emdometriosis part II

Do you ever find yourself googling a medical condition, becoming convinced that you have said medical condition, making an appointment with a medical professional, and then being told that you are perfectly fine and leave the office feeling silly?  As someone who is VERY conscious of every ache and pain and completely aware of my family history of just about every singe deadly disease in the books and strives to live as healthy a life as possible, this scenario has become very repetitive.  I exercise regularly, I eat clean, I take my vitamins, I wear sunscreen, I watch my intake of salt, sugar, and caffeine, I don't smoke, I don't drink alcohol, and I drink tons and tons of water.  I've been to the doctor, convinced that I broke a toe, only to find that I am perfectly fine.  I've been to the doctor, convinced that I had a torn rotator cuff, only to find out that I just have a super flexible shoulder joint.  I've been to the doctor, convinced that I had breast cancer, only to find out that I have super lumpy boobs.  Notice a trend here?

This is why I was so shocked to find out, last week, that my gut feeling was right.  On Wednesday I was diagnosed as having a Uterine Anomaly.  Were it not for my gut feeling that I had Endometriosis, this anomaly would not have been discovered for years.  And were it not for multiple people sharing their stories about endometriosis, I would not have known the condition existed.

So, because I believe in being honest, and because I believe my story has the potential to help other women, today I am sharing part two of my Endometriosis Story.  (read part one here)

 

Two months ago I got a call from my primary care doctor saying that the results from my pelvic ultrasound came back negative.  I did not have endometriosis, just incredible horrible periods.  Knowing this information, I made a follow up appointment with my gynecologist to discuss pain management options - birth control?  Lifestyle changes?  Chloroform and a rag to knock myself out for a couple days each month?  (totally joking.....sort of)

On Wednesday, I entered the office in a good mood, cracking jokes to the receptionist and my mom (who I was so lucky to have with me).  An hour later, I exited in tears after learning that I am one of 5% of women in the United States to have a uterine anomaly called a "uterine septum," a congenital malformation of the uterus caused during the early stages of fetal development.  Beginning as two halves, the uterus slowly comes together,the two sides of the uterus connecting to one another.  But in some fetuses, instead of developing into the normal uterine shape, the uterus remains slightly separated with a vertical septum dividing the two halves.  My gynecologist explained it as having a heart-shaped uterus.  Had this not been discovered now, I would have suffered from multiple miscarriages in the future - since currently, my uterus is not big enough or in the correct shape to carry a baby to full term.  Due to the abnormal shape of my uterus, my monthly blood flow is being redirected out of the falopian tubes, which both explains my incredibly painful periods, and puts me at an increased risk of having endometriosis.  As you can imagine, my head is spinning with information, unfamiliar emotions, and a million questions that won't be answered for another month.  Do I have endometriosis?  If so, how bad is it?  How extreme is my uterine septum?  Will I be able to get pregnant?  Will I ever be able to carry a baby, healthily, to full term?  My first pregnancy would have most definitely ended in a miscarriage.  To know that, and now to know that thanks to one person mentioning her experiences with endometriosis, I won't have to experience heartbreaking miscarriages in the future is an unbelievably bizarre feeling.  To mourn something that would have happened.  To know what my future would have held for me.  And now, to know that that WON'T happen, and that my future holds a different outcome, makes me incredibly grateful for modern medicine and for good friends who share their stories.

Now, I have a plan.  Tomorrow I have an MRI, next month I have a follow up appointment, and then a surgery - and then, hopefully, a future clear of the miscarriages and fertility issues that so many women suffer from.

Three months ago I had never heard of Endometriosis or a uterine anomaly.  Life happens quickly.

So, if you are suffering from an endless list of symptoms - related to the uterus, chest, ankle, or forehead - and keep thinking you'll get it checked out a month from now, or a year from now, or when the timing is right, let my story motivate you to GET IT CHECKED OUT NOW.  Nine times out of 10, it will be nothing.  But that 10th time always comes.  And it's better to get to it before it gets to you.

xoxo,
Eliza

endometriosis

I try not to get too serious on here (because who wants to read about finances and doctor appointments when you just want to scroll through recipes and hat photos?), but there are times when I must put aside my own discomfort and try wearing a different hat.  So, meet PSA Eliza. 

This is a Public Service Announcement aimed at people with a uterus.  Sit down, have a cup of tea, and get your pencil ready.  It's story time.

 

Ten years ago, a young and newly pubescent me went to the gynecologist complaining of heavy periods, spotting, excruciating cramps, severe abdominal pain, and occasional nausea.  An ultrasound found a small lump, which was diagnosed as an ovarian cyst – not harmful, and likely to go away on its own.  It was recommended that I go on birth control pills to regulate my periods and help with the severe cramps, but given my age and the harsh side effects of the options available to me, I decided to treat them as naturally as I could.  For the ten years that followed the diagnosis, my periods became almost annoyingly reliable (“Can we switch it Wednesday?  My period is going to start at 3:15 on Thursday."), but the cramps were still excruciating.  There were times when getting out of bed was out of the question, and I was in so much pain that I would throw up.  Going to work, going to class, and having a social life proved difficult.  Like a broken record, the phrase “every period is different and everyone has a different threshold for pain” had been circulating my head for years, slowly brainwashing me into believing that I was weak.  I could see the weakness scale in my mind.  There it was, me on one end, lying on the bathroom floor and unable to move, and a marathon runner on the other end, pushing through the pain like an Olympian.

