It never fails.
Every year, just before Christmas, one (or, like last year, all three!) of my children gets sick.
I thought that maybe I’d get lucky this year because (knock on wood) not one person is sneezing or wheezing or coughing. I was hopeful and even grateful that with just one week left, everyone seemed healthy.
Then, on Tuesday, I got The Call from day care.
“Hi, your daughter just threw up. Can you please come pick her up?”
It’s been non stop Puke and Runs ever since.
Taking care of a sick toddler isn’t very much fun; especially when puke is involved. However, I can’t say that I mind how tightly my daughter has been clinging to me. (Well, except for when I was working and she refused to leave the comfort of my “fluffy” lap and I had to try to work with one hand while I held her close to me with the other. THAT was a leeeeettle annoying.) She’s Little Miss Independent now and while she still has plenty of hugs and kisses for Mommy, she’s usually too busy doing very important things to snuggle with me on the couch for more than a minute at a time. So, while I’m sad that she’s not feeling well, I’m happy to hold her close to me all day long until she gets better.
I’ll take The Cuddles anyway I can get them.
***
When I bought my new camera, I had visions of taking The Perfect Picture of my children for Christmas cards this year.
Obviously I didn’t take into consideration the fact that I would need to know about things like “aperture” and “ISO” and hey! A tripod would be really fucking nice because did you know that if you move the camera even just a little bit EVERYTHING COMES OUT BLURRY?
I took over 50 shots. The kids were “over it” by the 5th shot, which meant there was much whining and words like “ALL YOU EVER CARE ABOUT IS TAKING PICTURES!” shouted in anger. I finally said “eff it!” and let them get up so they wouldn’t like, DIE or something from the pain of having to just sit there and smile thinking that maybe, possibly I could find one decent shot to have printed out so that I could mail out pictures tomorrow.
Out of 50 shots, not ONE came out right. They were all too dark or too blurry. I feel like crying and I know that is stupid, but I don’t have time to try it all over again tomorrow and damn it! I wanted some pretty pictures of children this Christmas.
I went ahead and picked out the best of the bunch (but again, they’re all horrible.) and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to do me a tiny, little favor and tell me, if you HAD to choose one, which one would you choose? I know that I have a lot of nerve asking you for a favor with the way that I’ve been neglecting you, and I’m really sorry about that. I blame my thyroid. It’s dying and it’s taking my ability to think straight with it. Can you forgive me? And then, can you please look at my pictures and tell me which one you think sucks the least?
I would appreciate it more than you know.
(This one would be great if Gabby’s face wasn’t blurry. AHHHHHH!)
(Wouldn’t suck too much had I not cut Ethan’s entire body out of the picture. “Merry Christmas from Ethan’s head!”)
Church
Every Sunday, at some point in the day, I think about church. I think about how much I hated it as a child, I think about how much I loved it as an adult (for the brief period that I went). I think about how we’ve become “Those Parents.” You know, the ones who send their children to church with Grandma and Grandpa while the congregation prays for our souls.
My boys love church, because they have had a completely different experience with it than the experience that I had.
If my experience as a had been different, I think I would love church more than anything.
When I think back to my childhood, I have good memories. My mother stayed home with us while my father worked a good paying job for the post office.
I remember making mud pies, playing with neighborhood kids. I remember trips to Disneyland. I remember my mom making food for school parties. I remember my dad being firm, but loving when I’d misbehave. I remember going to church on Sundays and going out to eat after the service.
I was a happy kid with an ordinary, but happy life.
All of that changed the day that The “Apostle” came into our lives.
The Apostle was a little, elderly man from India. I am not quite sure how my parents met him, but I’m sure it was through a member of the church. (My dad was/is a pastor.) At first, he was a delightful man—soft spoken, loving and kind. I used to love to sit in the front row and listen to him preach the Word of God.
But then, he started to teach “his” version of what being a Christian meant.
And my parents (along with every one else in the church) began to accept his teaching as The Word of God.
One sermon, one “AMEN, brother!” at a time, my life as I knew it would be changed forever in a way that haunts me to this day.
The Apostle taught us that women needed to dress modestly. The definition of modest changed every time he spoke of it. And he spoke of it often. The definition became very specific. No makeup (JEZEBEL!). No pants. No arms or legs showing. “Wipe that makeup off of your face, Monkey lips!” He once said to a women sitting in the front row of church.
