The Intimate Tick

(Reader discretion advised. This is a story about my undercarriage.)

My top priority in reviving my blog is obviously to bolster my longstanding argument that nature is terrible by relating a chilling tale that has become known as “The Intimate Tick,” or “that weird, overly personal story Carie keeps telling her friends because her life is so boring.”

Several years ago, I was at Bethabara, a historic settlement in Winston-Salem, with my dad’s side of the family. Bethabara looks rural, but it’s actually right in the middle of Winston-Salem suburbia. It was a Sunday. My minister grandfather led us in a devotional time, and then we enjoyed a potluck on the picnic tables. The kids played games and the adults talked. It was a very nice afternoon.

However, when I was getting ready for work on Tuesday morning of that week, I noticed a weird spot in—yes—my bathing suit area. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first, but by the end of the day, the horrible truth had sunk in.

It was a tick.

I did what any independent, self-reliant, professional woman would do in this situation. I picked up my phone and dialed.

“Mom? I have a question . . . ”

Mom and I agreed that the tick had to be evicted, but unfortunately, I could not do the honors myself. I went to the urgent care, where I had the following totally relaxed conversation with the lady at the front desk:

“Hi, um, I need to see a doctor.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Um, I think I have a tick.”

“Okay. Where is the tick located?”

“It’s, um, in my personal region? Um, preferably a female doctor would be good.”

“Okay, please have a seat.”

A few minutes later, a nurse and a PA, both thankfully female, removed the tick with the aid of a local numbing agent and a scalpel. I was very brave (read: embarrassed and apologetic, although the nurse and PA assured me they had seen worse). While they were sharpening the scalpel or whatever, I realized I felt a little vindicated to learn that it really was a tick, whose extraction required minor surgery. Historically, I have been something of a hypochondriac. You know that Jeff Foxworthy joke where his wife is worried that she has testicular cancer? That’s me.

So I was very brave and I didn’t get Lyme disease or anything so all’s well that ends well.  But here’s the point: A tick crawled into my drawers while I was sitting at a suburban picnic table in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. What are the odds? I’ve got friends who go on camping trips for fun and other similar nonsense, and this has never happened to any of them. (Or maybe they have the self-respect to keep this sort of anecdote zipped up.) (Nailed it.) Does the insect community know what I’ve been saying about them in print? Did they send this little squatter as an act of revenge? I can’t say. What I can say is that I’ve been sitting on this story (rim shot) for several years, and I’m finally breaking my silence. In fact, I’m planning a trip back to Bethabara in the spring. My entourage will be made up of medical personnel.

Well, Friends, It’s Been a Minute.

It’s been over three years since I posted, actually. It turns out that between finishing grad school, searching for and blessedly finding a job, moving into one’s first solo apartment and subsequently developing an anxiety disorder, getting engaged, getting married, moving to a new city, reviving the job search, and eventually starting full-time work again, one allows blogging to take a backseat. But with the encouragement of my husband Ben (#blessed), I am finally getting back to writing. (Also, my Netflix addiction is still as bad as ever, so that’s another obstacle right there.) But here we are. Quick recap.

Ben and I got married in 2015, and it’s just the best. He encourages me to pursue my interests, he makes boring errands fun, and he reminds me not to take life too seriously. He got me into Star Trek (we met Jonathan Frakes at the Star Trek Convention in Las Vegas last year—no big deal). We have a two-year-old corgi named Thor. Thor barks at us when we kiss, and we can’t tell if he’s concerned or annoyed that we aren’t focused on him. I have so many nicknames for Thor that Ben genuinely fears he’ll forget his own name (Fuzzy Butt, Baby Nugget, Booger Bear, Goony Bear . . .).

Dog nicknames aside, the craziest thing is that we’ve actually become adults. On one hand, we feel way too young to be married, but on the other hand, being married to each other feels like the most natural thing in the world. Weddings don’t freak us out anymore, and while we aren’t ready for babies of our own, we are overjoyed for friends who are. We finished our first round of grad school a couple years ago and now we’re both back for more degrees. We found a great church to join here in Wilmington and I joined a small music group there. Ben and I have started prioritizing our health more and together we lost almost fifty pounds last year. It turns out that making healthy choices is way easier with a buddy. When I lived by myself between finishing grad school and getting married, it was not uncommon for me to just eat chips and queso for supper, which is not a sustainable diet. I mean, good queso is expensive.

Most importantly, throughout my struggles with depression and anxiety, I’ve experienced firsthand how patient and loving God is, and how he’s always beside me. I’ve had some fantastic counselors, and received supportive reactions from family and friends when I shared what was happening. People care. God cares. Remember that.

Now that I’ve said my piece, I’m going back to folding laundry and watching reruns of The Office. (OK, maybe nothing in my life has changed after all.)

A Letter to Facebook

On 28 August, I deactivated my Facebook account for a semester-long abstinence project as part of my substance abuse counseling class. I noted in my abstinence contract that I would post on my blog more with the extra free time I had.

