Today, my horoscope read as follows:

Think, please, of some fears you have conquered, some habits you have beaten, some changes you have successfully made. Now remember how once, you doubted that this might be possible. It all seemed very touch and go. There came a moment, just before your big breakthrough when you had to summon all your faith and courage. Then there came a moment when you just knew that you had passed the point of no return and your problem was a problem no more. You’ll have another experience like that soon.

First of all, where my Gemini’s at?! This struck me because the past six months have been chock full of change for me, including:

• Health crisis! Scary times but was a wonderful reminder to never take anything for granted. Also served as a motivating factor for all of the wonderful things that have come my way since then, including:
• Moving from my temporary residence of my parents house in Northwest Indiana back to the city and neighborhood I love. My new apartment is tiny but full of charm. I have a balcony with a majestic view of the parking garage and make some extra money on the side by monitoring people’s cars. I wish. Once I was settled…
• I got a new job! I am now working in the Admission Office of a wonderful and vibrant school in Chicago. The commute is treacherous though — an 8 minute walk really does me in.

Exciting! But, also really, really scary. I struggled with self-doubt along the way but so far, so fab. And throughout these transitions, I am reminded that no matter how wide your social circle, if you’re really lucky, you’ll find those special few people who truly love and support you along the way.  Who drive to Indiana to visit you when you’re fresh out of surgery and need a good laugh (even if it hurts). Who come visit in your new adorable little shoebox and offer to sleep on the (chic) but tiny loveseat. Who assure you that you will rock that interview and rock it hard.  Who offer to fix you up with their hot-but-doesn’t-know-it, charming, smart and hilarious coworker — oh wait, that still needs to happen! To those of you reading this, THANK YOU!

I know this because I’ve recently started receiving Olive Garden emails and today’s is a doozy, advertising soup, salad and bread sticks lunch for $6. $6! Now ALL I can think about is Olive Garden bread sticks! HELP.

This is worse than J. Crew and Anthropolgie “new arrivals” emails that feature all of the cool fall clothes I should most definitely not buy. But, significantly better than the chemistry.com emails I now get because SOMEONE told me that taking the free personality test was “so worth it” and “really spot-on.”  Which it kind of was. But now they’re stalking me hardcore with subject lines like “OOPS! No one can see you on chemistry.com” Yeah, there’s a reason for that.

Since I don’t think there is an Olive Garden in the city, you better believe I’ll be getting my soup-salad-bread stick on this weekend when I’m home for Labor Day. And this is why I love the suburbs.

So, there I am wandering aimlessly on the 18^th floor with no sign of the fingerprinting place, when, of course, a cute guy passes me on his way to the restroom. “Looking for something?” he asked. Polite. Employed. Good shoes. A hot prospect if we had met under different circumstances. WHY didn’t I say, “Oh yes, actually just {Insert Company X}” whose signs were everywhere. Instead, I responded with this pithy gem, “Um, the fingerprinting place?” Way to sound like a creepy sex offender parolee, Pants!

Even worse, he didn’t know where it was/what I was talking about! But, he did direct me to a receptionist who called the “Fingerprinting girl” to come get my prints. Sigh.

You win some, you lose some.

The morning of the big day, I woke up at 4:30 because my hospital was in a different time zone. I thought that this would be a good thing, since I’d be too tired to be nervous. I thought wrong, but I fought through the anxiety the same way I did in college when I was preparing to take a test: Jay-Z.

Once I got to the hospital and filled out my paperwork, I was taken to a room where I changed into my fashion-forward hospital gown, got my blood taken and was hooked up to the IV. A nurse then wheeled me to the real pre-op area upstairs, where I saw my doctor arriving. “Probably a good thing he showed up, am I right?!” I unsuccessfully joked to the nurse.

There was this weird mural of clouds above the bed in the pre-op staging area. Was this supposed to calm me down? Because it didn’t! I needed Valium and I needed it five minutes ago. My palms were sweaty, I was starving and thirsty and starting to basically lose my shit.

