May 27, 2004 | Health is overrated

Fair warning: gentlemen, you may wish to avert your eyes.

The backstory: I have a very uncooperative reproductive system. I have suffered from severe endometriosis since my teens. It’s a complete pain in the ass, or, to be more specific, it’s a complete pain in the lower abdominal area and sometimes the back, much of the time. My uterus was reluctantly coaxed into hosting the Chickadee and the Monkey until their respective baking times had elapsed, but even that was quite the production.

And the bleeding… oh the joy, the bleeding! If bleeding were an Olympic sport, I would be a contender. In fact I daresay I would have a good shot at medalling. I have grown used to the finger prick for iron levels being followed by the nurse exclaiming “Oh geez, THAT can’t be right… let me do it again.” Move over, Yvonne Goolagong. You don’t know iron-poor blood ’til you’ve had chronic endo. It just Isn’t Right, my body.

The result of this is that I have spent a large amount of time in my adult life in a lot of pain, or really bitchy, or both. I have had three prior surgeries designed to “clean me out” and take care of my “little problem.” Well by the third surgery I’d had enough; I said TAKE THAT STUPID THING OUT and my doctor said no, it’s not time yet. Let’s try one more thing. So I had endometrial ablation instead. If you don’t feel like following the link, let me summarize: ladies have this squishy gross bloody lining in their uteruses (uterii??) that sheds once a month, or–if you have endometriosis–constantly, and to ablate that lining means to laser that junk into vapor so that hopefully your uterus will shut the hell up and leave you alone, bleeding-wise.

I had the ablation. The bleeding stopped. Hooray! Life was good.

The bleeding came back. Cuz, have I maybe mentioned, my body just Isn’t Right?

Now, I don’t quite understand how this works. My lining was obliterated, there should be nothing left to bleed. But I’ve always been rather gifted. So I did what any responsible person would do; I ignored it for a while and hoped it would go away. It didn’t. So I went back to my OB/GYN and she decided we needed to do “more testing.”

From my experience, “more testing” usually means “come back a couple of times for really unpleasant procedures and then we’ll decide to cut you open again.”

She did not disappoint. I went in this morning for a sonohystogram, which is a lovely procedure wherein–just in case you do not feel demeaned enough by lying spread-eagle on a table with your feet in stirrups while another woman shoves the gigantic sonogram-dildo-doohickey into your nether regions–your womb is injected with saline while they do the sonogram. The idea is that it helps to visualize any weirdness inside the uterus.

This is an interesting theory, and probably sound diagnostic practice, for normal people. However, it turns out that after an endometrial ablation you may have some scar tissue, or in fact be totally yucked up in there in strange ways, and the doctor will take that little harmless-looking plastic catheter and jab around until you cry and still be unable to actually fill the organ with water. Who knew?

But before that happens, the sonographer does the “baseline” imaging, which involves only the normal amount of humiliation, unless of course you are me, in which case she will announce “Wow your left ovary is all junked up, it’s the size of a grapefruit” and you will feel many things, but pretty is not on that list.

Anyway, after an endless period of time which I really couldn’t determine because I spent so mcuh of it concentrating on not screaming or throwing up, it was over. I was allowed to redress and led down the hall to Talk With The Doctor.

And the doctor said lots of things, and she called my left ovary junky again (ya know, I don’t feel any real attachment to it, myself, but still, there’s no need to be mean), and spoke of some “puzzling weirdness” that is “probably” normal for post-ablation and there were lots of other things that I could clearly hear being within qualifying quotation marks and the bottom line is: It Isn’t Right. Oh, and It’s Time.

So the thing is, I am not a woman with an attachment to my uterus. (I know some women are, and that’s great, and I don’t mean to insult.) That thing has been screwing with me for as long as I can remember. I already asked for it to be removed before, remember? So sure, take my uterus, please. (ba dum bump) What I was not prepared for, however, was this issue with my left ovary, which, dammit, has always been the good ovary, the obedient ovary! Nice Ovary, I always called it. (What, you don’t name your ovaries?) My right ovary has a history of being problematic. Now my left ovary is so screwed up that the doctor who normally schedules surgery out a minimum of three months is wanting to know what’s on my schedule in two weeks. And she is saying she thinks it’s time to consider taking it all.