This image kept me thinking that the problem was in my head, not in my uterus.  And that’s a dangerous way to think.  But it all changed when I saw a post on Instagram by Mab Graves.  She bravely talked about her experiences with endometriosis – a big, scary word that I had heard once or twice before but had not paid any attention to.  One Mayo Clinic search later, and all those frozen layers of self-deprecating thoughts began to thaw.  Lower back pain?  Check.  Severe cramping?  Check.  Heavy periods?  Check.  Sharp abdominal pain?  Check, check, check, check, check.

To save you time, here is a portion of the Mayo Clinic's article on endometriosis, though I highly suggest reading the whole thing: 

Endometriosis (en-doe-me-tree-O-sis) is an often painful disorder in which tissue that normally lines the inside of your uterus — the endometrium — grows outside your uterus (endometrial implant). Endometriosis most commonly involves your ovaries, bowel or the tissue lining your pelvis. Rarely, endometrial tissue may spread beyond your pelvic region.
In endometriosis, displaced endometrial tissue continues to act as it normally would — it thickens, breaks down and bleeds with each menstrual cycle. Because this displaced tissue has no way to exit your body, it becomes trapped. When endometriosis involves the ovaries, cysts called endometriomas may form. Surrounding tissue can become irritated, eventually developing scar tissue and adhesions — abnormal tissue that binds organs together.

Immediately after reading the above section, I thought of my experience ten years ago.  Was it a cyst?  Or was it endometriosis?  I was flooded with panic.  What if I have to have surgery?  What if I’ve had endometriosis for ten years and it’s done serious damage?  What if I can’t have kids?  Those are scary questions, but ones that need to be addressed rather than ignored.

I’m now embarking on what may prove to be a long and scary road.  I have a primary doctor appointment under my belt, a referral to the best gynecologist in town, and an ultrasound appointment slip in my wallet.  Wherever this road leads, I know I have options, and people who will walk beside me.

Thanks to Ms. Graves, I realized it was time I took my body seriously.  Our bodies know what we need, whether or not our brains choose to listen.

So, if you’ve been chocking your symptoms up to a weakness in character, or have spent way too many days crying from the pain, THIS IS YOUR SIGN FROM THE UNIVERSE.  Get it checked.  Your doctor won’t laugh at you, the people who love you will support you, and your body will thank you.

xoxo,

Eliza

~ the good, the bad, and the grey areas ~

In a world of YouTube comments and online dating, a lack of transparency is almost a given.  Photoshop can fix blemishes, affairs can be hidden, and 55 year old men in Indiana can pose as 23 year old women in online chat rooms.  So how can someone maintain a balance between sharing their personal experiences and keeping their doors shut and bolted?  How can one manage a personal crisis in the Digital Age?

 

Facebook, Instagram, Twitter.  Smalltalk is expected, but oversharing is met with disapproval and links to articles about people whose houses were burgled and citizens who lost their retirement funds from sharing too much personal information online.  Weddings, babies, homemade pizza for dinner?  Fine.  Divorce, mental health, financial instability?  Discuss those struggles and you've started down the slippery slope to becoming "that person."

We're all guilty of of selective posting.  We share the good and hide the bad - it's natural human behavior.  But what do you do when life has dealt you a particularly difficult hand and you're struggling to conjure up the optimism you're usually bubbling over with?  What do you do when getting out of bed was your only accomplishment for the day?  What do you do when sides have been taken and weapons have been drawn?  How do you survive?  Cat videos and political satire seem inappropriate, daily accounts of your depression seem even more inappropriate, and digital silence is not ideal.  

Life has its ups and downs, so why doesn't social media?  The good things are celebrated, but the bad things are ignored.  But does it really have to be this way?  Can't we have a healthy variety?

I like to think that it doesn't have to be this way and we can have a healthy variety of high points and low points.  Social slickness is not only untrue but unrealistic.  Low points in one's life should not have to equal silence on social media in order to meet society's strict standards for constant perfection.  Don't the majority of problems in relationships, both digital and in person, stem from a lack of communication?  We cannot be free to be truthful about our happiness if we cannot also be free to be truthful about our sorrow.

So I'm done holding myself back.  I'm done with the voices in the back of my head that tell me "people don't want to hear about that."  Do we post what we post because we think other people want to hear it or because we want to say it?

xoxo,
Eliza

~ confessions of a former packrat ~

Let me take you on a little trip down memory lane.  Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a world of innocence and a room full of dress up clothes and canned goods.  She would go "shopping" in the kitchen, in the bookshelves, and in the underwear drawers, collecting specimens and carefully placing them in her plastic, kid-sized shopping cart, ringing them up with her plastic, kid-sized price gun and conveyor belt, and storing them under her bed, in her closet, and in her kid-sized refrigerator. Nothing in the world could possibly stop her.

Until one day when her mother noticed pieces of mail had suddenly gone missing from the coffee table and cans of tomato soup were no where to be found.  In that moment, a raid was conducted and months and months of hard work (and diligent hoarding) came to a close.  The perpetrator was caught and charged with mail theft, shop lifting, and endangering the public, and she never stock-piled canned goods again.

The End.

In a perfect world, that would be the end of the story, but as we all know (and spoiler alert if you didn't already know) this is NOT a perfect world.  It wasn't easy, but I eventually learned my lesson about the electric bills and cans of soup, the kid-sized fridge found a new home, plastic boxes replaced piles, and the rod in my closet only slightly sags under the weight of vintage prom dresses and hat boxes.  To put it bluntly: I got my shit together.