Suddenly, it became a “sin” for a woman to wear make up. So the women all began showing up to church free from the evil makeup that was made with “ground up bones from aborted babies.”
He also taught that a woman was to submit to her husband and her “place” was in the home, not out in the workplace.
Suddenly, it was a sin for a woman to work outside of the home, for The Apostle said it was her place to breed and cook dinner for her husband.
The church agreed.
The Apostle read a scripture from 1 Corinthians that said “but every woman who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head, for that is one and the same as if her head were shaved.” He told us that women needed to “cover” their head before they set foot in the church. “Cover your heads, women!” He said from the pulpit. And without question, women began wearing “coverings” on their head whenever they entered the church.
The women who didn’t wear coverings were scolded and gossiped about for not submitting to the Word of the Lord.
Church was no longer a place to learn the teachings of Jesus. It no longer was a place where we learned how to live a Godly life. It was no longer a place that brought comfort to my soul, but rather a place that I dreaded to be because I had no idea if the outfit I was wearing would be condemned from the pulpit (“Button those buttons up, little girl!”) or if I would get a beating when I got home because I disrespected the “apostle” by acting like the ten year old that I was.
Eventually, my father realized that things had gotten out of hand and that this man wasn’t teaching “the word of God” but rather his own interpretation of God’s word.
I’ll never forget the moment that my father stood up to him and it is one of the reasons why I forgive my father for all that happened (although, clearly, I’m having a really fucking hard time forgetting.)
The “apostle” (Asspostle?!) was, once again, preaching AT the wimmins. He was talking about head coverings. Apparently, it wasn’t good enough for “God” if you wore the covering on your head. Oh! No! God wanted the covering to be pulled down over your forehead, just above your eyes! No, seriously! God said that to him!
My dad was translating the message into Spanish (because there was a large part of the congregation who did not speak English.)
“Pull your coverings down!” Asspostle shouted. “Pull them down and cover your foreheads!”
He waited for my dad to translate.
My dad stayed silent.
“Pull your coverings down!” He shouted again.
My dad remained silent.
He looked over at my dad. I knew something was about to happen from the look on my dad’s face.
“Translate that, brother!” He said to my dad.
“No.” My father shot back. “I will not.”
The “apostle” was stunned, as was everyone else in the church.
“I will not translate what you have just said, because that is not coming from the word of God. Those are YOUR words coming from YOUR mouth and I will NOT take part in telling people YOUR version of the bible.”
It was in that moment that my father acknowledged what had been happening was wrong.
My father has apologized repeatedly for what happened in those years and I do forgive him.
However, I have never been able to rid myself of the pain that came with losing my childhood, with having the most formative years of my life stripped from me, leaving me riddled with shame, insecurities and “what if’s.”
When I think of the high profile cults of the past—the People’s Temple, The Branch Davidians—I think about how EASY it is for people to get caught up in such teachings. Because people are afraid to question these men, they’re afraid of speaking out. They want so badly to believe, to be a part of something so great and Holy. Even when everything in their heart, soul and mind is saying “This is wrong”, they continue to follow blindly, because who are they to question GOD?
I’m not sure what my point is in writing this. I suppose I just wanted to finally put in writing how my once normal, happy childhood was irreparably damaged by one’s man interpretation of the word of God and by my parents’ willingness to blindly follow those words.
I am grateful for the experience it taught me to never blindly follow the words of a man and in learning that, my children will never have to go through such an ordeal. However, I can’t help but wonder if not taking them to church because of MY experience has harmed them in a different way.
I just don’t know.
How did I ever live my life without it?
After years of wanting. After years of wishing. After years of bugging This Guy and asking the internet for advice, I finally got the courage to hit “submit order” and buy myself a DSLR.
(A Rebel XTI if you were wondering. I wanted a this one but, um, I have three kids to feed. So…NO.)
Although I am frustrated most of the time (all of the buttons! What are they for? I do not know! Too much to learn!) I am loving the crap out of my camera.
I have so much to learn and am pretty sure no matter how many times someone explains what ISO means, I will NEVER GET IT. However, I’ve already mastered the art of Making Things That Are in The Background Blurry (um, what’s the called again? HAHA) and that’s enough for me, really.
