Nurse Trudy ⁵

Today, I was supposed to get a variety of immunizations for my upcoming trip to South America.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Instead, I was locked in my bedroom, lights shut off, wearing a pair of sunglasses and attempting to not puke as I worked on my laptop.

The jury’s still out on whether I had a migraine or a sinus headache on steroids, but either way, my cabeza was angry.

Like, Kanye West when Taylor Swift won the Grammy angry.

No, no, wait…like, Theresa from the Real Housewives of New Jersey angry. This makes total sense as my headache came complete with lots of large gold jewelry and a Jersey accent. (Neither of these respond to acetaminophen, by the way.)

I mean, if there had been a table full of spaghetti and meatballs in the room, I’m pretty sure my feisty migraine would have flipped that sucker over with sheer ESP.

Although I would say my noggin is equal parts angry Italian woman and conceited black rapper, so there may have been a few cheap shots at a country music artist in there as well.

Anyway, I’ve been suffering mild to moderate headaches for the past few days, but this morning’s took the cake. I was supposed to spend the day seeing Doctor Vennestrom for Yellow Fever and Malaria vaccines, among other things.

(Yes, I realize he shares a last name with the villain from the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. And yes, this means I already distrust him.)

Instead, I received a house call from the one, the only, Nurse Trudy.

“Turn your head and cough.”

Jolie earned the nickname Trudy as she refuses to leave my side while I work during the day. For tax reasons, I decided to make her my “secretary” and officially add her to the payroll.

The peanut butter payroll.

“Christmas bonus, suckers!”

As Jolie just didn’t sound like a secretary name, we settled on referring to her as “Trudy” during work hours.

Other variations include “Truds”, “Triznooshkies”, “Trudy Lou Hoo” and, when she’s being especially difficult, “The Triznatch”.

Whatever her name may be, Nurse Trudy was just what the ~~Doctor~~ Physician Assistant ordered.

Oh you know it’s serious when I’m turning down coffee.

1. Pretty sure any credibility gained by turning down the coffee went flying out the window when I claimed I was having an aneurism.

2. I’m not sure how “Qa” got in there, but my theory is that Theresa the headache used her table flipping ESP to send it. It’s probably Italian for “ouch” or something.

3. Yes, “sleepies” is a technical term.

No, biscuit therapy is not the reason I gained sixteen pounds in two months.

You’re thinking of ice cream therapy.

“Biscuit” is yet another name for Jolie that Scott came up with.

Variations include “Biskies”, “Bushkies”, “Biscuitine Rabbit” and “The Royal Biznatch”.

Can you tell we don’t have children?

Biscuit therapy, provided by Nurse Trudy herself, looks a little something like this.

It took $50,000 in student loans for Jolie to earn her masters of snuggling.

Basically she curls up next to you, repeatedly licks whatever part of your body is nearest to her, and makes the entire bed smell like a hamster.

It works wonders.

With Jolie by my side, I was somehow able to get my work done.

This included a very important conference call that I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get through. My office uses Skype to video chat, but my coworkers were kind enough to let me remain unseen as I was literally laying on my side, holding my head with my hands, and wearing my Versace Sunglasses to lessen the glare of the computer screen.

In my moment of need, Nurse Trudy was there.

Trudy’s first conference call

While I may share photos of myself without makeup on, and even disclose my weight, I will not be posting a photo of what I looked like during this call.

Yes, it was that bad.

Miraculously, I was able to hang in through the entire 90 minute meeting, despite the fact that Theresa Guidice was throwing a temper tantrum of New Jersey proportions in my skull. In fact, I felt like I was even able to actively participate and contribute to the discussion.

Thank you, Nurse Trudy.

“All in a day’s work.”

The healing power of animals is truly incredible. Jolie always seems to “know” when I’m sick and provide me the extra attention necessary to convince me that I’m not actually experiencing an aneurism. (Or that I’ve gone and caught AIDS from the nail salon.)

And the best part?

She didn’t even ask for my insurance card.

“That’ll be one hot dog and two minutes of belly rubs. Then I’m taking a smoke break.”

With all that processed meat and cigarette smoke, I’m starting to worry that Nurse Trudy might be the one at risk for an aneurism.

On a happier note….Congratulations to the winner of the Chanel nail polish giveaway, commenter #8, Rachael B.! Rachael is a dear friend of mine who basically embodies all of the style, glamour and sophisitcation Chanel represents. Congratulations, Rachael!!