Now I'm no domestic goddess (and have no interest in being a domestic goddess), but cleaning my room is no longer a 48 hour ordeal that ends with tears, hair-pulling, and a fiery tantrum.

My shopping cart survived being thrown down flight of stairs (not my doing) and is probably still in the attic somewhere, but my conveyor belt and price gun met a fateful end during a battle with a can of shaving cream.  So, the lesson learned here?  As my mom so wisely says, nothing in a book about child-rearing could possibly prepare you for giving birth to a hoarder.  But please take my advice.  If you are so (un)lucky to bring a hoarder into this fine world, don't give them a shopping cart, and for heaven's sake, put them in the bedroom with the small closet.  You'll thank me later.

xoxo,
Eliza

~ takin' it easy ~

Do you ever take a look at your life and realize that everything you're striving for on a daily basis might not happen?  Or that what you always thought you wanted out of life might not be what you actually want?  Or that you haven't washed your bras in a frightfully long time and Martha Stewart would not approve of how you fold your sheets?

I think about that a lot.

I'll be moving cities relatively soon, living on my own for the first time in my life, and working towards getting my degree (majoring in production design, minoring in photography), all while attempting to remain sane - and I am FREAKING OUT.  I hate change, even incredibly wonderful change, so someone will most likely have to push me out of my front door, force me into the car, and push me out of the car door once we reach our destination.

But until then, I've adopted a new attitude.  I'm not going to think about it!  I'm going to do yoga and go to the beach and spend time with family and friends, and snuggle with cats, and live in a blissfully ignorant mindset for as long as I can!

I'll stop making to-do lists, eat way too much homemade salsa, watch all the historical dramas I want, wear nothing but vintage ball gowns and bathing suits, and not think about which kitchen utensils I'll need or whether or not my mid-century chair will fit in an elevator or how many of my vintage hats I can justify taking with me.

There will be time for all that.  And that time is not now.

xoxo,
Eliza

~ creativity ~

I've written on the subject of creative constipation once before, but like many subjects, simply writing about it did not cure it for good (dammit).  So yet again I find myself suffering from those pesky feelings of inadequacy and can feel the creative sections of my brain drying up and crumbling away as every un-creative minute slowly passes by.

Now.  What's to do about it?  Judging from the multitude of articles titled "12 Ways to Unleash Your Creativity," "How to Be Creative," and (my personal favorite) "5 Things I Did To Get Out of a Creative Dry Spell," this is a common problem, and although those articles can theoretically help someone, I found myself rolling my eyes until I got dizzy.  So to remedy my dizziness and actually help myself (and help you, too), here is my list of ways to get through a creative dry spell/rut/mud puddle/area of quick sand/etc.

1. Acknowledge that it exists and absolutely SUCKS.  Say it to yourself out loud in a mirror three times.  This sucks, this sucks, this sucks.  Gone yet?  If so, congratulate yourself on a job well done and go celebrate with a glass of your preferred beverage while I silently judge you.
If step 1 did not solve all of your problems, then join the club and move on to step 2.

2.  Ignore the advice of many self-help articles and take your mind completely off of your creativity (or lack thereof).  This can be through yoga, meditation, or possibly knife throwing (if you're not the type who can visualize your creative blockage quietly melting away).  Whatever takes your mind off your troubles and keeps you fully occupied.

3.  Get OUT of your studio.  And if you don't have a studio, get your supplies out of sight.  Move the jar of paint brushes that is permanently stored on your bathroom counter.  Shove the stack of blank canvases out into the hallway so they can no longer torment you with their emptiness.  For the time being, unfollow all of the incredible artists on instagram that you cannot help but be slightly envious of.  Wallow in your self-pity alone and without your camera perched on your bed-side table, cruelly reminding you that you haven't picked it up in three weeks.

4.  Allow yourself to freak out and fully suspect that the Art Gods are mad at you and have punished you with an eternity empty of creativity.  Repeat step 1 and then move on to step 5.

5. Know that no matter how distant your creativity may seem, it will eventually get tired of tormenting you and return home.  Creativity, like the motivation to work out, ebbs and flows (though in the case of motivation to work out, mine has been on a constant ebb for several months now).  One week it will be there, comfortably relaxing in your brain, and the next week it will be far, far away, sipping a piña colada on the beach and not concerned in the least with your well-being.

So, the lesson to be learned here?

Freaking out when your creativity packs up and leaves is a totally normal reaction.  But don't freak out too much.  It will be back eventually, unaware that you were every concerned about its location, and your life will return to normal.

xoxo,
Eliza

~ love letter to my legs ~

Yes, you read that title right.  This post is truly one long letter of appreciation addressed to my legs.  And no, I'm not joking.  So, if you're not in the mood for a whole heap of honesty and a solid attempt at body positivity, turn away now.

Ready?  Here we go.

Dear Legs,
     We've been through a lot together, you and I.  I've often taken you for granted, cramming you into too small skinny jeans and mismatched socks, letting half of you go uncovered in an attempt to get rid of a shorts tan (which doesn't work, by the way), and whacking you on the edge of the counter every single time I walk into the kitchen.

You put up with a lot on a daily basis, and for that, I am grateful.  So legs, here's something I've been meaning to say.

