So. Remember how I don't want to buy a house? Like ever. How I am super against the idea that tying yourself to a mortgage is the American Ideal of Life, Liberty and The Pursuit of Happiness?

And how most people think I'm crazy?

I am crazy.

Fine.

We can be honest about that.

But what we can also be honest about is the fact that buying a house turns out to be a real, legitimate, not-exaggerating fear of mine.

We found this out in the most unfortunate of ways....

Zach and I have been seriously considering what it would be like for us to own a home. We've got a realtor and everything. I mean, this thing is turning legit.

We actually even came up with a plan. We don't know if it will work or not. But, a plan is there non-the-less.

More details on "The Plan" later.

I don't want to give too much away now. Especially when I have something to get off of my chest. Literally....

So anyways, last week when it looked like things were being finalized and moving forward, I had a not so subtle, but at the same time not-life-threatening panic attack.

Now, let me say this, lest you think I'm completely irrational and off my rocker.

Panic Attacks run in the family. On my dad's side. And are a serious, if not at times, irrational disease with us Cloyds.

My brother gets them.

My uncle gets them.

My cousins get them.

And now I get them.

I had never had one prior to the birth of Scarlett, but that's a separate story in itself.

My whole theory on the genetic issue of Panic Attacks stems from the idea that we are all laid back to the extreme. Like super, super laid back. All my cousins, my brother, my uncles, everyone in the fam-bam is just chill. So it might just be that because we don't live stressful lives, we don't in turn, handle stress very well. Or at least I don't.

And speaking from my own perspective, being laid back is not like the ideal scenario. It's hard for me to have an opinion, unless its maybe a deep moral issue with me. Like, where to go to eat, or what to have for supper, or what to wear, or I don't know what else, but I struggle to find my opinion or any opinion whatsoever. "What should we do tonight?" "What movie do you want to see?" And "Where do you want to eat?" Are all sources of soul-searching-turning-on-the-high-brain-power-but-still-get-no-where problems for me.

And my marriage.

Now, ask me how I feel about Obama's un-endorsement of Israel and whether or not I think Israel should go back to the 1967 borders and I will tell you that betraying Israel is literally the worst thing America can do because "He who is not with Me is against Me; and he who does not gather with Me, scatters." Luke 11:23 and if you are asking a country who is surrounded by states that want to literally wipe them off the face of the earth and think of them as worse than human filth (Their words, not mine), to give back the land that they won. In war. In war with four surrounding, and much larger armies. That they beat. And won the land they now call home and was prophesied that it would return to them, then I will tell you, you first of all are crazy and are asking Israel to commit suicide and second of all, that it won't happen. Israel will always come out on top. It's in our best interest to support them, not the other way around.

But that's just my personal opinion.

And after a heated Facebook argument, I needed to get that off my chest. Whew.

Modern Day Israel is the same as the Biblical Israel. They haven't changed. God's covenant with Israel hasn't changed. In fact, in today's world God's covenant with Israel is in ways more alive than ever. And if you want to talk to me about how Israel persecutes Christians as if this is some new idea, let me remind you of who crucified Jesus. But God's command for us still doesn't change.

Ok.

Sorry!

I have just been irritated. Just maybe repressed because I didn't want to offend the originator of the discussion, since the argument got heated on his thread, but he wasn't really apart of it.

So on the big stuff, I know exactly what I believe.

On the small stuff. I'm lost.

Anyways. You would think buying a house would be considered a Big Thing. Which it totally is.

But I also have this totally irrational but concrete fear of Purchasing a Residence.

Like. I know its irrational. I realize that I'm ridiculous. I understand that my fear is both unjustifiable and cowardice.

Ok. I get it.

I have pep talks with myself. Inner Arguments. And on top of it all, I see examples all around me that the rest of America is functioning under the ability to pay a mortgage monthly without becoming agoraphobic at the same time.

Well. Most of America. Of course there are always exceptions.

Apparently, including me.

So anyways. You know all this. And you know that on occasion I have been known to have a panic attack.

Not like pretend ones that I'm making up. I don't generally like to exaggerate issues for the purpose of attention. Sure, I'll exaggerate stories, but not like physical ailments. Those I tend to like to hide completely and pretend they don't exist.

So. Last week. We start to realize that this house owning, per say, might become a reality of ours and what is my reaction?

Panic Attack.

I'm in the middle of cooking dinner and I can't breath. And the world is getting blurry around me. And there is a ringing in my ears. And I am probably seconds away from throwing up.

Just keep cooking. Just keep cooking. Just keep cooking.

Zach walks in the door at this moment to see me breathing like I'm in labor, stirring my Middle Eastern Pork Dish around, working on some rice and waving my hands around like a maniac trying to keep my bearings.

He is all, "What's wrong?"