(Winner was selected via random number selector at Random.org)

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Sixteen pounds ¹³

Brace yourselves…this blog is about to get real.

Like, really real.

Basically, you can imagine me tossing all of my pride out the window.

Or, you can just look at this photo.

Oh, I’ll SHOW you what I weigh…after I Photoshop the dry skin off my feet, of course.

I weighed 127 pounds in Seattle.

Which means the tater tot hot dish has had its way with me, and I’ve gained sixteen pounds.

Sixteen pounds. In two months.

(The sad part is, I haven’t even had a bite of tater tot hot dish. Culver’s frozen custard? That’s another story…)

Okay…before everyone gets all angry, hear me out.

I realize that at 5’5, 143 pounds is not fat or overweight. It is healthy.

But just try explaining that to my quickly expanding butt cheeks, who are expected to prance around Puerto Vallarta in a bikini in exactly nineteen days.

Is it even possible to lose sixteen pounds in nineteen days?

I didn’t think so.

So how did this happen?

Simple.

My name is Katrina, and I like to eat my feelings.

No, it’s not cute. But it’s the truth.

Also? In my messed up world of food issues, “stressed out” and “hungry for sugar and refined carbohydrates” are synonymous.

And you know what will stress you out?

Moving halfway across the country when your husband starts a new job will stress you out.

Having a $1,000 computer monitor (that doesn’t even belong to you) break during this move will stress you out.

Dealing with a minor car accident the week after you move will stress you out.

Dreaming of finally moving into a house and then settling for an apartment because you don’t want to live in a crazy lady’s basement will stress you out.

Having deranged pot head neighbors will stress you out.

Getting locked out of your new place and missing a work meeting will stress you out.

Somehow having to complete your taxes despite the fact that all your W-2s were lost during your cross-country relocation will stress you out.

Not being able to purchase a bookcase, which I realize is completely trivial, will stress you out.

Attempting to assemble the furniture you did get to buy at IKEA will stress you out.

Spilling hot candle wax all over your new carpet will stress you out.

And not having any friends in your new town? That will definitely stress you out.

It will also be how cereal and ice cream become your “substitute” friends.

No, it’s not cute. But it’s the truth.

Honestly? I’m kind of amazed I didn’t gain more than sixteen pounds.

This is probably due to the fact that despite my recent love affair with high-calorie granola, I’ve been working out everyday.

Because, I actually enjoy it.

I’m proud of that.

I’m also proud that I posted this. Sure, my friends will read it. My coworkers will read it. The friends I’m trying to impress by looking good in a bikini on this Mexico trip will probably read it.

And I’m okay with that.

Seven years ago, when I struggled with a terrible eating disorder, I would not have been okay with that.

So this is progress. Progress filled with trans-fat and preservatives, but progress nonetheless.

The fact that I’ve rapidly gained weight because of stress and a poor diet doesn’t make me less of a person. (Technically, it makes me more of a person.) What it does make me is human.

You know, like, normal.

And you know what this normal girl is going to do?

She’s going to spend the next nineteen days eating sensibly and continuing her daily exercise regime.

She’s going to go to Mexico, have a wonderful time, and wear her bikini with pride.

She will gain all of the weight she loses in the next nineteen days back through a combination of guacamole, tequila and various other bad decisions.

But she’s on vacation, so it’s okay.

She’s then going to return home and get back to business.

Which means running her half-marathon in June.

And then travelling to Southern California for a week of intense Turbo Kick at Camp Do More.

And eventually, she will post a second scale photo that will bring her pride for an entirely different reason. Because the number on the scale will be her goal.

She will also stop referring to herself in the third person and writing overly dramatic blog posts about her inner fat-kid.

Seriously, though…I’ll back to my usual snarky self tomorrow. (I’m getting half a dozen vaccines for a trip to South America, which should prove for a much more light-hearted post. Hopefully.)

In the mean time, I’d like to apologize to anyone that knows me who read this, and is now picturing my cellulite.

No, it’s not cute. But it’s the truth.

Psst! Have you entered the Chanel Nail Polish Giveaway yet? Hurry — you only have ONE DAY LEFT! And yes, that is Chanel Nail Polish in the incriminating scale photo above…how sweet of you to notice!

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Friend-Proof Mascara ¹¹

I’ve become what I hate.