When I first got the camera, I was terrified of it. (Again… THE BUTTONS!) I am telling the truth when I tell you that when I held it for the first few times, I got weak in the pachina. My fear was SO DEEP, that I could feel it down there. If I told you the number of plates, glasses and coffee mugs that I have dropped for no good reason at all, you would understand my fear.
I’m sure that fear will fade with time. I’m already feeling more comfortable with it in my hands. I’m excited to learn what this camera is capable of and how I take pictures of my children that I am proud of and that I will be able to pass on to them when I am long gone (which may not be too long if I DON’T GET SOME EFFING THYROID MEDICATION ALREADY.)
I ordered the 50mm that everyone who owns a DSLR said I MUST HAVE in the hopes that this will be the year that I can take Beautiful Christmas Pictures of my children.
But, um, unless that camera can make my daughter sit still and not physically assault her brothers, I’m pretty sure that I’ll be wishing I had just taken them to Sears.
“Whatever Works”. (Or, My Style of Parenting)
“I don’t like Olives! They’re disgusting!”
“Fine. Then I’ll give all of your olives to Daddy! Here Daddy, you can have Gabby’s Olives!”
“Oh, thank you Mommy! I love Olives!”
“Well, Gabby thinks they’re disgusting, so you can have them, Daddy. Too bad she doesn’t like them because I bet she would love to have pink poop.”
“What Mommy?!?”
“Yeah, Olives make your poop turn pink!”
“They do?”
“Yes!”
“Daddy, can I have my olives back, please?”
*puts an olive in her mouth*
“Mmmmmmm. I love olives. mmmmmmmm!”
She ate them all—every single last one of them.
That right there was some genius parenting.
Except, not really because that girl remembers EVERYTHING and I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do when she “makes a turd” and it doesn’t come out pink.
Another “First” That Made Mommy Cry.
My house is quiet.
No “Yo Gabba Gabba” blasting in the background.
No sounds of dress up shoes clanking on the kitchen floor.
No screams of “Mom! I’m done! Come wipe my butt.”
Dead silence.
This is what I’ve wanted for so long. This is what I’ve closed my eyes and wished for.
So why does it make me want to cry? Why is it that the only thing that I can think of is to get in my car, hop onto the freeway and pick up my little girl from day care?
Yes—today was my daughter’s first day of day care.
Ever since I started working for BlogHerAds, I knew that the day would come where I would have to find a preschool/childcare for G-Unit for at least a couple of days a week. But I’ve been too chicken shit to actually go through with it.
She’s the daughter that I never thought I’d have.
She’s the last baby that I will ever have.
I love being home with her, spending my mornings (in between working) laying on her bedroom floor, drawing happy face after happy face after happy face (because Good God Almighty, the girl is obsessed with drawing happy faces!).
I love dancing with her in my messy bedroom to Beauty and the Beast 20 times in a row.
I love her. And as cheesy as it sounds, I do feel incredibly blessed to have been able to be full time mom to her for these past 3 years, something that I didn’t get to do with my boys.
But I think “it’s time” that I expand her world a little bit while at the same time freeing up some time for me to do the things that I need to do.
I believe that this is going to be good for both of us.
She needs to be around other children, she needs to learn that it’s ok to not spend every second of her life with Mommy.
I need these couple days a week to be able to concentrate on work and on all of the housework that I’ve been neglecting because of work.
And if I’m being honest, I do need a little peace and quiet to salvage what little bit of sanity that I have left in this non functioning thyroid brain of mine.
Yet, I can’t help feeling guilty and perhaps a little weepy that my daughter isn’t here, throwing herself on the floor whilst screaming at the top of her lungs because I had the effing NERVE to pour her apple juice in a BLUE cup and not in the pretty pink princess cup that daddy bought her.
Now I want you to just try to imagine how many times a day that I say “my thyroid.”
I’ve not felt like myself for quite a while now.
I think it’s pretty evident in every area of my life, including the way that I write.
I’ve been tired—oh, so very tired. My brain is fuzzy. I’ve been forgetful. I’ve felt incredibly irritable and have not felt much joy. Nor have I felt much Horny. In fact, I am pretty sure that My Horny died.
Also? My hair is falling out, I’m cold all of the time, my legs ache at night. My periods are irregular and very heavy.