Once the nurse brought me two pills of Valium, everything changed and everything was hilarious. My laughter could not be contained, and could probably be heard in the operating rooms. “But, seriously,” I asked the nurse, “WHEN CAN I EAT A CHEEEEEEESEBURGER?!” The nurse thought this was hysterical, especially since I’d be on an ice chip diet for a couple of days.  After the anesthesiologist and the doctor stopped by to say hello, I was off. The last thing I remember was being on the operating table and seeing all of the bright lights above me, just like in Grey’s Anatomy! I was also the neediest person alive, asking every person I saw if they’d be there when I woke up. They all said yes. They be lyin’!

When I did wake up hours later, I realized I was talking. I think I was saying “IT HURRRRRTTS” because the anesthesiologist helpfully replied, “Maybe if you stopped whining, it wouldn’t be as bad!” OH NO SHE DIDN’T! She is lucky I was heavily medicated for if I had been of sound mind and body, she would have had a problem.

I sat with a nurse for maybe an hour, and she pumped my IV with all sorts of lovely drugs. She would ask me my pain level, which was apparently an 11 when I was first “coming to”, and based on my answer, I’d get more drugs.  In retrospect, the first few hours post-surgery were some of the best of my recovery because that’s when they give you the good stuff.

After what seemed like forever, I was wheeled to my room and able to see my family. All I wanted was a nice, quiet place where I could rest and push my magic pain button every time it turned green. Instead, I was in a room the size of a jail cell with a lady who, when she wasn’t moaning loudly, was hacking up a lung and walking to the bathroom with her bare (and bountiful) ass exposed.

Despite the hacking lady, the rude anesthesiologist and my general post-surgery discomfort, the real injustice of the day was served from my own family, who left to get lunch once I was settled in my own little corner of Hell. Can you take one guess what these fools had for lunch while I pathetically devoured my ice chips? Cheeseburgers.

I’m going to go back to the story of my surgery so I can get back to writing about the things that matter most to me – like royalty and national news and (80% of the time) reality TV.

When I went to see my specialist, I was so far in denial I couldn’t even see straight. I brought my peeps with me for support – my parents and my sister since the doctor’s office was in her town. It was actually an oncology center, which should have troubled me had it not been for my severe emotional incompetence. We sat down in the lush waiting room and, in a happy accident, settled in for a marathon of America’s Next Top Model.

An hour went by. I was laughing and making jokes and playing Angry Birds on my iPhone and trying to convince my parents that our whole reason for being there was a giant waste of time since Suzy the Cyst was gone.  Another half hour went by and I was starting to get antsy. My doctor had an emergency and was running horribly late. But, no matter! I had Diet Coke and Tyra – what more does a girl really need?

As soon as I entered the examination room, things changed. The doctor could not have been warmer, and I think that almost made the reality of the situation worse when it finally hit me. As soon as he asked me how long I’d been experiencing pain, I started crying, and I didn’t stop for probably 30 minutes. He informed me that I actually had a (most likely) benign tumor and with its removal would come one of my ovaries.

That’s when the real waterworks started flowing. News this personal is really hard to digest. It feels like you’re losing a tiny part of your identity. Then there was the whole physical recovery issue. Since the tumor was so large, I would have to have open surgery, which has an average recovery time of six weeks.

Being benched for at least a month from work and from any sort of social life was overwhelming.  Add that to the anxiety I was already starting to feel about the remotest possibility I could have cancer or any number of complications – blood clot, pneumonia, infection according to my nurse sister, and I felt lost. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was out of this world supportive. My co-workers, my friends, my family. I truly don’t know what I have done to deserve to have all of these fabulous people in my life! Is it cause they like my gansta walk? Gangsta talk? I kid.

Despite having the support network of my dreams, I couldn’t help but feel just a little bit alone. We left the doctor’s office and went straight to the mall, which leads me to the only fun part out of this mess….the retail therapy spree of 2011.