I was ready to talk hysterectomy. I was not prepared to talk total hysterectomy. I was not ready to talk Hormone Replacement Therapy. And, well crap, as long as I’m being honest, I really wasn’t even ready to talk hysterectomy. Single mom, two kids, who just made the decision to have no daycare over the summer, here. How am I supposed to manage major surgery and six weeks of recovery??

So that’s where I’m at right now. Someone will call me tomorrow to see if I can in fact be scheduled for the week that my kids will be off visiting the ex-laws, and that leaves me only… oh… five weeks of convalescence I’ll need to figure out, if that works. In the meantime, I’ve already been told to say good-bye to the left ovary. It’s “my decision” (there are those quotation marks again, meaning it’s sort of my decision, because either way I’m likely to be unhappy and she doesn’t want me coming back to bitch at her about it) whether to leave the other ovary or go whole hog and be done with it.

Sometimes it totally sucks to be a girl.

May 26, 2004 | Detritus

I do whatever Zoot says. Sometimes. Well, tonight, anyway.

She made herself a super-cute avatar with a link to the place to make your own. So I spent mere seconds cursing that she hadn’t come up with this before talking myself into posting a real picture, and went right on over.

Here I am:

Now, look at the avatar, and then at the picture to the right. Isn’t it eerie how close they are???

Yeah, I know… time for bed.

What do I do all day?

This cold is kicking my butt. And being the deep, introspective, philosophical being that I am, my deepest musing at this point is… “Will I be well enough to mow the lawn tomorrow, as it is forecast to be the first of 40 days in a row without rain, and if not, exactly how long does the grass have to be before it is considered child abuse to allow my children to play outside?”

I am a reluctant asthmatic, and by this I mean that I am one of those folks who mostly outgrew childhood asthma, and whatever remains I largely ignore through denial. There is no medication for asthma of which I’m aware that doesn’t have side effects that are more annoying than a little wheezing. But now I have a cold, and my lungs greeted those invading germs with outstretched arms. “Come on in here, guys, she might not even notice!”

So I spent the first half of the day waiting for death to come and take me away, but it didn’t happen. (Instead, he made a brief appearance to tell me to get my hypochondriac pansy ass out of my pajamas, laughed in my face, and took off.) By the time afternoon rolled around, I had to admit that my biggest problem was difficulty breathing. I’m rather fond of breathing–I do it all the time–so this was a problem, indeed. I realized that if I hoped to get anything at all done today, I would need to get out The Inhaler.

A little digging in my purse unearthed my trusty Albuterol inhaler. Albuterol comes from the Greek for “makes your heart race, causes jitters, and imbues an inexplicable feeling of impending doom that is alleviated only with constant motion.” Good stuff. It does open the lungs up, which is very handy.

Anyway, the rest of the afternoon went pretty well. I put away all of the laundry that’s been sitting around in baskets upstairs… and I did four more loads of laundry… put all of those away… cleaned the kids’ rooms… took out the trash… cleaned out my car… organized my medicine cabinet… called a couple of friends… alphabetized my sock drawer… counted how many grey hairs I have (don’t ask)… and painted the entire house. (Okay, I didn’t really do that last one, but only because I don’t have any paint.) AndI’mfeelingjustfinenowthanks.

Detritus

I feel I must warn:
Lee’s pad is germy. Alas,
he gave me his cold.

Okay, maybe I
spent too much time there Monday.
Learned my sad lesson….

*insert tuba-sounding noseblow here*

May 25, 2004 | Retail Therapy

No, not the first definition. The second one: “relating to the world; earthly.” When you’re living a no-first-definition-fulfillment kind of life, you learn to maximize the things that do make you tingle.

I have two loves in my life that border on addiction: shopping and food. (Yeah, I am aware that I am the only woman in the history of humankind like this. This is my blog. MY BLOG. And I feel like writing about this today. Stop snickering and keep reading, or go away.)