Which is a person who wakes up at 5:30 am and puts on makeup.

To go to the gym.

The whole thing feels especially artificial as I recently published a no makeup post where I boast about loving myself with or without cosmetic enhancement.

Me, without makeup. (Or eyebrows)

So why did I waste my time applying mascara only to sweat it off twenty minutes later?

Simple. I wanted to make friends.

I’ve been going to the Small Town YMCA each day to participate in an early morning group exercise class. As someone who works from home, I need a daily dose of face to face contact–even if it’s in the midst of sweating profusely while doing burpees and cursing under my breath. To me, the gym is a place to better my fitness and my social life.

Which leads me to the mascara.

There’s this group of girls at the gym that I want to be friends with. Not in a creepy way. More of an “I’m lonely and my dog can’t go shopping with me” kind of way.

The girls not only seem fun and interesting–they just happen to be my age.

And have a ton of cute workout clothes.

I have a ton of cute workout clothes.

I mean, it just makes sense that we would be “besties”.

I’ve been watching them after class (again, not in a creepy way) and noticed something they all have in common. They wear makeup to class. Like, full on makeup.

I suspect there also may be some sort of perfume involved.

Despite the fact that it’s still dark outside and we’re about to perspire enough to definitely require a shower after class.

Hmmm.

If they wear makeup to class, and then I wear makeup to class, we’re destined to instantly bond. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if we plan a girl’s trip to Vegas within the next six months!

(Yes, this is how my brain works.)

And so, like the friendless sellout that I truly am, I set my alarm fifteen minutes early in order to go against everything I believe in and put my face on before hitting the gym.

This would have worked perfectly had I actually woken up when the alarm went off. Instead, I ended up dragging myself from the bed at my usual time, which meant after slapping on some mascara, coverup, and of course, my eyebrows, I was behind schedule.

I arrived three minutes late only to discover that all of the fifteen pound weights were already in use. I ended up having to settle for nine pounders, which meant my workout was disappointingly mediocre. The worst part? After the first ten minutes of rigorous activity, my face was beet red, aside from the few spots where I had applied my ghost white concealer. Basically, my face looked like a cross between Minne Mouse’s red polka dot dress and a Monet painting. (As in a Monet painting from the later years when Claude had pretty much lost his eyesight and things were extra splotchy.)

And no one even noticed the mascara.

I take that back…one person did. You’re not going to believe this, but the neighbor who helped me when I locked myself out yesterday happened to be next to me in class.

Welcome to life in a small town.

The good news is that we’ve cleared the air and he no longer thinks I’m a psycho. He even wants me to help him with a website he’s working on. Dare I say it, we might just be “buddies”.

The bad news is that I’m going to have to bust out the workout sombrero.

I’ll get these girls to like me if it kills me.

(There may or may not be margarita mix in that Nalgene bottle…)

I mean, seriously. How could you not want to be amigos with this?

Psst! Have you entered the Chanel Nail Polish Giveaway yet? Hurry — you only have until Thursday!

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The plot thickens

Locked Out ⁸

My Uncle Kurt happens to be a Volunteer Fire Fighter.

So, while touring the Como Botanical Gardens in Saint Paul this weekend, I decided to pick his brain.

Because I think fire fighting is interesting.

And also because I’ve become concerned about my Walmart Candles.

You see, after the hot wax all over the new carpet incident, I’ve decided it’s just easier to leave the candles burning when I take Jolie out on a quick five-minute walk, as opposed to blowing them out and then knocking wax everywhere while attempting to fan the smoke away with my clumsy hand.

Uncle Kurt informed me that candles (combined with stupidity) are one of the main causes for house fires.

Then, because he and my Aunt Kris are thoughtful and generous, they presented Scott and I with a beautiful housewarming gift.

Because Uncle Kurt also has a twisted sense of humor, the gift was a candle.

I enjoyed the vanilla candle with my coffee this morning. They also gifted us a box of chocolates, which didn’t “survive” long enough to be photographed. (Three words: “Nom! Nom! Nom!”)

As I opened it, I was warned I would need to be careful with the contents of the package as I didn’t have the best track record.

With candles or with chocolate.

So yes, Uncle Kurt and Aunt Kris were aware of “the incident“.

Not my finest moment.

Yet they trusted me enough to give me the candle anyway, assuming I had probably learned my lesson. They had gone out on a limb and given me their vote of confidence.