I'm sorry for the time I was three and covered every inch of you in Arthur and D.W. bandaids and refused to let anyone remove them for a week.
I'm sorry for cramming you into uncomfortable, sweaty tights, several days a week for 12 years.
I'm sorry for looking at you in the mirror and pinching areas that were too fat for my liking.
I'm sorry for hating your stretchmarks.
I'm sorry for that time in my life when I shaved you every other day, without fail, with nothing but a razor and some cold water.
I'm sorry for all the scars from years of raising kittens, and baby squirrels that fell out of trees during hurricanes.
I'm sorry for all the cuts and bruises from climbing over fences, skinning my knees, and that one time I fell and rolled ten feet down the sidewalk in the rain when I was late to class (though I totally blame my slippery Converse All Stars for that one).
I'm sorry for all the twisted ankles and hurt knees and pulled muscles that I ignored in an attempt to be a "serious dancer who doesn't let pain get in the way."
I'm sorry for hating you when you were muscular, and then hating you when you lost the muscle.
I'm sorry for obsessing over that weird cluster of freckles that you couldn't do a damn thing about.
I'm sorry for thinking you were fat and ugly and that my knees looked like displeased babies.
I'm sorry for hating your cellulite and covering you up so no one would see it.
I'm sorry for all the summers I wore jeans and long skirts so I wouldn't have to look at you and I'm sorry for going running in leggings, so that I wouldn't see you jiggle.

I'm sorry for caring more about what you look like, than how you feel.  I'm sorry for last week when I decided against wearing that dress because it showed my knees.  And I'm sorry for setting impossibly high expectations that even the strongest of legs would fall short of.

So even though it might take me a while, and I might have to re-read this post several times to encourage myself, I'm hoping to make up for my 19 years of bad behavior.  No more Jergen's self tanner, no more laziness, and no more leg-envy.  Let's begin, shall we?

xoxo,
Eliza

~ saint valentine ~

I pride myself in being prompt.  I'm always concerned with being on time, leaving the house way earlier than I need to, and giving myself plenty of time to get ready in the morning as to avoid a last minute scramble.  But my blogging schedule doesn't reflect that.  So as per the usual, I'm posting this five days late.

(if someone wants to tick everything off of my to-do list, do my laundry, read two chapters of my comparative politics textbook, and make my lunch, Monday-Friday, then my blog promptness will reflect my real life promptness.  Until then, take what you can get.)

Valentine's Day, for some, is a day dedicated to reminding you of the mildly depressing fact that you're alone.  Everywhere you look there are public displays of affection, pinterest is exploding with wedding dresses and bouquets of flowers, and it seems that everyone you know who's over the age of 20 is getting engaged, having a baby, or having "THE MOST AMAZING VALENTINE'S DAY EVER."  You drown yourself in chocolate, glare (internally) at happy couples, and take solace in the fact that unless there's something you don't know, Tom Hiddleston spent his Valentine's Day alone also.

For others, Valentine's Day is a day of love.  Candy and flowers from your sweetheart. A romantic dinner for two.  Blah, blah, blah.  Etc., etc.

For me, and those like me, Valentine's Day is a day to pamper yourself and the ones you love.  I slept in (and by that I mean I slept until 9:15), went to brunch with my mom and sister, ate way too much chocolate, made vegan thin mints, took the entire day off from doing any homework, made a fantastic dinner, and sent out some snail mail.

{recipe from topwithcinnamon}

 As someone who is single and happy to be single, I found myself to be in neither a romantic nor a bitter mood, but instead, a happy mix of relaxed and whatever that feeling is called when you've combined a cup of coffee, a cup of tea, and four cookies.

Why be bitter about your relationship status when you can instead take a hot bath with a homemade face mask and curl up in your pajamas by 10 o'clock?

xoxo,
Eliza

~ resolution, shmesolution ~

Every January I make bold New Year's Resolutions, and every February I forget them.  This schedule is something that is shared by many but seems to be discussed by few.

Get in shape, be happier, spend less money, clean out the junk drawer, etc., etc.  I could go on.

{continuing the five-year tradition of a New Year's day jump into Wakulla Springs}

Humans have a tendency to start things that they don't finish - at least, the humans that I know - and so it's not shocking that new year's resolutions get put down at some point and never get picked back up.  Maybe it's the excitement of the new year that makes people make these grand proclamations (no more alcohol, go for a run everyday, climb Mt. Everest), but just as all things in this world must end, a gradual loss of enthusiasm is inevitable and the resolutions are quietly cast aside.

Life gets in the way.  Maybe running is worse than you thought it would be, french toast too tempting, Starbucks too easily accessible.  Sometimes running shoes and yoga pants are just too damn comfortable and putting on real pants is too much effort.  But however long you hold onto your resolution before it flies out the window (a month, a day, all year), pat yourself on the back and know that you lasted longer than at least one person in the world.

As for my resolutions, I'm working to simplify my life.  This year I'll turn twenty, graduate with my AA degree, most likely move away and most likely start my degree.  It's going to be a scary year - one of growth and development and change - and the last thing I need is to train for a marathon or work towards bench pressing my body weight.