Well, we can all see how that worked out. Twitter requires far less effort than Blogger, and 140 characters lend themselves best to snark, so my Tweets  have channeled my pith for the past two months.

Anyway, for class today (two weeks to go!) we had to write a goodbye letter to our addictions, and I decided to post mine:

Dear Facebook,

Technically this isn’t a goodbye, since I’m not quitting you forever; but this is a reassertion  of my control over you. You’ve given me a lot of information, laughs and incredulity over the past six years, whether at purposeful comedy or at the absolute [expletive] people somehow think is acceptable (the word “hubby” comes to mind). But here’s the thing--an acerbic wit and constant vacillation between kindness and misanthropy may be part of my identity, but being mean-spirited is emphatically not. Facebook, your gaze is soulless and I’m glad I blinked first. Chelsea Fagan put it very well when she wrote on Thought Catalog this week that “...participating in the draining culture of online posturing and facetiousness actively erodes our compassion, and our ability to tell what is and isn’t important.”

This letter is my declaration of relegating you again to the proper space you should fill in my life: a small corner on which I will never depend the way I used to.

Carie

A Summary of My Summer

At the end of the semester, I promised myself I'd post on my blog twice a week this summer. As is often the case when I set myself goals that seem insanely ambitious to me but that your average ten-year-old could complete without breaking a sweat, I failed miserably. More than two months have gone by, during which I have certainly accomplished a lot of other activities, as measured in the standard grad student productivity unit "Netflix Episodes Viewed."

In later posts I hope to explore my failure as a white person because it took me half a season to start laughing at Arrested Development and I gave up on Mad Men completely before I finished half the second season. I also plan to regale my readership with the tale of the epic sunburn that I suffered on a single afternoon on Wrightsville Beach last month, with the travails of attempting to parlay a bachelor's degree in English and Latin into a part-time job, and with the truth about what happens when one accompanies an energetic man who likes to swing dance to a wedding reception with an open bar. And of course there is a huge volume of material to be gleaned from a wonderful family road trip up the East Coast, which featured a New York City tour guide who maintained a casual indifference to historical fact, a pair of calves named Lewis and Clark, a New Jersey mechanic named Pat whose accent met all my expectations, and a traveling lemon verbena plant nicknamed "Liz Lemon."

But to start off, I will relate an amusing example of the kind of fun one can have at a bachelorette party in rural North Carolina. Regular readers (God bless you both) may recall that I had my first bridesmaid experience this summer, and it was everything I hoped for-- mostly funny, occasionally tearful (when I learned the reception would be dry) and educational, because my friend the bride made a lot of desultory remarks about the wedding industry (e. g., "I'm convinced that weddings have nothing to do with marriage," "I think every man should have to experience the horror that is David's Bridal," and, "No Pinterest! The last thing weddings need is more choices"). Needless to say, she is a friend I will keep forever, and as a thoughtful gesture of my love, I volunteered to come up with a lingerie game for her party.

Because I only really knew one of the other bridesmaids at this point, I decided I'd better keep my hands clean and go for something PG-rated; but I also didn't want to be responsible (God forbid)  for anyone's boredom. A Google search found an elegant solution: I would secretly write down everything the bride said while opening her gifts, and then read them back as comments she might also make on her wedding night. It worked like a charm. The bride was so unwittingly successful at the game that there isn't much I can share without blushing, but some of my less-racy favorites include "How about if I DON'T," "Oh goodness, that one's going to be difficult," and "Yeah, you're welcome."

Ah, summertime. My last free summer, in fact. I'm glad I spent it watching all nine seasons of The Office and babysitting a plant and sleeping a reasonable amount at last, because it turns out I'm too old to stay up past midnight and function like a human the next day. Speaking of which, it's almost my bedtime, as evidenced by the fact that I'm struggling even more than usual to come up with a clever sign-off. Stay tuned for more examples of how your summer was more exciting than mine.

On Exercise

Lately it seems like everyone I know has taken up running. I have never liked to run. I enjoy long walks and driving around on golf courses. And not to toot my own horn, but I can lift a ten-pound free weight in each hand several times in a row. But every time I turn around, someone else has posted pictures on Facebook of themselves in clothing so tight the Kardashians wouldn't wear it, looking happy enough to die.

I am skeptical.

I grew up with a dad and a brother who need to run or otherwise exercise in order to function. I feel better when I work out too, but I don't love it. There have been too many times that I've walked into the house after an hour's power walk, feeling pretty good about myself, only to see Scott finishing a 14-mile run, with energy to spare. Defeated, I find myself on the couch with my other brother, Nathan, who woke up at 2 pm and has spent the past hour consuming enough chicken bites and Ranch dressing to feed a small village. We like to watch "My Strange Addiction," because there's nothing better than watching a stranger chow down on glass and bullets so you can feel better about your own eating habits.

But back to my friends who seem to be running nonstop. Some of them are people who have always gone to bed at 9 pm so they can wake up at 5 and hit the gym. I know this about them, and I love them anyway. But I'm used to other friends having a snack with me and joking about how sports bras are the worst. And then I find out that they secretly like to run.  Frankly, I feel betrayed.