For the first, only bargains will do. I’m frugal-minded and–oh yeah, these days–broke, so it’s not like I’m one of those crazed Imeldas spending $4,000/pair on shoes every weekend. I like the thrill of the hunt, and knowing that other women would really want to hurt me if only they knew what I’d paid for that. And sometimes, I can’t contain myself, and I tell them. I don’t mean to… it’s just that sometimes it kind of bubbles over. It’s part of the high.

Other Woman: Wow, I love those shoes!
Me: Really? Thanks.
Other Woman: Yeah, they’re adorable.
Me: They’re Jones New York.
Other Woman *with an appreciative nod*: Oh well that explains it, then. Very nice.
Me: I GOT THEM AT GOODWILL FOR FOUR DOLLARS!!!!! Brand new! Tags on! FOUR DOLLARS, I tell you!
Other Woman *jolted by my screaming, and perhaps frightened by my little victory dance*: You’re joking, right?
Me: No!!

(And then I run away, cackling, before she slaps me.)

For my other obsession, there are a variety of ways to proceed. Chocolate comes first, naturally. But then there’s PMS-time (salty foods) and someone-else-cooked-time (nearly anything will do, here, infrequent pleasure that it is) and damn-all-you-with-unadventurous-palates-time (sushi) and someone-else-is-paying-for-a-meal-at-a-restaurant-without-a-play-structure-time (thanks, Dad). Okay, I pretty much just like to eat.

Today, I descended into the depths of compound carnal sinning, and I did it with my kids in tow. Corrupt ‘em young, that’s my motto.

Often on Tuesdays we have a doctor’s appointment or two in the afternoon, and then some time to kill before I drop the kids with the ex for their dinner night. Today our appointment was early, leaving us a lot more time that usual. I considered heading home. The doctor’s office is about halfway to the ex’s house, and as I’d just paid $12.79/gallon to fill my car with gas, I decided we were staying out.

First stop: Priceless Kids. Let the record show that I do my most giddy bargain shopping for the children. While I’m thrilled to find stuff for myself, part of the maternal instinct is this urge to make sure your offspring have more clothes at any given time than you have ever owned in your entire life. That way, you can lie to yourself that you won’t have to do laundry as often. And when they have a growth spurt, you can… start all over again. Yeah. Anyway, I’d gotten a tip at a fabulous bargain site I visit that there were Lands’ End nightgowns at Priceless Kids. At 3 for $10. (My pulse quickens just typing it.) Priceless Kids is kind enough to have a little “movie area” at the rear (bonus!) where the kids can hang out and watch Aladdin while I paw through the racks, searching for my prey. I found the nightshirts in question… all nice hefty cotton knit (did I mention that for the ultimate bargain high, it has to be something of really nice quality?)… and was in heaven. I made my selections and scoped out the rest of the store.

I just love that stores like Priceless Kids remove brand tags from things that any red-blooded American mother can identify at ten paces. Totally cracks me up. I mean… if you were not the clothing whore that I am, I suppose maybe you wouldn’t recognize the font they use on the Lands’ End tags. (*cough*amateurs*cough*) But–I swear I am not making this up!–there was an entire rack of girls’ shirts sporting various gigantic, shiny “Limited Too” logos on them… with.the.tags.cut.off. Oooooh, sneaky!

After a while, I paid for my purchases and peeled the kids away from the movie, and we headed on to stop two: Trader Joe’s. I was already light-headed from the first store. But I wanted more! Trader Joe’s rocks on several levels. First off, when I shop there (not very often, because they’re not too close by) I can pretend that I still live in California. Between the organic/novel/weird goods they deal and all the hippies who either work or shop there, it’s a great illusion to enjoy for an hour or so. Next, they have committed themselves to clear and concise labelling for the seven major food allergens, which means I can buy food for my son there without having to worry that maybe they forgot to mention something that might, you know, kill him. And to top all of this off, they carry delicious, fresh, unusual (well, for around here) foods at fabulous prices. I can’t say enough about them. In fact now I’m wondering why the hell I don’t get my lazy butt down to that store more often.