So my goals this year (because I like goals more than I like resolutions) are the following:

• get healthy.  For 12 years, I danced everywhere from 2 days a week to 5 days a week, went to a noontime Zumba class three days a week and yoga on the nights I wasn't dancing, and obsessed over my flexibility.  I watched TV while in a split, I stretched while brushing my teeth, and I made very little progress.  I had an eating disorder, constantly worried about fitting in my costumes, and almost always felt guilty for truly enjoying a meal.  12 years of that takes its toll on your mental and physical health and my body was a train wreck.  After I stopped dancing and once I'd given my injuries a few months to heal, I started running a minimum of three days a week.  After five 5Ks and a year of this routine, old injuries (shoulders, hips, knees, feet) started popping back up and forced me to slow down.  Over the past year and a half, I really haven't done much.  For several months I was back to doing yoga twice a week and going for a walk around the neighborhood occasionally, but for the first time in my life since I was four years old, fitness was not the primary focus in my life.  In the last year, I haven't felt a pang of jealously when I see someone with really good abs, and with therapy and lots of time, I no longer feel ashamed to occasionally have pancakes for dinner.  All in all, I am healthier mentally, but I have found that my physical health has taken a turn.  So this year I am going to get healthy.  That means eating better, drinking more water, getting back into yoga, and trying to go for walks more than twice a week.  No more extreme sports for me, just a healthy lifestyle.

• buy a bike.  The bike that I used everyday during the summer from the time I was 10-15 is currently in rusty pieces on my front porch.  My helmet has a bird's nest in it.  This year I'm investing in a grownup bike and a bird-less helmet.

• be braver.  For me that means becoming more comfortable being on my own, wearing more vintage clothes, and sticking up for myself.

I'm already pretty happy, I don't need to find my true love (seriously, not interested), and I'm fairly good at managing my spending.  But there's always something that one can strive to be better at.  I hope each and every one of you find your focus this year and have tremendous success!

xoxo,

Eliza

~ 2014 ~

Because I'm not in a mushy gushy sentimental mood (and really, when am I), I'll spare you from reading a long blog post detailing all of the highlights of my year, and instead give you a short one detailing my absolutely and utter hatred of New Year's eve with a few of my favorite moments of my year thrown in for fun.

Before I go any further, it should be said that I HATE new year's eve for a few particular reasons that do not change if the year in question has been good, bad, or bat shit crazy.  NYE is simply a combination of many things that I utterly detest (champagne, noise, annoyingly enthusiastic people) and a few that I utterly loath.

• I HATE endings.  Endings of seasons, endings of vacations, endings of a series, endings of a photoshoot, endings of a cup of tea.  Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

• I hate looking back on a year's worth of good memories and bad ones.  New Year's Eve is total a memory overload, fueled by dessert and sugary drinks.  It's like going through photos on your phone and the next thing you know, it's been an hour, it's dark outside, and you feel weirdly lonely.  

• NYE is always the worst introvert's hangover of the year.  Not sure what an introvert's hangover is?  Read this.

• .Without a doubt, you are missing out on a party somewhere.  And there's nothing you can do about it.

• But the thing I hate most about New Year's Eve, is that there are no guarantees on what the next day will bring.  Now I know that every night is an eve to the next day and that day could be the worst or the best of your life, but somehow the risk seems heightened on this night.  It's the end of one year and the beginning of another - a clean slate, a blank canvas, an empty journal, ready to be filled with moments, large and small - intimidating, scary, full of unknowns. 

And that's okay.  

There's no reason what so ever why New Year's Eve has to be the best night of the year, just as there's no reason why this blog post has to be the best one all year.  Letting go of all expectations is the best thing one can do.  That, and thinking back on the quiet moments from the past 12 months.  Not the moments of sheer bliss, or ones of heartbreak, but the simple moments of true happiness.  

This morning I had a really strong cup of tea, a fresh egg from our chickens, and a piece of toast.  Yesterday I spent all my time painting and watching James Bond movies on Netflix.  Last week I went for a really nice walk.  I sacrificed the couch, the carpet, and all formerly smooth surfaces in the house to two furry orange kitties.  I spent lots of time with family.  I met some incredible people and had some awesome experiences.  And I learned how to make chocolate covered pretzels.

Yes, there were many scary phone calls, moments of panic, doctors appointments, and disappointments, but overall I'll look back on 2014 as being a year of growth and change.

I learned how to travel by myself.  I learned to let myself evolve.  And I learned that I'm truly terrible at cutting my own hair.

But really, what more could I ask for?

So Happy New Year, friends, and have a happy last day of 2014.  I hope that your 2015 is full of opportunities, adventures, and even more photos of Benedict Cumberbatch in a tux.

Thanks for the memories.

xoxo,
Eliza

~ treat yourself ~

Whether you prefer the classical "treat yourself" or the neoclassical "treat yo self," treating yourself to a day at the beach, a new outfit, the absence of a morning alarm, or a glass of wine (for the over-21 and/or european crowd) is never a bad idea.

Since this past semester was particularly grueling (to the point where I found myself falling asleep on stacks of notes and accidentally putting the olive oil in the fridge and the carton of eggs in the pantry) and next semester is going to be just as grueling, if not more, my new year's resolution is to treat myself whenever I can - effective immediately.  So to get things off on the right path, if you care to follow me and make this your new year's resolution as well, here are some quick and easy (and cheap) ways to make your life a little better, even if only for an hour or two.

• sleep until 11.

• watch a good movie.  In the past few days I've seen Big Eyes and Into The Woods in the theater, and The Women, The Thin Man, and Paris When it Sizzles while curled up on the couch.  If you haven't seen The Women, then do yourself a favor - watch it all the way through, bask in its glory for ten minutes or so, then watch it again just to pay attention to the AMAZING costumes and complete lack of men.