Perhaps I would like to be invited to participate in a 5K sometime. I would have a few questions, such as, "Am I permitted to walk exclusively?," "Do I have to wear a sports bra?" and "Will there be beer?" I base this final question on the existence of several runs in Greensboro alone that involve "beer-chugging stations" and the sponsorship of various local bars. They lead me to ask the most crucial question of all: "Why didn't I think of that?"

So, running friends, if you ever want to invite me along to an event, I guarantee you that my presence will make you feel like an absolute champion in comparison, mostly because my presence will be concentrated at the beer station. Nathan will be providing the snacks.

Journey to the Ugly Bracket

I haven't really been into basketball at all during my adult life, which is odd considering that I grew up in a hotbed of truly demented sports anguish known as North Carolina's Triangle. This is a special place where one's alliance to Duke or Carolina defines identity, where March Madness renders NC State even less important than usual (sorry, Wolfpack, don't shoot the messenger). My dad relates the following story from my first day of kindergarten:

"Dad, are we for Duke or Carolina?"
"We're for Wake Forest."
"No Dad, that doesn't count. It's Duke or Carolina."
"Well, it doesn't really matter..."
"It matters in my kindergarten!"

Because I considered Dad's alma mater unacceptable when I was five, and since Dad got his MBA at the Fuqua School, we were Duke fans. Of course, now that Wake Forest is my alma mater too, I understand just how psychologically taxing it is to be a Wake fan. As my friend Schell says, pulling for Wake is like being in an emotionally abusive relationship. Every year, the Deacs tell us it's going to be different and then they let us down again. And yet we keep coming back for more.

But back to elementary school. I may not care much for basketball now, but when I was in the fourth grade, I cared deeply. And Carolina beat Duke that year. I will remember this forever, because when I got to my classroom the morning after the game, two particularly obnoxious boys had arrived early to put a sign reading DUKE SUCKS on my desk. Rude.

My level of interest in basketball began to taper off, and football has reigned in my heart  since my senior year of high school. But during these barren months without football, I decided to participate in March Madness again. I was home sick from internship the other day, so Ben suggested that I make my first bracket ever:

"You'll need to create an account on ESPN. And make sure you pick the number-one seeds to win in the initial rounds."

"You mean I actually have to research sports statistics? That sounds like a lot of work."

I had a different strategy. Growing up a Duke fan had taught me something crucial about basketball players: ugliness correlates positively with talent and skill. Shelden Williams, Mike Dunleavy, Shane Battier, Kyle Singler... Need I go on? (Don't get too smug, now, Chapel Hill. Hansbrough is the best you've ever had, and he couldn't keep his mouth closed if his life depended on it.) Battier resembles a dinosaur and Dunleavy looks like a particularly recalcitrant zombie. Digression: when my brother Scott was in elementary school, he won a contest for reading a lot of books and actually got to play basketball with some of the Duke team. The highlight of this event for me was watching my pudgy little brother throw a ball that hit Mike Dunleavy in the head. True story.

So armed with the ugly principle, I set out to fill my bracket with the help of Google Images. Kelly Olynyk alone is the reason I have Gonzaga winning it all. He makes Joakim Noah look like George Clooney. And my bracket is doing pretty damn well considering that I know about as much about basketball this year as a fish knows about philosophy.

I also have Duke in the Final Four. Old habits die hard, and in my defense, Ryan Kelly and Mason Plumlee tell us the ugly principle is still working out in Kville.

How To Be a Cantankerous Girlfriend on Valentine's Day

I owe an apology to the three people who read my blog (hi, Mom!). For the past 2 years, I have been posting lists of the great things about Valentine's Day when one is single. Candy, wine, watching Braveheart, not shaving my legs, serenading my roommate with "Unchained Melody" and "Let's Get It On," etc. Plus, I get to completely avoid being one of Those Girls who demands all the trappings of a fake holiday. Being single on Valentine's Day is great, and I fully expected to experience it this way for many years to come.

And then fate threw me a curveball. Not only do I have a boyfriend, but I have a great boyfriend who tricked me into thinking he hadn't gotten me so much as a card and then surprised me with dinner and flowers. Afterwards we went to a wine bar with his law fraternity and some of my friends, and several glasses of sauvignon blanc in, I let him have it.

"You have put me in a SERIOUS pickle," I said. "How am I supposed to enjoy Valentine's Day ironically now? What will I write on my blog, Ben?"

He just smiled.

"I thought about being positive, but I'm pretty sure I would hate that."

"No, you can't be positive. People hate positivity, especially the people who read your blog."

(I love the fact that he supports me in my delusion that my blog is important to the world.)

Ben thought for a second. "Ok then, why don't you write about how mad you are at me for ruining your Valentine's Day experience by doing something nice for you? That'll work, right?"

He gets me.

So, boys and girls, it turns out that one CAN be in a relationship and enjoy Valentine's Day without being all sappy and annoying. But only if you watch Braveheart. (Make sure to take a drink every time someone mentions "freedom.")