Category Archives: Re-Blogged

Migraines Suck!

Migraines Suck!

For those of you out there who just so happen to suffer from this insane cramping and splitting of the brain, you know what I’m talkin’ about. Migraines suck. Horribly.

I’ve suffered from their debilitating touch since I was in the fifth grade. At least that’s my earliest memory of an attack. At the time, I didn’t know what they were and neither did my parents. We just thought they were headaches. I wasn’t diagnosed with the evil humors until I was in the eighth grade. And since then, have been on a multitude of medications. . . all in an effort of preventing, halting and reducing their intrusion on my life. Have I mentioned that they suck?

For those of you who are unaware, Migraines, fall under what is known as an invisible illness. Yes, if you know me, you know when I’m suffering, but most people don’t notice anything different about me when I’m in the middle of an attack. My husband says my face literally changes. There are times when he can see the changes on me before I really feel the migraine hit. (Now that’s love! 🙂 )

When an attack is happening, my brain literally feels as if it’s about to explode within the confines of my skull. The pressure inside my head is insane! Simply taking a deep breath sometimes feels like my eyes are gonna pop out. The pain varies from episode to episode. Sometimes it will come on so hard and so fast that my stomach revolts before I can do anything about it. The necessary task of breathing takes on a new and painful meaning. Each inhale sends my skull into a spray of sparks and each measured exhale causes my vision to darken. Sounds like a party, right?

A few months ago I experienced my very first aura, and let me tell you, it was insane! Cool and insane at the same time! You know when you accidently look into the flash of a camera and you can still see the white spot on your vision for a bit? Yeah, that’s how it started. At first it was teeny tiny, only about a pea size dark spot in the middle of my line of sight. But all too quickly it started to grow! And morph! And Glitter! After only about two or three minutes it had grown, inside my field of view, from a pea to about a foot tall, and it changed from a dot to a misshapen C. Once it took on the shape of the letter, that’s when the cool shit started to happen! First off, I couldn’t see ‘behind’ it. It was almost like it was a real thing hovering out in the space right in front of my eyes. I played with it (hubby wasn’t impressed) by waving my hand back and forth. One moment I had a thumb, and the next it was gone! Then I moved it further in and my hand was cut in two! Magic! As the C grew, it started to sparkle and glitter like a holograph of diamonds. It was quite pretty 🙂 - Web Banner Designs

From the time it started as a tiny blur, to the time it filled my field of vision, it was over and took all of about 15 minutes to complete. And the migraine to follow? Kicked me flat on my ass right after it decided that my stomach needed to be painfully empty. Suddenly the aura wasn’t so cool anymore. Maybe I forgot to mention it, but migraines suck.

What’s even more fun was dealing with them at work. See, I used to work in preschool. . . yeah. Not anymore. Long story short, I missed one too many days due to my invisible illness; mistakenly thought confiding in my boss would help, and yeah. . . they fired me.

So now I’m back to tweaking the meds. Again. In the past 3 months I’ve tried and changed them five times and have just started a brand new one today. So we’ll see where these ones get me. Hopefully I can get them under some sort of control. . . eventually. . . I hope.

And just so you know, Invisible Illness Week is coming up in September. Show your support to those who don’t look like they’re suffering. They are.



The cover art I used for this post can be found here. This artist has drawn what is damned near as close to the pain I feel exploding from my head each time I suffer an attack.

reblogged from Indie Chicks Cafe


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Personal PSA – Show a little Scent Courtesy

Personal PSA – Show a little Scent Courtesy

It’s not a secret, anyone who knows me knows I suffer from migraines. Have since I was little and will until the Lord Almighty decides my time here on Earth is done. But what I’ve never done before is write out a PSA. You know, a Public Service Announcement. Well, this one is personal, hence the title of this post.

