaze and can be pulled out of the basin so you can wash it. Most of these crock pots, mine included, have an unfinished ceramic bottom – a part of the pot that isn’t covered with glaze – a “soft ceramic bottom.” Apparently the last time I put my crock pot away (about 2 weeks ago) I hadn’t dried the bottom properly. So when I pulled the crock out to wash it, much to my surprise – THE ENTIRE BOTTOM WAS COVERED IN BLACK MOLD. I REPEAT. COVERED. IN. BLACK. MOLD.

BLACK FREAKIN MOLD.

MOLD. (This mold had grown for so long that it had tiny stems and puffy spores like terrifying mold flowers.)

I AM TERRIBLY ALLERGIC TO MOLD.

So being my naturally calm and collected self I FREAKED THE CRAP OUT. I yelled, I hobbled and jumped around whilst holding this heavy ceramic crock… And then it dropped a little and I spread a ton of BLACK MOLD onto my shirt. 

ONTO MY OWN SHIRT THAT WAS ON MY BODY.

Lord help me, I was a mess. I immediately took my shirt and my pajama shorts off, threw them into steaming hot water in the tub and scrubbed them with soap. I then ran back to the kitchen (in just my bra and underwear) and start to clorox EVERYTHING. I cloroxed the crock, the basin, the lid, the counter, my arms, my stomach, my hands, the crock again, the basin again, the lid again, the counter again, my arms again, my stomach again, and my hands again (at this point I was just proud of the fact that I didn’t have a panic attack and just burnt the house down). 

But then looking at the clock I see that it’s 8:47am and I need to be to work by 9am. So I rushed around getting ready… And then all day at work all I could think about was the fact that there had been MOLD IN MY KITCHEN AND THERE COULD STILL BE MORE AND IT’S GOING TO KILL ME. To say I was tense at work is an understatement. When i got home I cloroxed everything AGAIN. And then washed everything with soap and hot water and put the bag with all the moldy cloroxed wipes and rags and paper towels in another bag and threw that on my porch to wait till garbage day. Then I ate cereal for dinner and searched my whole apartment the rest of the night for more mold.

Thursday morning I washed the crock again and then decided it would be safe to make my chicken alfredo. I opened my fridge to discover that the chicken that had been still mostly frozen on Wednesday, was now all the way thawed and that the bag the chicken was in… HAD A HOLE IN IT. There was RAW CHICKEN JUICE all over the bottom shelf of my fridge, and it had leaked into both the crisper and fresh fruit drawers, and underneath those drawers, and in the crevices behind those drawers. 

I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. I just put the chicken in the crockpot with the sauce, pretended I didn’t see the RAW CHICKEN JUICE all over my fridge, and I got ready for work since I was already short on time. And then I thought about raw chicken juice all day long at work. When I got home I opened the fridge, sat on the floor, and cleaned and cloroxed it for about 20 minutes. I still wonder if I got all of it. I then ate chicken alfredo for dinner.

Friday was uneventful in the kitchen, it was also trash day, so the mold and raw chicken juice clean ups were disposed of.

Saturday (today) I woke up after a fairly good sleep and when to the kitchen to start making breakfast. I was going to make my usual non-work day breakfast: 2 eggs – slightly runny, and 2 pieces of toast. I got all of my ingredients ready, heated the pan up, cracked my first egg… And almost threw up. The egg did not look like an egg. The egg WHITE was BROWN, the egg YOLK was GREEN, and the stench that started coming from the FRYING ROTTEN EGG IN MY PAN permeated my entire kitchen. I immediately freaked out. I grabbed the pan from the burner (left the gas burner on because I’m a genius) and ran around the kitchen yelling “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO EWWWWWWW!” I finally decided that it couldn’t just go into the garbage, so I threw it in a small plastic shopping bag… But the pan was still hot… So when the pan touched the plastic bag it melted. And then my apartment smelled like rotten egg and burnt plastic. I now had a slightly melted bag with a half fried rotten egg in it, so what did I do? I put it in the freezer because I live alone and no one ever told me what to do in this situation!

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow… It better not be anything bad with my Keurig… That thing is my angel.

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This is the best thing invented of all time and I love it more than any other appliance ever.