Oh and, I’ve gained a hell of a lot of weight in a very short period of time.
So much weight that my “fat clothes” from three years ago are too tight.
I’ve tried to lose it, but it won’t come off. It keeps piling on.
I’ve wanted to ask my doctor to have my thyroid tested again, but you know that joke about The Fat Person trying to blame their weight on a “thyroid problem”?
Yeah.
Well, last week I had had enough. I was sick of my hair falling out. Sick of feeling tired. Sick of KNOWING something is wrong with my body but being too ashamed to demand answers!
I marched into my doctor’s office, just like I did a few months ago, with a list of symptoms and a bag full of PROOF! That something is going terribly wrong in my body.
Oh yes I did.
I wasn’t surprised when I stepped on the scale and the numbers two one and six appeared on the scale. I hated seeing it, but it didn’t surprise me at all.
Once the doctor walked in, we began talking about why I was there.
“I want to have my thyroid tested again.” I said.
“Why? What’s going on now?”
“Well, my weight. Look at me. I’m tired all of the time. I can’t think straight. My periods are messed up. MY HAIR IS FALLING OUT.”
I pulled the baggie full of hair from my purse.
“I lost this today while taking a shower. And that doesn’t count what went down the drain and what fell out onto the floor as I was drying it. And this is JUST TODAY!”
He looked at the bag all “WTF?” like, because, really, who does that?
Apparently, I do.
He started drilling me about my diet and exercise habits.
“How many calories do you eat a day?”
“Um, don’t know…”
“How often do you work out?”
“Um, I haven’t been lately, but I’m so tired, I just can’t do it…”
And that is when I lost it. I started to cry. Whilst holding a baggie containing my hair in it.
“I’m not trying to blame the fact that I’m fat on my thyroid. I’m just not. That’s why I haven’t come to see you. Because I feel like that’s what people think. I’m here because I don’t feel well. Because I feel like there’s something wrong here and I can’t take it anymore. I need answers.”
I finally had HAD IT. No one takes me seriously when I say that I think something is desperately wrong with my body. No one takes me seriously when I tell them that I’ve not changed my eating habits enough to warrant this much of a weight gain. No one takes me seriously when I say that I’m so tired for no reason at all that I sometimes am afraid to drive because I feel drowsy. No one takes me seriously when I say “I know that something isn’t right and I think that it’s my thyroid..”
Now, here I was sitting in front of the one person that I thought would believe me and take my concerns seriously and what does he say?
“I’m going to go ahead and order some thyroid tests and a kidney function test, but my suspicion is that the tests will all come back normal and when they do, I’ll have you come back at the first of the year and we’ll talk about a good eating plan and get you on a weight loss pill.”
So, in other words “there’s nothing wrong with you, I’m sure of it. You’re just eating too much and not exercising enough and once the tests come back, we’ll just get yer fat ass on a weight loss pill and that should do the trick.”
I was humiliated (baggie of hair! Tears! Fat! Nothing wrong! It’s all in your fat head!).
As I was walking out the door I asked my doctor how he would inform me of the test results.
“I’ll send you a letter. Or, you know, you could always register online and get your results there! And you can bother me at night by sending me emails!”
Oh snaps! An “email your doctor” feature online?
Jesus really DOES love me.
I went home, signed up for online access and began obsessively checking my test results.
About a week later my test results were available online.
I opened the first one which was a TSH (thyroid simulated hormone).
Reading was marked as “high”. The “normal range” as they had listed was .4-4.0. Mine was 5.75. I had no idea what that meant, but what I did know was that when they ran the same test on me in July it was 2.4. So, something obviously was happening.
Dear Google. What does a “high” TSH mean?
Dear Y: A high TSH result often means your thyroid is screwed and if you don’t take care of it soon, you could go into a coma or have heart failure and DIE DIE DIE!
(At least that’s how I read it.)
I’m not going to lie. There was a part of me that was so happy to see that test result just so that I could email my doctor and be all “IN YOUR FACE!” But honestly, I was hoping that I was wrong because OMG! Medication for the rest of my life! Fatness forever! BALDNESS!”
I immediately emailed my doctor.
(this is the actual email.)
Hi Dr.M!
I told you that I would get access to this thing just to bother you at night! I kid!