Since today is Mother’s Day, it’s inevitable that there will be dinners and gifts given. And among those gifts will more than likely be those of the stinky variety. You know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ll be out shopping and you’ll come across this wonderful new fragrance and you know it’ll be absolutely perfect for your under fragrant loved one. That’s great! I love my perfumes! -at least the ones I can still wear that is- When I turned 16 my parents bought me a bottle -one of the super tiny bottles- of Channel No 5 and I Loooooooooved that perfume!! Wore it all the time! (Well, at least once a week, I didn’t want it gone too soon 🙂 )

Then came the day, it was like all other days before it, or so I thought, and I took it from my dresser to wear it for the day. One squirt and that was it. It fried my brain with a migraine. I thought it was a fluke and a week or so later tried to wear it again. Another instant migraine. I was devastated 😦 I cried.

Then my sister in law bought me a bottle of perfume for my birthday. She bought it for me because she’d found it, wore it, and it smelled amazing and every time I went over to her house I stole a squirt! I wore it three times before I had to give it back to her and she can now no longer wear it around me. It wasn’t too long after those two perfumes were eliminated from my wardrobe that my collection of fragrance choices was reduced to only three that I can currently wear. Besides the bottles of mine that had to be given away, my husband had to stop all together wearing any sort of cologne or aftershave. Damn near all men’s fragrances spear me right through the eyeball with a barbed taser hook.