• wear pajamas around the house, just for kicks.  I guess it's a sign that you're becoming a fully functioning adult when your first instinct in the morning is to get dressed.  If that's the case, then there's more proof that I am nowhere near being a fully functioning adult.

• buy yourself shoes that Lauren Bacall would have worn.

• wear your super comfy pajamas and Lauren Bacall shoes at the same time, just because you can.

• give yourself a pedicure in light pink (to match the piping on your pajamas).

• make yourself three pieces of french toast and eat them all while wearing your silk pajamas, your new shoes, and while watching an old movie.

If you have followed all of these steps, then you're sure to be feeling a level of fantastic-ness that Tom Haverford and Donna Meagle would be proud of.  If not, then rinse and repeat until you get your desired results.

xoxo,

Eliza

~ little miracles ~

This time of year, especially when I have a general lack of ambition and the only pants that grace my body are pajamas, it's a miracle if I get anything done.  Which is precisely why December 23rd will from hence forth be known as the day I got shit done.

• I vacuumed my entire room - under my bed, in my closet, behind the desk - and did some impressive junk clearing out that would turn the hair of the 8 year old pack-rat in me completely and totally grey.

• I ran errands that I'd been putting off for weeks and weeks and tackled the to-do list that was longer than the 7th Harry Potter book.

• I rolled holiday cookies in powdered sugar while wearing black silk pajamas without ruining my jammies or skimping on powered sugar.

Now this spurt of productivity may have been due to three straight days of rainfall and an inability to leave the house without a beach umbrella, but I prefer to think of it as my own personal Festivus Miracle.  Now I have a clean room, some new socks, and powdered sugar cookies.

Happy Festivus/ Last day of Chanukah!

xoxo,
Eliza

~ smart shopping ~

Last year I started to notice that getting dressed in the morning (or, let's be honest, the afternoon) took way longer than it should.  This, I determined, was not due to a lack of clothing but rather an overwhelming number of options and various styles, none of which matched.  Thus began a personal mission to cut down on the number of garments coming through my door and stop testing the limits of how much my closet walls could hold.

For a new years resolution, I have to say I did pretty damn well!  Usually these types of things fizzle out within the first month or two, but this one has stuck.  (there was a dark period where I bought random things that didn't go together just because they were on sale while I was working in retail, but we won't talk about that.)

After a lot of thinking, I've come to the conclusion that my shopping problems come from just one issue:

• I don't really have a style.  I've always just bought random things that I like at the time, only to find that I have nothing to wear them with.  So my first goal is to establish a concrete style - somewhere between Mrs. Robinson, Ulyana Sergeenko, and a suave spy from 1964 (with some Annie Hall thrown in for fun).

It feels damn good to go through my closet and take out clothes that I've only been hoarding because I a) there's a 2% possibility I'll wear them again, b) I got them MAJORLY on sale at JCrew (even though they're too small), or c) I got them as a hand-me-down or present and worry that the person who gave it to me will ask me if I've worn them and I don't want to lie.

However, since there isn't an Anthropologie or SUPER amazing vintage clothing store in town, shopping trips are mostly online, from either etsy or modcloth - and occasionally I'll hit the local thrift stores and vintage shops.  Even though it's more expensive (and often more difficult and time consuming), I figure I end up saving money because instead of buying poorly made crop tops (seriously, why do I own so many crop tops?) that'll fall apart by next week, I save up until I can buy that one spectacular item that'll last me until my 37th birthday, like these shoes I just got on mega sale from Modcloth...

The last few times I've gone shopping, things like looking at the hems of dresses (to see how well made they are) and checking that zippers are sewn on straight have crept into my routine - I like to think my meticulous grandfather would be very proud!

So the moral of this story?  Now that I've limited my wardrobe, thrown out crap from Forever21 that I've had since I was 14, and stopped blowing my budget on multiple pairs of $9.99 leggings from Target, I don't only feel lighter, but more confident that if the house begins to sag it won't be entirely my fault.

xoxo,
Eliza

~ thankful ~

There are many things I'm thankful for....chocolate, fleece-lined leggings, teachers who post their powerpoints online, etc., etc.  But this year, I'm thankful for some of the most basic things a human being can be thankful for, but that many people must go without on a daily basis.

• Food.  In a world where an apple can cost as much as a burger from McDonald's, I feel very lucky to have access to and be able to afford good, healthy, (often organic) food.  I feel very lucky to have the luxury of being able to customize my diet.  No meat, no dairy, lots of fruits and vegetables, very little sugar, whole wheat instead of white.  I fully understand how privileged I am and try to remind myself of this on a daily basis.

• My health.  Even though this time of year I have the immune system of a Jane Austen side character (I'm looking at you, Jane Bennet), for the most part, I'm a relatively healthy person.  I don't have any chronic illnesses, I haven't been bedridden for longer than a few days (except for when I had mono, but mono is the exception to everything), I'm not allergic to grass, or water, or wheat.  Sure, sometimes I'll go to the doctor with a complaint and she'll say "Yeah...never heard of anything like that in my entire career," or a WebMD search yields no results, but I'm lucky.  And I'm thankful.

• Education.  As much as I complain about the technical glitches, costs, and sexist idiots I run across on campus, I feel so fortunate to be on a campus.  With the ridiculous rises in tuition, among many, many other things, an unbelievable number of people simply cannot afford to receive an education.  That I am one of the lucky few is something that I am very thankful for.