At first, the kids queried every item I put in the cart.
“Why are you buying green mayonnaise?”
“Ewwwww, mushrooms. Are they like maybe radioactive? Cuz I don’t think it’s normal for them to be that big.”
“That stuff looks like grass. Do people eat grass?”
“That came from a real live fish? I’m not eating that!”
(etc.)

After a while, I’d fallen into a deep and blissful trance… it’s possible they stopped quizzing me. It’s equally possible that they continued and I tuned them out. I do vaguely remember some excitement when they saw the purple potato chips. For the most part I was off in another place, where everything is so yummy you could just cry from the happiness of it all. (As one friend put it: I’m in touch with my inner trough.) And the cherry on top? Balloons at the check-out. The kids want to go back again. Tomorrow. Pleasepleaseplease Mama.

My tranquil state lasted for approximately two minutes after leaving the store. My cell phone rang; “traffic is terrible, I’m stuck on the highway, I don’t know what time I can be there” (there may have been more, but it’s hard to process when you’re both driving and counting to ten). Let’s just say the rest of the day was not without its hiccups.

But now… now, all is right with the world. The kids are in bed. I have a bowl of “Avocado’s Number” guacamole (suitable for avocado-loving geeks who think the spoof of Avagadro is giggle-worthy) and a bag of chips. I would happily exchange the bag of chips for a big spoon, but I’m trying to exercise some restraint.

Or maybe I’m gonna go grab the spoon as soon as I finish writing this.

Some things are private, ya perv.

Detritus

(And also, I am a follower… wow I almost said typed that with a straight face… and nothing interesting has happened yet today ’round here cept for a game of Go Fish involving a stuffed puppy who regularly drew multiple cards, dirty cheater.)

Would you rather:

1. your best friend overhear you telling somebody else a deep secret about them OR your child overhear you venting your frustrations about your significant other?

Well as my savings for the Therapy Fund are already being socked away (and spent), I guess I take the latter. My kids have heard me vent about my ex, which is–in my opinion–normal and not so horrible as long as I keep it clean. Don’t get me wrong, I try to keep their hearing of this stuff to a minimum, but to me it just isn’t on par with violating a trust like repeating a secret. (It’s no secret my ex frustrates the beejesus outta me, not even to my 4-year-old!)

2. learn an obscure language only spoken by 15 other people on the planet OR be able to guess somebody’s exact birthdate, just by looking at them?

I’m not really planning to go work at a carnival any time soon, so I pick the obscure language. What if those 15 people are really cool?

3. have eyebrows that grow in VERY bushy, daily, no matter how you try to prune them OR make a sound like a tuba whenever you blow your nose?

I knew posting that picture was a bad idea; that was really low writing about my eyebrows!!! Ahem. Huh? Oh. Um, tuba sound, please. At least that would be intermittent rather than ever-present.

4. have a job that makes $200,000 a year, but you only get to see your family once a week for 3 hours OR make just enough to survive from check-to-check, but be able to see your family whenever you want?

It appears that I’ve already selected the second option, although if I were given the opportunity to swap for the money I definitely wouldn’t. Being poor isn’t so bad. Three hours a week with my kids would only be enough time for me to feed and bathe them a settle a couple of arguments.

Detritus

… that not everyone was charmed impressed amused that I had my kindergarten school portrait in my profile.

After sorting through approximately 6,591 family photos, I cut out this one that I didn’t completely hate. (There was another one that was pretty good, an almost artsy kinda profile shot from a birthday party, where my hair looked fabulous and I was about to help blow out the candles… and Julia said it looked like I was getting ready to snort some coke. Alrighty then.)

So there I am. This is a move of The New Fearless Me, putting my face out there for anyone and everyone. It makes me very uncomfortable. But I’m told it won’t kill me. We’ll see.

May 24, 2004 | Detritus

The title is a misnomer; few, if any, of these things actually go bump in the night. But they all frighten me.