Which is why it pains me to admit what happened next.

At precisely 12:18 this afternoon, it became quite apparent that Jolie needed to be taken outside to relieve herself. I had exactly twelve minutes before I needed to call into an important work meeting, so I knew we’d have to make it snappy.

My attempt to “make it snappy” included forgetting to blow out the burning candle.

It also included forgetting my keys. Which meant I was not only locked out of the building, I was also locked out of my unit.

With seven minutes until the conference call.

And a candle that could quite possibly take out all of my new IKEA furniture, not to mention my residence.

When Scott and I moved to Minnesota, I was able to keep my job and work full-time from home. I absolutely love my job and am beyond grateful to have been given the opportunity to work remotely–the least I can do is keep the lines of communication open and do my best to show up to my teleconferences on time.

This was going to be a challenge as I had not only forgotten my keys, but also my cell phone.

The icing on the cake is that Scott was working ninety minutes away.

It was time to get creative.

Obviously, by “creative” I mean sheepishly standing outside one a ground floor unit, smiling and waving like an idiot until someone noticed me.

After about five minutes, a young man timidly opened his screen door and politely addressed me.

“You seem to be locked out.”

“Yes! Arrggghh! I’m so sorry to be standing out here flagging you down. It’s just that, I have no way to get back inside, and my husband is out-of-town. Oh! And I have a candle burning and am supposed to be at a work meeting in, like, five minutes! I wouldn’t have even come out here if it weren’t for the fact that my dog was about two seconds from pooping all over our new area rug, and after spilling hot wax all over the carpet last week, I didn’t want to have to break out the carpet shampoo thingy again, you know? ”

Clearly this was more information than he had bargained for.

“Oh…um…okay. I can let you into the building if you want?”

“You are amazing. Seriously, thank you so much — I really appreciate it. And again, I’m so sorry to bug you. Are you on your lunch break? You look like you’re on your lunch break.. Gosh–I feel so stupid. Anyway…I’m still going to be locked out of my unit. Do you have, like, a butter knife I could borrow to try to pick the lock with?”

He stared at me for a few seconds before I realized I had given him the wrong impression. The fact that Jolie was attempting to burst from my arms so that she could rape and pillage his kitty’s cat condo certainly wasn’t helping.

“Oh…no! I mean…that came out wrong. I promise I actually live here.”

Eventually, I convinced him I wasn’t a burglar and he agreed to call the building manager on his cell phone to relay the details of my predicament. He informed me the manager was finishing lunch at his house, but that he would be over to unlock my door in about ten minutes.

Ten minutes doesn’t seem like a long time.

But when you’re missing an important work meeting while frantically wondering if your renter’s insurance will cover burning an entire building down, it feels like a freaking eternity.

The minutes ticked by at a glacial pace…believe it or not, I actually found myself wishing my creepy parking lot friend was there to keep me company. Although she probably wouldn’t want anything to do with me as I didn’t have a phone she could use to call her drug dealer.

After about seven minutes of pacing, desperation inspired brilliance when I realized I could hike up the hill facing my back deck and, if I stood on my tiptoes, look into our dining room and make sure the candle was still behaving himself.

(Yes, he’s a boy candle.)

Little did I know there happened to be a man strutting around in his unmentionables (translation: sketchy looking bikini briefs) in the unit directly below ours. I noticed him staring at me with disbelief (and perhaps an ounce of pride) about thirty seconds too late.

This was the second time in less than ten minutes I came to the sobering realization that I had given one of my neighbors the very wrong impression.

On the bright side, I’ll take “Peeping Tom” over “girl who burned the apartments down” any day of the week.

And you have to admit, the idea of a female Peeping Tom who does her dirty work while holding a seven pound chihuahua at her side is kind of amusing.

Eventually, I was let back into my unit. I was roughly thirty minutes late to my meeting, but my coworkers were beyond understanding, and the candle had not exploded. I breathed a sigh of relief.

And then it hit me…I was so panicked about forgetting the keys, I hadn’t actually stopped running around like a chicken with my head cut off long enough for Jolie to actually go to the bathroom while we were outside.

Our carpet didn’t look as bad as the candle wax mishap…but it certainly smelled worse.

I think this is my punishment for not sharing that box of chocolates with Scott.

Psst! Have you entered the Chanel Nail Polish Giveaway yet? Hurry — you only have until Thursday!