Click-N-Enrage
It became clear this morning that I needed to get up, get showered, and leave the house. My fragile shreds of sanity demanded that I peel myself away from the television and see about rejoining society. Of course, it would’ve been much more appealing if said society was not encased in 5 degree wind chills and whipping winds, but I do not make the rules. Or the weather. Alas.
No matter. I would grab the bull by the horns! I would seize the day! I would take some advil and scrub the YES off of my breast!
I am a woman of lofty plans. Do not hate me just because my life is fabulous.
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Can’t… stop… watching
I’ve had an incredibly busy day. First, I had to sleep late. After that, I had to watch a bunch of television, interrupted only by bits of food choked down with some advil and a few phone calls which invariably came while I was napping. (I especially enjoyed the follow-up call from the hospital. Perky Voice asked me “And how are you feeling today?” and seemed unfazed when I replied “Like someone ran over my chest with a truck, thanks!”)
Part of me feels like I should be making a greater effort to get up and moving today, and part of me remains firmly convinced that this is my opportunity to catch up on quality programming I’ve not had time for while feeling human. And the television distracts me, somewhat, from staring in horror at the bloody mess of bandages on my poor boob. (The boob, it still proudly proclaims YES! It’s such a trooper!)
But friends, I feel that I must come clean. I’ve… hit bottom. Seeing Kelly Ripa with hair extensions this morning was bad enough, but now I’ve been sucked into this atrocity. On the upside, it makes a breast biopsy seem like small potatoes. On the downside… well… I just feel DIRTY being so fascinated. Note that this is not stopping me from eating kettle corn while I continue to watch.
I swear I’ll leave the house tomorrow. This is obviously a cry for help.
I have the power to turn you green
This won’t be terribly long (ha! no, seriously) because it turns out that Darvocet makes me feel like ass. Or maybe the after-effects of anaesthesia make me feel like ass. More to the point: I agreed to let them stab me in the arm repeatedly, and I agreed to let them slice open my breast, but I do NOT remember agreeing to let them trap me on a very small boat on a very turbulent ocean. So, just a quick recap as I cling to the railing for dear life.
Anyway! Hello! I am back, minus one “area of inflamed tissue” which has been sent for biopsy but the surgeon doesn’t anticipate it will tell us anything unusual or scary. Hopefully removal of said naughty area will be enough to end boobpusapalooza and its associated fun and games once and for all.
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And miles to swiff before I sleep
This is me, going to bed early the night before my surgery. Whoops!
Well, I was going to go to bed early. Really I was. I have to get up at, um, 5, I think, so as to have proper time to shower and shave anywhere that may need to be shaved because in spite of them only working on my boob I will doubtless be forced to don a hospital gown and have all my whathaveyou out flapping in the breeze (and for such an occasion, I violate my “I shave my legs once a month in the winter whether they need it or not” rule) and then arrive at the hospital early enough to change into said gown and sit around gnawing off my own fingers in nervousness and hunger because I can’t have anything to eat.
But then, um, I had stuff to do.
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Le Freak, C’est Chic
I seem to have misplaced the funny. It might be underneath that pile of puppy treasures on my desk, but the last time I saw it was definitely right before my ex pointed out that when he remarries, I’ll need to figure out my own health insurance. Now, so far as I know, he’s not getting remarried any time soon. But I’m also pretty sure he’s not going to base his life-planning on my freakish medical needs, and even assuming that I never again need poking or prodding or surgery, this is problematic. Without insurance, I’m thinking I wouldn’t even be able to afford my hormone patches. Which would mean I would not only be uninsured, but I’d have brittle bones and a beard, as well.
Between that conversation and my upcoming biopsy, I’ve more or less convinced myself that 1) I’m doomed, 2) I’m dying, and 3) I’m going to die alone. I think these are logical conclusions to draw. But I’ve yet to find the humor in it.
So: Not funny, but wise. So I shall try to advise those who come here seeking knowledge.
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Where do the noses go?
Monkey was running a little temp last night, and then again this morning. He wasn’t deathly ill, or anything, but just sick enough that we needed to skip church… and he, apparently, needed to whine a lot. So I was worried that it would be a long day of being cooped up in the house with the children bickering.