• A home.  My house is something to behold.  Down a road lined with watermelon fields and cow pastures, canopied by enormous oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, and older than most of the lucky people living underneath their beautiful shade.  Then, turning onto our dirt road, it's like going back in time and all the while entering a new world.  White and wooden, like a farm house, big windows and lots of light, wooden floors and welcoming doorways.  I love my house and cherish the days and nights I've spent here.

• A family.  Though we may be spread out, stubborn, and often spend our time arguing about things that will mean nothing in a year - "Stop looking out MY WINDOW" (circa 2000) - we love each other.

We could all use a day to celebrate each other and give thanks for what we have.  So happy Thanksgiving, one and all.  

xoxo,

Eliza

~ introvert's hangover ~

Every time I have a few busy days in a row and my social calendar looks like an illuminated manuscript threw up on it, I get a hangover.  Not a hangover, hangover, but the same symptoms just with a different cause.  Headache, exhaustion, a little dizziness, etc., etc.  Now obviously black tea is not strong enough to cause these sensations, so I chalk it up to a major case of Introvert's Over-stimulation Syndrome.

As an introvert, I pride myself in being able to keep up with the extroverts - so much so that many people don't believe that I'm NOT an extrovert.  I say yes to almost everything, I'm surrounded by college students three times a week without being the person who sits in the corner of the room and doesn't talk to anybody.  I go to a lot of movies, have lots of conversations, and occasionally have multiple events to attend in one day.  And I handle it all pretty damn well (if I do say so myself), but not without some side affects.  

After a ridiculously busy week of classes, photoshoots, a gallery opening, and a release party (more on those later), I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been hit by a double decker bus.  WHAM...exhausted (even after ten hours of sleep), horrible headache that tylenol wouldn't even touch, and a general feeling that I'd run a marathon instead of sleeping.  

 Now, you may be thinking "Psh...that's totally a hangover, hangover," but then you would be very wrong.  This, my friends, is a classic introvert's hangover - something that can only be cured with patience and solitude (and a whole bunch of hot tea), and something that I'm all too familiar with.

Though there's no way to avoid this hangover other than forcing myself to say no more often, limiting myself to one event a day, and spending lots of time recharging after a particularly busy day, it's not always that easy.  Until society stops labeling introverts as antisocial weirdos and creates a more accepting environment, I will deal with the side of affects of pretending to be an extrovert proudly.

So if you too are suffering from an introvert's hangover, fix yourself a large bowl of soup (see my recipe for Everything Soup), curl up on the couch with a blanket, watch some netflix, and write yourself a prescription for a day without social responsibilities.  Feeling better yet?

xoxo,

Eliza

~ mom ~

There are certain things that we all inherit from past generations of family members (whether we care to admit it or not).  These things can be both physical and pertaining to our personalities/soul.  In my case, I got my great-grandmother's thick, wavy hair, my grandfather's height, my mom's eyes, and most likely, heart diseases, arthritis, and osteoporosis (woohoo).  I also inherited my great-grandfather's love of photography, my grandfather's love of fashion and interior decorating, and my mother's passion for justice and her need for speaking out against social injustices.

But there is one thing, one characteristic, that I feel I am lacking.  A characteristic that perhaps cannot be inherited, but only observed in its original form and gently copied.  The original form was a powerhouse of kindness, had the ability to silence negativity with one or two thought out words, and was a mother to all who knew her, despite where they fell in relation to her on the family tree or in the address book: My grandmother, who almost everyone in the family called Mom or Ma.

She was born in 1918, following a world war, and lived through a depression, a second world war, a civil rights movement, a women's rights movement, man's first step on the moon, and saw her family grow from two 18 year olds who eloped on Christmas Eve, to children, grandchildren, and even though she never knew them, great-grandchildren.

Her temperament cannot be done justice with the 24 letters in the alphabet.  She was the combination of Melanie Wilkes, Mother Teresa, and Mahatma Gandhi, possessing the ability to calm my grandfather with a simple "Now honey," and make all who met her feel as though they had just spent time with a saint.  Her kindness was infectious, and if she had a temper, I sure never saw it.  My mom can only remember her raising her voice twice: once when the landscapers cut down one of her favorite trees, and a second time when the principal of my mom's school ripped out the hem a dress that she had painstakingly sewn because it was "too short."

One of my biggest regrets is not spending as much time with her as I could have.  I backed out of sleepovers at my grandparent's house, and spent too much time arguing with my sister when I could have been learning from her wisdom.  Perhaps this was because I thought of Mom as an immortal figure in my life.  She had always been there so why would there be a time when she wasn't?  The last person whose death I could remember was Dumbledore's, but even he wasn't truly gone.

The morning my mom told me that Mom was gone was heartbreaking and confusing.  I remember crying but it didn't feel real.  Probably because I couldn't believe it was really happening.
It was different when my grandfather died.  He passed away after a long fight, during which we all came to terms with what was eventually going to happen.  I knew that one day I would wake up and things would seem different.  But with my grandmother it was a surprise, as though she had been robbed of her favorite time of year and a few more years of drinking coffee with Pop and watching the birds - at least, that's how it felt to 12 year old me.


I wish I was like her.

I like to think that along with my grandfather's love for dancing to big band music, I also inherited my grandmother's personality and temperament.  But it isn't so.  (Yesterday I yelled at a textbook.)