Almost everything a woman needs to know in life can be found on Lifetime: television from women. How to be an army wife, how to avoid death at the hands of your husband’s obsessive stalker, how to avoid death at the hands of your boyfriend’s obsessive ex-girlfriend when you go home to meet his family for the holidays and she runs you over in her truck, then hides you in her basement for days. You know, the basics.

But I think the single most important thing I’ve learned from Lifetime is how to land a real-life prince. Thanks to the sure to be critically acclaimed Lifetime hit, William & Kate: Let Love Rule, I can tell you, in 10 easy steps how to become betrothed to royalty.

STEP 1: First and foremost, you MUST have a boyfriend before you even consider trying to get a royal’s attention. This boyfriend must not be too intimidating, but not a total loser. All will be revealed in step 4.

STEP 2: Wills who? Who is this prince your friends and peers are gushing about? He’s just a normal chap like the rest of us! Wink, wink.

STEP 3: Befriend the prince. You must start this friendship rather slowly. You’re still not impressed, but would like to offer your help in say, your art history project, thereby slowly gaining access into that elusive circle of trust.

STEP 4: Reject the prince’s efforts once he sees you modeling underwear at a fashion show. Okay, that advice may be too specific for some, but the general point is, once the prince realizes you’re a hottie, make him feel like he is a nottie. Cue, your boyfriend! STAT!

STEP 5: Travel with the prince to his family castle and prove you can hold court with the royals. Remember, you’re still just friends at this point, but you’ve got to show you’ve got future queen material written all over you, so pack your chicest hats and be prepared to kill some birds!

STEP 6: Okay, fine, give in already, HE IS A PRINCE AFTER ALL. But this new relationship must be kept under wraps, for fear of paparazzi invasion.

STEP 7: Demand to be included into his public life, though you will instantly regret it when the paps are waiting at your door.

STEP 8: When he dumps you to play the field, you need to hit the club scene in your shortest dresses and hit it HARD. It is essential to go all Gloria Gaynor on your prince in order for him to return on bended knee.

STEP 9: When he comes to find you at your rowing practice, you must play hard to get for approximately five seconds before diving in the water and swimming to your man. GET IT GIRL.

STEP 10: You’ve landed your prince! Your royal wedding will be broadcast all over the world! There’s only one thing left to do – work it, own it.

My doctor in Chicago doesn’t keep weekend hours, so I visited a physician who is a friend of the family in my hometown. When my mom and I got there, I was a wreck. I was weak and in excruciating pain, and when the nice lady couldn’t get a vein the first time she tried to take blood, I thought my world was ending. Sobbing, I babbled “I. HAVE. NO. LUCK.” The nice lady who had previously advertised herself as a “one stick only” blood taker morphed into a not-so-nice person immediately. “GIRL you don’t know about luck. No luck is having your wisdom teeth out and coming to work with dry sockets. THAT’S no luck.”

Too tired to play the “who has it worse” game, I slumped back on the table and continued my plea for drugs, you know, generally behaving like a mature adult. My whining finally worked and I got the most satisfactory pain shot I’ve ever received. It was close to rendering my immobile, and I needed assistance walking to the X-Ray machine down the hall – all in all a huge win. Back in the waiting area, I called Libby in a hazy panic, complete with slurred speech.  Muttering into the phone “They don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s not looking good. I can’t go to New Yorrrrrk!” The doctor came back in and confirmed my fear that New York was definitely off. The two times in my life that I’ve had a major health crisis, I’ve had to cancel something big. When I was in a bike accident the day before my 14^th birthday, I had to forfeit my birthday party at — wait for it — an N*SYNC concert! Scraping off half my face was one thing, but missing Justin Timberlake gyrating on stage was truly catastrophic.