I’m actually writing about the results to my thyroid test. I see that my TSH is high. (And has doubled since the last time it was tested.) What does that mean? Also, my rdw blood test was high.
If you could explain these results, I’d appreciate it.
His response?
Oh great- you figured out the e mail. Actually you couldn’t even wait to get a letter from me telling you that your thyroid might be burning out, and you might need thyroid medication after all, and it also might be a reason why you are having so much fun trying to loose weight (what a run on sentence I just wrote)
Anyways, what my letter says is that the TSH needs to be repeated in 4 weeks and if it is still high, then its time for thyroid medication. The repeat TSH has already been ordered for you, and we will talk after we get the next results.
My first reaction?
Ha! He said “oh great.”
My second reaction?
“What the hell? I have to wait another 4 weeks?! I’ll be bald by then! And possibly in a coma!”
While I was waiting for his response, I logged back in to check my other test results. I found a test that was performed in June. It was a THYROPEROXIDASE ANTIBODY test. The results were flagged as “high.”
So, I wrote him back.
I think this “email your doctor thing” may be the greatest invention in the history of the world! Ha.
As long as you promise me that I’m not going to die while I’m waiting for 4 weeks, then I’m ok with that. (I’ve been using google, Dr.M!)
Also, I noticed an old test from June that I hadn’t read until now. The THYROPEROXIDASE ANTIBODY test. I have no idea what that is (but I will in a minute, after I google it!) but it is marked as “high.” Is that bad? I’m assuming it’s not, since no one contacted me, but I’m asking anyway.
Thanks again for always being so helpful. Even if you do make me cry sometimes. (Again. I KID!)
To which he responded with—
I don’t mind your kidding one bit. In fact I like it.. I can handle it !!
No you are not going to die. You’re still stuck with me. A thyroperoxidase test confirms that your body is starting to make antibodies against your thyroid, and thus your thyroid burns out. As your thyroid burns out, you will need thyroid medication. P.S. I already ordered a repeat thyroperoxidase test when you repeat your thyroid test.
I’m not happy about having to wait another 4 weeks to test again and I’m not happy about possibly having a dying thyroid, but I am happy that a test finally confirmed what I’ve known for over a year now.
I’m fat because I have a thyroid problem.
*cue laugh track*
…But seriously, folks.
I have known that something was wrong with my body. I have known that it’s not functioning property, weight issue aside. I have been crying to Tony at least once a week that “something’s wrong! I shouldn’t be this tired all of the time! Nor should I be this bald! Nor should I have a droopy eye!”
I’m hoping that I’m finally on the track to getting some answers and possibly some medications to get my body functioning properly once again.
(And by “functioning properly once again” I totally mean “get My Horny” back. I really miss My Horny.)
Because The Almighty God in the heavens above FORBID that you take the 5 seconds it requires to remove the old roll and replace it with a new one!
There are little things that my family does that really aren’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but they drive me crazy on a day to day basis because HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THESE THINGS?!
THIS is one of those things. I can not tell you the anger that I feel deep in my soul when I see the toilet paper on top of the holder, or on the bathroom counter. Again, not really a big deal, but when I repeatedly ask people to kindly replace the roll when they are finished and they repeatedly ignore me… WANT!TO!PUNCH!HOLES!IN!WALLS!
Oprah would say, it’s not about replacing the toilet paper.. It’s about something bigger than that. But you know what? It really is about REPLACING THE DAMN TOILET PAPER.
Surely, you can understand my rage. Yes?
My feelings on The Bachelor Finale summed up in an IM conversation. (And yes, I have feelings about The Bachelor Finale.)
HerOh snap. why didn’t he just pick one and not propose?
Me:OMG. what the fuck was that? he’s an asshole.
Her: crazy he just wanted to be on camera
Me: Yeah, that was pretty bad. I mean, he always struck me as the type that comes across as “too nice” and really is just a raging asshole I don’t know, I just hate him right now
Like, um, I say “like” and “um” a lot.
Tomorrow will mark the 17th anniversary of the day that I wore a veil bigger than God and married PigHunter. I had plans to write “Our Love Story” in honor of our special day, but then Tony made me all sad and angry last night when he refused to allow me to rewind The Office and watch it with him because “why would he want to sit there and watch something he already had been watching for the last 13 minutes!?!” Now, I can’t write it because I am too busy cleaning up the cream puff I threw at the wall and leaving notes on his pillow that say things like “I changed my mind, I don’t want to go out to dinner with you tomorrow night, but thanks for the offer!” So, until I a) finally start my period and stop feeling all crazy and angry inside b) Tony apologizes (or at LEAST buys me another cream puff.) there will be no love story.