It's been seven years since her death and I've come to terms with the fact that her warmth, strength, and slow southern love can't be replicated in the coming weeks, months, or years.  But among the things she taught me - how to perfectly crimp a pie crust, the importance of doing the right thing even if those around you aren't, that putting nail polish in the refrigerator will make it last longer - she unknowingly taught me the biggest lesson of all: that kindness and patience speak louder than anything.

Perhaps with a little practice, we can all be like Mom.

xoxo,
Eliza

~ clean and clear ~

I remember clearly the first time I wore makeup.  I was in New York City, I was 11, and I had snuck a tube of mascara past my mom.  For some reason I was under the impression that I wasn't allowed to wear makeup so there was an unnecessary feeling of guilt and excitement.  That green and pink tube of mascara made me feel grown up and sophisticated, even though my suitcase was chock full of boot cut jeans, Crocs, t-shirts with ponies, and my American Girl Doll.

My relationship with makeup has been on and off since then.  Cat eye and red lips is my go-to look, but I'm finding myself losing that panicky feeling I used to get when I left the house without eyeliner.  A couple years ago I was wearing makeup to the gym, to the beach, and on every trip to the grocery store, but the older I get, the less dependent I am on what used to be my mask.

I mean really...who the fuck cares if I have a huge pimple on my nose, dark circles under my eyes, or stubby eyelashes?  If you really notice any of that then I'm gonna have to ask you to take a step back and respect my personal bubble because only creepy people stand that close.

Sure, some days I look like I've stayed up for 72 hours straight, or my face has decided to display its rendition of Starry Night: Zit Addition, and yeah...sometimes the bags under my eyes are big enough to carry a week's worth of groceries.  But I've stopped letting that ruin my day.  Got a pimple?  Wear a busy dress.  Horrible dark circles?  Wear a scowl and then people won't talk to you, so, win/win.

I've got weird bumps, acne scars, baby wrinkles, and a few independent eyebrows that like to strike out on their own.  But that's okay.

I don't have time to worry about that shit anyway.  With highs in the 100s, anything that goes on your face ends up in a puddle of sweat by the end of the day.

xoxo,
Eliza

~ ~

I'm sad.

Here are the things I'm doing to combat my sadness:

01. Eating lots and lots of bread.

02. Going for walks.

03. Watching lots of Scrubs on Netflix.

04. Talking to good friends.

and

05. Giving lots of thought to the changes I would like to make in my life and the ways that I can make those changes.  Everything you want is achievable and life is precious.

"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world - not even our troubles." Charlie Chaplin

xoxo,

Eliza

~ girl talk ~

Avert your eyes or close the tab if you don't like talking about womanly stuff.

As much as I love the idea of pushing a small human out of my lady bits, I sometimes wonder if 40+ years of periods is worth it.  I started the Monthly Trip to Hell when I was ten years old.  In the summer.  Before most of my friends.  As you can imagine, I was thrilled (bold and indented for emphasis).  For one week every month for nearly the rest of my adult life I would be uncomfortable, unhappy, and in pain - what ten year old wouldn't feel thoroughly optimistic about that?

{completely realistic advertising.  Good job, Tampax.  Good job}

Sure, it's a small price to pay for the love and joy that a child brings into your life, but it also happens to SUCK.  Big time.  I mean, unless laying in bed with a heating pad on your abdomen, cold washcloth on your forehead, assortment of midol, motrin, ibuprofen, and pamprin on your bedside table, and buying a box of pads the size of a pillow sounds like your idea of a rip roaring good time.  If so, I don't think we'll be good friends.

But seriously, is it worth it?  Cramps so bad that it feels like your inner organs are trying to climb out of your body just to avoid the wrath of your uterus (fun fact: one day I couldn't find the heating pad, so I plugged my laptop in to charge and set it on my abdomen until it got hot).  Migraines that suck what's left of the fun out of your life.  Pimples the size of Arkansas.  Welcome to my life.

I suppose one day if I ever have children (which I'm not planning on), I'll be nursing a baby and enjoying my break from periods and sigh with a smile, thinking "Boy, was it worth it!"  But that day is not today.

Rant over.  8 years down, 32+ years to go.

xoxo
Eliza

~ changes, changes ~

Do you ever find yourself in such a deep rut that you'll need a seventeen-foot ladder to get yourself out of it?  Well that rut is where I'm writing this from.  Now, here's how I plan to combat this!  By doing things I've always wanted to do.

01. cutting and dyeing my hair: done and done.

02. getting a tattoo: not done yet, but stick around

I know, I know...go ahead and say it.  "you're too young." "you'll regret it," "are you SURE you want it?"

Get it all out of your system now.  But here's the thing about tattoos - they're a personal decision, a personal choice.  Like having a baby or buying a black t-shirt when you usually buy white.  Maybe I'll buy a black t-shirt in two months, maybe in a year, maybe in three years, but eventually I'll get sick of white t-shirts and branch out.

03. traveling.  

{Turks and Caicos}

{Menorca, Spain}

     

{Faroes Island, Denmark}

     

{Cotswolds, England}

The list could go on.  

Even though my life currently revolves around things I HAVE to do, rather than the things I WANT to do, I haven't completely given up hope.  Today I ordered some temporary tattoos, I'm planning a trip to the mountains in October, and who knows...maybe in a month or two I'll buy a black t-shirt.

xoxo,

Eliza