1) The Swan.
2) The fact that I am compelled to watch The Swan.
3) That weird little dancing bald guy in the commercials for Six Flags who shows up in a bus and jitterbugs around until everyone joins him for a romp at the amusement park.
4) Women who think they can’t leave the house without make-up on.
5) Men who think women shouldn’t leave the house without make-up on.
6) People who take their marriages for granted.
7) People who don’t like kids.
8) People who think I must be miserable because I’m divorced.
9) Hail. (This string of thunderstorms we’ve been having hasn’t bothered me in the slightest; now they’re running “hail warning” banners across the bottom of the TV screen and I’m freaking.)
10) How easily my children trust.
11) “Gingy” from the Walmart commercials (though he was quite good in Shrek 2, I’ll admit).
12) Teenage drivers on cell phones.
13) Seeing babies/children not properly restrained in carseats/seatbelts.
14) The possibility that I may need to stab my son with his Epi-Pen to save his life someday.
15) The possibility that I may do that and he’ll die anyway.
16) Heights.
17) Wasps.
18) Small spaces.
19) Failure.
20) Thongs. (Not the footwear….)
21) The Junior Women’s League.
22) The guy at the diner around the corner who fawns all over my daughter and tells me how beautiful she is when we eat there. (We don’t go there anymore.)
23) Anyone wearing spandex who is not on a bicycle or in the gym.
24) Minutes 30 to 44 when I’m doing 45 minutes on my elliptical trainer.
25) Life without carbs.

Detritus

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to you today in reference to the deposits placed with your organization to hold summer camp slots for my children, Chickadee and Monkey IdiotboysLastNameWhichWeAreAllStuckWithNow. On March 6th, 2004, the children were registered as follows:

Chickadee: Weeks 3-6 for Camp By The Lake, and Weeks 7 and 8 at Tap/Ballet Camp Which Isn’t Nearly Expensive Enough Already So You Will Require Me To Purchase a $75 Recital Outfit. Pre- and post-care for all weeks.

Monkey: Weeks 7 and 8 for Camp For Kids Not Actually Old Enough For Camp But Conveniently Located Down The Hall From Tap/Ballet. Pre- and post-care for both weeks.

Total deposits placed with you for these registrations total $360 ($270 for Chickadee and $90 for Monkey).

At the time of registration, (which is by the way insanely early for most people to actually know what life is going to look like over the summer, but if you don’t register then there are no slots left and people laugh at you when you attempt to find a space for your kids later on) I anticipated being employed full-time this summer, hence the need for such extended childcare coverage. Since then I have realized there is no full-time employment which I can easily procure that will offset the cost of two children in full-time care (and don’t even get me started on the guilt of having considered this when I long ago committed to being a full- or at least mostly-stay-at-home-mom).

I have read your policy on refunds and although the double-speak and fine print did make my head swim just a bit, it does state that deposits can be refunded “at the discretion” of your organization in special circumstances. Barring that, it states that deposit money can be transferred amongst participants.

Well here’s my special circumstance: I don’t have a job, and child support might be just enough to scrape by on with no daycare, and so I have elected to stay home with my children this summer. However, as my ex is the one who placed the deposit money with you (on his credit card, and then was at my door less than an hour later demanding a check, but I couldn’t do the registration because that’s only for members of your elite organization and when said ex got a “family” membership which he could’ve easily added me to with no one the wiser and then I would’ve been able to take the kids swimming, he expressly pointed out that he was divorced from that horrible woman (me) and so no, he did not have a wife to add), I don’t even want a refund. Should you refund the money, it will go to the ex’s credit card and then I won’t see it for eons. Not because the ex would try to keep it for his own (he is anal to a frightening degree about what he perceives as monetary fairness) but because he is so absent-minded I wouldn’t be able to recoup it without nagging and arguing and I’m trying really hard not to do that stuff anymore because it’s more aggravating than being poor.