And I don't want to tell him. I don't want to tell anybody! First, lets just come out with it, I'm a freak for having these feelings. And second I know we are doing the right thing, I just need to cowboy-up and grow a pair.

Plus, we tend to do this shared-emotion-alien thing and I don't want him to start freaking out too.

It doesn't work. I unload on him. He does his best to comfort me. We eat dinner. I drink a bottle, I mean two bottles, I mean a glass of wine and relax.

Everything is going to be ok.

So. Then. That night is over. We finish up with school. We go through our crazy dance recital weekend. We make it to Sunday.

Ah. Sunday. I finally relaxed. We skipped Stella's soccer game. We did absolutely nothing.

By the end of the day Sunday, I start to notice that my arms and legs have broken out into hives. I think to myself, while scratching casually, "Huh, must have been from all the hair spray going on yesterday? Or even from the cloud of spray glitter I had to make it through to get my kids out of the dressing room."

Or, knowing my skin it could have been something I ate, or didn't eat, or drank, or didn't drink, or all of a sudden I could be allergic to my shampoo or body wash, or heck even laundry detergent. Even though I had been using those things for months, but hey, its been known to happen.

I'm the girl that got malaria from a nose ring.

I just have sensitive skin.

That's a fact.

So anyways, I go to bed Sunday night with a mild rash, and slightly irritating itch.... No big deal.

Until Monday morning when I am covered chest to toes in red polk-a-dots! Like, seriously out of control.

And they itch. Oh man, do they itch.

I break out the pack of expired Benedryl and start double fisting those bad boys. I am determined to get rid of this thing.

I am starting to get frustrated with my lack of handling difficult situations, no matter how irrational, capabilities. I also realize this is a consequence of that damn panic attack. I panicked myself right into misery!

But anyways, I go to bed Monday night, fully believing a day full of showers and benedryl will take care of the damn thing and Tuesday morning I will wake up, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Wrong.

WRONG.

Tuesday morning I wake up with hives that have spread up my scalp and hidden themselves under mountains of hair, hives that have covered every inch of my body save for my hands. My feet. And my face.

It's time to call in the big guns.

Hello doctor? I think I have a problem.

My wonderful PA gets me a prescription and directions to live a stress-free life.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

So possible, with three kids and some major decisions to make in this little life.

Oh my.

Anyways. I do my best. I ignore the kitchen. The laundry. And Scarlett.

Just kidding.

I ignored all three.

I didn't make dinner. I didn't put a bra on the entire day. And I stayed away from reality tv.

Stress Free.

Zach stopped on the way home and got me eye drops, (Oh because they were also on my eyelids), new benedryl and my new prescription.

I take everything with renewed vigor. Ok, tomorrow is going to be better. I am going to BE BETTER!

Wrong.

WRONG!!!

This morning I woke up with full on Face Hives. Finger Hives. And oh, oh, oh yes. Baby-Pinky-Toe-Hives. :(

A big old :(

Oh its awful.

There is nothing like looking like you just got stung by a million bees in the face.

Let me tell you.

I told a friend today that I look like a giant-swollen-version-of-a-polk-a-dotted-koolaid-man.

Super attractive.

My mom came over today and her first words were, "Oh(Sharp intake of breath) girl."

A little girl saw me today and she said, "You have itches. You have a lot of itches. You have itches like allllllll over you."

My little baby Scarlett said, "Ew mommy, your boo boo's icky."

Stella, my sweet, sweet, sweet, Stella said, ahem, while laughing, "Mommy, you are sick. Like really sick. And that's a gross kind of sick."

Yep.

Oh, and do I even need to mention that Zach literally yells something at me like, "AGH! Cover that up," every time I walk in to the room.

People this is bad!!!!

Ok. It's not like Joplin Missouri bad. Or possible Cervical Cancer bad. But it is miserable.

It's like I have the chicken pox all over again.

Only, don't worry, they checked and its definitely not the chicken pox.

And I can't be seen in public. I will give you nightmares.

So. I'm just hiding out, praying upon praying that the steroid they gave me takes care of this horrific thing and doesn't decrease my milk supply. Which is what we are really nervous about!

And on a smaller, maybe not as important, but definitely vain point of view, that it doesn't give me too many scars.

Oh. People. It's bad.

I would put a picture up of it. But....

No. I wouldn't. I will never, ever, ever document this self-induced-Biblical-proportionate-plague by film.

I need a Xanax.

At least I do the next time someone brings up the H word. You know.... House. Or Home-owner. Or Hives.

Because this is out of control and the worst part of it all is that I brought it on myself.

If only I could make it go away with positive thinking.

Until then, don't mind me, I'll just be staying inside this perfectly nice house that I don't own, like a shut-in, protecting myself from taking on any real kind of adult responsibility and protecting you from the hideousness that is the horror movie version of a full body chemical peel gone very, very, very badly.