Instead, I will leave you with a few links that I think you should click on because you love me and you don’t want me to throw a cream puff at YOU.
Kathy (Co-Author of The It Girls Guide to Blogging with Moxie) has a new site with valuable information for parents.. Safe Mama-One-stop child safety, product recall, health and well-being resource for parents. Awesome.
Chris is working on a Holiday Gift Guide. Make sure you check her site every day to check for new items.
Stefanie is now in the hospital awaiting the early arrival of her twins. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.
Speaking of Stefanie… Remember the video that I posted of me on Mom Logic? Well, today they posted another video with yours truly and Stefanie talking about postpartum depression. I can’t believe I didn’t mention that she was there with me until now. Having her there with me was one of the reasons the experience was so great.
And with that, I’m done because… HOLY MOTHER OF BLOGS, link-type posts are hard.
Yes, my outfit is from Target.
A few months ago I was contacted by a producer from Telepictures.
He thought my blog was funny and wanted to meet with me in person
about a project involving “moms.”
A week later, I was driving to the telepictures office in Burbank.
The entire way there I was trying to imagine what they wanted to talk
to me about. I was stressed out the entire way there because I had no
idea what was going to happen once I arrived there.
I can’t even tell you the amount of “nervous gas” that built up inside
of me as I made my way up the elevator to meet with people I didn’t
know about something I was clueless about.
*pfrrrrrrrrrat taaatataaatrrrrrdadtaaa*
I was greeted in the lobby by Jason, the man who had originally
contacted me. He was very friendly. So friendly that I kind of wanted
to invite him on a picnic where I would feed him fried chicken and
potato salad from Albertson’s deli and push him on the swings and make
him go reeeeeaaaaally high while we both giggles and he and shouted
things like “Higher, Y! Higher! Weeee!”
No, seriously, he was that sweet.
He took me back into an office where there were two women waiting to meet me.
It was a casual environment, which made me feel at ease immediately.
For some reason, I had imagined a huge room full of Very Important
People sitting in very large chairs staring at me, like “Who is this
Large Woman wearing an Old Navy Tshirt and a plaid skirt and why is
she wasting our time?”
Luckily, my day dream was way off base. There were no awkward stares
or very large chairs. Instead, there were three very friendly, funny
people who wanted to sit down and listen to me talk about myself and
my children.
No! Really!
Long story short—they had found my blog. They liked it, thought I was funny and that I was a good “story teller” (Shut it.). We talked, I toldstories. I left. A few months went by, yada yada yada, next thing you know I’m sitting with a group of incredibly funny, intelligent woman (one of them who just happened to be the (soon to be ex) wife of Shaquille O’Neal) shooting the shit about being moms.
And oh, there were cameras there to record it.
Go ahead and watch it if you’re curious as to what I have to say about spanking, but quite honestly, I didn’t say much. Being on camera didn’t come naturally to me. (as you can see.) I was also very self conscience my LARGE-NESS and was trying to not move so as not to jiggle. (ha ha. Look at how stiff I was.) What I would have said had I not felt awkward and large was probably something like this:
I used spanking with my first son, because it was the form of discipline that was familiar to me as I was spanked as a child. (In fact, the last spanking I got from my dad happened when I was 18 years old. And NO, I did not hit him back, Chris. Ha. Ha. But, that’s another story for another time.) I didn’t spank the way that my parents spanked. There were no belts or sticks involved and it was usually done in the exact moment that my child was talking back or doing things that were dangerous and could cause him harm, like, oh, I don’t know, LIGHTING MATCHES. But by the time my second son was born, I realized that there were other, more effective ways of disciplining a child.
Anyway. There was a lot more said that day and I have no idea as to whether that will ever go up on the site. What I do know is that entire experience was incredibly fun and although I hate looking at myself on camera (only watched it once, will NEVER watch it again.) I am glad that I didn’t let my insecurities and fear stop me from doing it. It’s not every day that a major production company finds your blog, thinks you’re funny and asks you to come on down and be a part of something like that.