With New York off the table, I knew the road to recovery would not be easy. Luckily, our doctor called in a favor and made me an appointment to see a specialist, a surgeon specializing in ovarian cancer. At this point, shit got real.  Despite the fact that the doctor didn’t think I had cancer, knowing that I would definitely need to have surgery and that there was even the slightest possibility I could have the c-word was terrifying. I felt in over my head, and I knew my anxiety levels would be at record highs until I could meet with the specialist.  But that was in four days!  How would I “keep it cute or put it on mute” until my appointment? It was clear what I needed to do.  I simply employed the standard Pants method for coping©: DENIAL, baby!

My extensive medical knowledge, mostly picked up from Grey’s Anatomy and true crime shows, led me to believe that the pain I was suffering was a kidney stone. After all, who needs a certified physician when you’ve got WebMD and an active imagination?

Self-medicating was tolerable during the day, but the main flaw in this plan was that every night that week, I would wake up in the middle of the night in horrible pain. By the end of the week, I was out-of-my-mind exhausted and decided I had no choice but to get some real pain meds, and maybe even a proper diagnosis.

My first stop on the diagnosis tour of 2011 was the convenience clinic, which was a HOT MESS. The doctor took my self-assessment of a kidney stone at face value, and without taking any tests or blood work, I got a prescription for vicodin and a hall pass for a CAT scan at the hospital. Success?

At the hospital, the pain was getting really intense. I cried like a baby throughout the whole CAT scan, and sat with my knees to my chest in the waiting room with my Mom, who was napping. The doctor phoned to tell me the results. “Well, you don’t have a kidney stone,” he said. “But, you do have a large cyst on your ovary.”  Taking that information in, I replied like the sleep-deprived jackass that I was, “Huh. Well that’s good to know,” before handing the phone over to my mom.

I basically have one way of responding to big news of any kind: stress-induced narcolepsy. After filling my ‘scrip, I went home and passed out immediately. It was the first real sleep I’d gotten in days, and I figured everything would look a little less grim when I woke up.  I said to myself, “A cyst doesn’t stand a chance against me and modern medicine. We shall call her Suzy.” And that is what I call denial in action, people. There was no way I could predicted just how much drama what I thought to be “a little cyst” could create. Suspense!

Cue the revival of this blog. Looking at the recent stats for the first time in months made me so sad. There was usually at least one view per day, which made me feel terrible, like maybe someone actually wanted to read this mess!

From Halloween on, trust, you did not miss much. I forced my parents into watching mind-numbing reality shows, cursed the cold and generally reclused, which I’m pretty positive is not a word. The year got off to a rough start, with my grandma passing away on New Year’s Day after the absolute bravest battle with breast cancer.  I miss her every day.

On an even more personal level, things took a turn for the weird in early March when I was walking on State Street to catch my train. I was doing my thing, minding my biz when I felt an excruciating pain in my lower pelvic area. (TMI?!?) Figuring the only explanation could be a kidney stone, I popped some advil, hopped on the train and tried to will the discomfort away while also catching up on the Bachelor. Word to the wise: If you’re story begins with you wishing that what you’re suffering from is a kidney stone, you know you’re in for a bumpy f’ing ride!

giads

This year, I will be party-hopping with my bestie Cara, who is dressing as Food Network’s resident hottie, Giada De Laurentiis. I assure you that Cara has a much more normal head-to-body size ratio. I briefly considered going as Food Network’s resident alcoholic, Sandra Lee, but I’m not blonde and I can’t bring myself to co-sign her crazy.

Though I flirted with the idea of channeling my inner Jerz as Snooki, I have settled on dressing as Rachel Zoe, stylist to the stars.

major.

 RZ also loves the abbrev and this will give me the perfect excuse to buy a faux fur vest, talk very slowly and with purpose, and respond to everyone in one word answers, like “Bananas.” or “Beyond.” My props will include a Starbucks cup, actual bananas and of course a pair of oversized sunglasses.

And as Cara so wisely pointed out, given that we will both have food props, the boys will be eating out of the palms of our hands…literally.