But I’d worried needlessly, because it was a long day of being cooped up in the house with the children bickering and Princess Puppypants either proudly bestowing gifts upon me or slinking away from the kids as they yelled, “Drop it! Drop it! GIVE IT BAAAAAACK!”
Ask not for whom the dog fetches. She fetches for you. (Unless she really likes what she fetched; in which case, you’d best have a Milkbone to trade.)
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In which I am slain
There were so many things I wanted to do today, but in the end I did none of them, because I died.
It’s tragic, I know. I will miss me. Regardless–am now dead. Several times over, actually.
The nice folks who sometimes send me products to try sent along a new! improved! Swiffer, and I thought it would be quite amusing to line it up along with all of my other Swiffer and Swiffer-like products and take a picture (just to demonstrate that even though you would never know by looking at my dirty floors, I own a veritable museum of cleaning implements with jointed aluminum handles). Oh, the hilarity that would ensue from that photo! I have an original Swiffer! An improved Swiffer! A Swiffer Wet-Jet! A Swiffer Carpet Flick! And–cover your eyes, Swiffer people–whatever that Pledge thingie is that’s an imitation of the Wet-Jet but shoots foamy stuff!
Yes, I would take a picture, and then I would test it out, and all would be well. But then I died.
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Because it keeps on sucking
Um, the surgical nurse called me today for my pre-registration whosiwhatsis for my biopsy next week, and told me that according to my paperwork I am having “mass excision” as opposed to the “core needle biopsy” that I thought I was having. This is causing me to “freak out” and also use extraneous “quotation marks” in reaction to the “reality” of a doctor using a “knife” on my “real and very much attached-to-me breast.”
And then I read that Amy’s mom has another lump and I decided I should just shut up already and by the way, these boob things are highly overrated and more trouble than they are worth.
All of which is a long-winded way of saying I’m SURE you’ve donated already or been to my CafePress store to buy a 3-Day t-shirt, but if you need MORE motivation, FINE.
A hearty thanks to gorgeous model Stephanie for demonstrating that you can enhance your rack while helping the racks of others!
You’ll never guess what this is about
I was chatting online with a friend last night and she started… I don’t even know what to call it. Berating me or complimenting me–depending on your point of view–on the fact that I post every day, and generally long entries, at that. I think this was brought on by her own “I should post but I don’t have anything to say and I don’t want to but I feel like I should” issues, but regardless.
This is a conversation I’ve had before. Every now and then someone points to my posting habits as if I’ve stumbled upon the golden ticket.
It bothers me for two reasons. First, it bothers me to think that there are “shoulds” to the mechanics of blogging. I enjoy many blogs that don’t have new content every day. I also enjoy some blogs where there are new posts multiple times a day. The frequency isn’t (to me) the important part. There are also plenty of blogs out there with daily postings that I wouldn’t voluntarily read if they were the last words on earth. (This begs the questions of how, exactly, all the OTHER words disappeared, and why we couldn’t generate new ones, but just pretend it made sense.)
The second reason… well, I’ll get to that in a minute.
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Woof, woof!
At a rough guess, I’m going to say that we have no fewer than 500 children’s books here in the house. Perhaps more. There is no shortage of books around the place, is my point. And lord knows I have combed through the shelves and piles and pulled out the appropriate-level phonics books and tried in vain to get my son interested in fat cats sitting on mats and Tog the dog who meets a hog on a log.
About two month ago, I concluded that he would simply have to do his best at Princeton 1) in nighttime pull-ups and 2) with all assignments given orally or via pictures, because he surely will never read. Granted: he’s only 6. I’m aware that I’m a perfectionistic freak. But when you learn to read at 3 and your firstborn basically follows suit, a 6-year-old who doesn’t even WANT to read is like being served a fish that still has the head on. You know you can just try to ignore it, and/or work around it, but, DUDE. You’re trying to eat food that’s LOOKING AT YOU and that’s just not right.
[Yes, I did just liken my baby to this in an unparalleled display of excellent parenting. Excuse me while I go put some more money in his therapy fund.]
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