So, I am perfectly happy to settle this situation with a transfer of funds to my friend Heather, who is in fact gainfully employed and has also registered her kids in your camp program. Right now you have $360 of my money. Please withdraw my children’s registration from all programs except the Chickadee’s week 7-8 slot at dance camp (I have promised this to her for so long that I cannot take it away now without sealing my status as The Meanest Mama Ever). Please use $200 of my deposit money as the full payment for dance camp. Please transfer the remaining $160 to my friend Heather’s account, and I will work it out with her.

Failure to comply with my request will result in my going Hulk on you, so please don’t jerk me around for what is a tiny amount of money for you but an entire month’s groceries for me, mkay?

Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.

Sincerely Yours,
Miriam IdiotboysLastNameWhichWeAreAllStuckWithNow

May 23, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

I would like to sit down and calculate how many waking hours I’ve spent trying to get my children to go to sleep. No, I wouldn’t. It would probably make me cry. I accept that this is part of the Mama job description, just as part of being a kid is that you don’t go down without a fight, whether you need to cry and whine that you are NOT tired or get out of bed eleventy times or simply work on your headstands in bed and then fall crashing out of the bed with the approximate velocity and force of a herd of thundering wildebeasts and then wonder why the following reception is not more solicitous. I get it.

What I don’t get is how the very same creature who fought sleep tooth and nail can succumb to it so completely that they will continue to be asleep even once they are technically awake. (No, I didn’t typo.) In my world, if you are upright and your eyes are open, that’s called being awake, dammit.

I came upstairs tonight expecting to spend 60 seconds doing my “rounds” and then come climb into my own bed. Silly me. First I went into the Chickadee’s room, turned off her music, and started to switch off her nightlight. She was snoring, so I knew she was asleep. Silly me (again). As my hand neared the nightlight, she started screaming at me. Eyes open, half sitting up, and speaking an ancient tongue with which I’m not familiar. But since her head didn’t rotate and the bed stayed on the floor I’m thinking it might be okay. The conversation went kind of like this:
Her: VASNEF ERTY BAK FULAR SEN!
Me: Shhhh, it’s just me, go back to sleep.
Her: GERFLU! HASNEK BABA!
Me: Honey, shhhhh, it’s alright. Sleep, baby.
Her: WAAAAAAAAABKET NOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Me: Oh for crying out loud… same to you.
(I left the room and she stopped.)

Next it was on to the Monkey. In the continued yet hopeless campaign to get him nighttime potty trained, I drag his little tushie out of bed every night before I turn in, and take him to the bathroom. Tonight was our usual; I carried him to the bathroom, set him down where he swayed back and forth with one eye open while I pulled down his jammies and pull-up, and sat him on the toilet. Usually he goes right away and we get him put back together and into bed in a jiffy.

Sometimes he’s too sleepy, and forgets to aim. After several incidents which I will refrain from detailing here, we put an end to vertical urination right quick. All sitting, all the time, buster. But aim is still required because, well, inconveniently enough, the toilet is underneath, not straight out in front.

Which brings us to tonight’s joy. It went like this:
Me: Honey, point down.
Him: *snore*
Me: HONEY. Point down, please.
Him: unngh.
Me: HELLOOOOOOOO. Can you hear me?
Him: yeah.
Me: Good. Please point down, you’re going to pee on me.
Him: *starts to cry*
Me: What’s the matter? Why are you crying?
Him: *no answer, more snuffling*
Me: Why are you crying? Stop it, you’re fine. Just point down and peepee please.
Him: *starts to list to the left, hands still–maddeningly!–limp at his sides*
Me: Do you want to go back to bed?
Him: Yes. Bed.
Me: Great, just point down and pee and we’ll get you right back into bed.
Him: *back to crying*
I am embarassed to admit… this went on for a good five minutes. I raised my voice… I actually clapped in the child’s face (I know, I know, but I was running out of ideas)… and when I was just about ready to forget it and take him back to bed, he peed.

All over me. And the floor. And his pajamas.

And then he cried.

And I didn’t kill him.

Which I think makes me eligible for sainthood, wouldn’t you agree? Only I would like a shower before the ceremony, please.