So now onto my plea for all of you. Please remember this when you’re standing at the perfume counter contemplating which one to buy.

~~~~~~~~*****Please Share with anyone who wears perfume/cologne!*****~~~~~~~~

I’m not the only one in this vast wide world to suffer from migraines. But an instant trigger of mine is the pungent odor of people! Yes. You know who I’m talking about. Listen, I understand, you love that perfume/cologne you wear so much of. I get it. I really do. You love it so much you wear it every day. But for some strange reason after wearing it for a few months you no longer smell it. It must be losing its potency, right? So you need to spray on more to compensate for those fading top notes, right?


You now smell like a freaking dead skunk drowning in their own popped stink sack! Just because you can no longer smell your most favored bottle o’funk wafting up to your waiting nose every time you move doesn’t mean the rest of the air breathing population can’t smell you a mile away. YOU STINK! TAKE A BATH AND OMIT THE PERFUME/COLOGNE! ONE SQUIRT PEOPLE! ONE. Maybe two at the very most, but NEVER, ever, more than two. N~E~V~E~R!!

But why not? you ask. Why? Really? Have you not been reading? sigh— You’ve become desensitized to your own perfume, that’s all. Think of it this way. Have you ever been to the petting zoo? Yeah, you know how awful it smells when you first get there? All the different smells of poo from all the different breeds of barn animals. It reeks. But by the time you’re ready to leave you no longer smell the animals or their leave behinds. The same is for your nose with your now over doused body. But the rest of us? Oh, we still smell the barn animals poo. Me more than anyone else.

Or, think of it this way, you wouldn’t bring a nut dish to a party where you knew someone might have a nut allergy, would you? Of course not. They might have a horrible reaction and then it would be your fault. That’s awful, right? Well, I, and others like me, have what you can call a fragrance allergy and when I have to breathe you in, I will suffer a migraine attack. So when you decide to spray on half the bottle just so you can smell it, it’s almost like you just coated yourself with a fine peanut powder that floats into the air every time you move. So now, those innocent people with nut allergies, those walking behind you in your dusty wake, are now gasping for air like fish out of water and they don’t know why.

So I ask all of you this: Please learn to limit your perfume/cologne usage to only one squirt, and please share this with your friends and family. Please!


reblogged from Indie Chicks Café


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Boobs and Bras

Boobs and Bras

Boobs and Bras. If you’re a woman, you have both in your lives. And no, I’m not referring to the man in your life. I’m talking about those things dangling from your chest that men can’t seem to get enough of.

Bras. I don’t know about any of you out there, but for me, shopping for bras is a task I wish I didn’t have to do. Why is shopping for them so damned difficult? Because of the frustrating nature of such a trip to the lingerie department, I tend to purchase enough bras to last me a year. This way as one wears out or the underwire snaps, I simply pull a new one from my drawer and I’m good to go. Crazy you say? Yeah, it is, but shopping for bras does nothing but piss me off. And boy do I get pissed off!

Why, you ask?

I’ll tell you why.

During my most recent trip to restock my dwindling supply, I realized I can’t be the only one out there who hates shopping for bras! You wander up and down the racks (see what I did there? heehee 😀 nice pun, no?) looking at and feeling all the cups to see whats new in bra design since you last had to accomplish this task. You see one you like, search through until you find your size and then wander toward the dressing room so you can try it on. Once there you have to take off you shirt and existing bra to try on the new one. You stand there and model in those ghastly three way mirrors as you decide if this one fits you. And you know what? More than likely, the damned thing doesn’t. But it says its your size! Instead, you’re now being plagued with quadraboob. But its my size! The tag says so!

50s-braWhy can’t a bra size be universal?

To support all bras across all designers?

(Ha! See that! I did it again! 😀 )

But nooooooooo.

After spending more time than I cared to keep track of trying on and then discarding bras, I realized that they must just be guidelines not actual sizes. I eventually found some bras that I decided to buy. And you want to know what I discovered?! Of the eight bras I purchased, they are of three different designers, and are labeled with four different sizes!

Of designer A, I purchased two and they are the same size . . . almost. While they both fit the way I want them to fit, they are by no means the identical “size.” Of one of the bras, the cups fit the way I want, but the other? The cups are a little more roomy.

For designer B, I purchased three. Of those three, only two are my “size” while the other one is a cup size bigger! How is this possible?! It was the same for designer C. Only with that one, one of the bras is my size while the other two are different. One is a cup size bigger and the other is a cup smaller! WTH!

But they’re made by the same people! Shouldn’t they be the same?

Do you see my frustration? Can you feel my pain? Why is this so difficult? And the lady helping me didn’t have an answer. If I could get away with walking around without a bra, I probably would. But I know my hubby would have a stroke!

I can’t be the only one out there to have such issues with bra shopping. Or maybe I am and I just have wonky boobs!



reblogged from Indie Chicks Cafe


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Brownie Wars

In my house, making brownies means war. I’m not talking about a knock-down-drag-out-fight type war, but its war nonetheless.

Let me explain and I’ll start from the beginning.

Newly married, I knew one of my hubby’s favorite desserts was brownies, so I decided to make them for him one night after dinner. He was in the living room taking care of the baby and I was in the kitchen cleaning up the mess leftover from dinner. Knowing brownies from a box are a quick make, I turned on the oven and proceeded to mix the ingredients together.

Once done, I turned on the timer and went into the living room with the spoon for my hubby to enjoy. I didn’t think anything about leaving my oven unguarded.

I didn’t think I needed to keep an eye on it, or its contents.

Oh how wrong I was.

When the oven timer beeped, I made my way into the kitchen to pull out my surprise only to have the surprise turned on me.

You see, there in the middle of the pan of warm chocolaty love, was a huge divot. Quite literally a crater. As if, somehow, a plug had been temporarily pulled on the pan while the brownies were baking.

All I could do was stand there. Gaping at my now misshapen dessert.

While I was busy trying to understand what had happened, my hubby came in behind me. With a wide grin he asked if they were finally done. As I looked at him, I noticed he had chocolate on the corners of his mouth.baker

Squealing, I threw my oven mitts at him as I demanded to know what had happened to the brownies.

Shaking his head at me as if he couldn’t understand why I was even asking he plainly stated, “Since you didn’t leave me the bowl, I had to take it from the pan.”

I don’t know about you, but when I bake, everything from the bowl goes into the baking pan. I don’t leave anything behind. I scrape the bowl darn near clean of batter before dropping it into the sink. I had always assumed that my offering of the batter-laden spoon was enough.

Apparently, I was wrong.

And so started the Brownie Wars.

Now, when I make the yummy dessert, I have to take precautions to make sure most of the batter makes its way into the oven. I’m still of the mind that all the batter makes its way into the oven. Because of this, I have to either guard the oven for half an hour, or make them while he’s at work.

His stance? He says he’s like an angry volcano and needs a heaping spoon of sacrificial batter to appease his taste buds.

I think he’s just a mischievous two year old wanting to eat raw dessert batter.




reblogged from Indie Chicks Cafe


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