Stronger than the Bat Signal
I have a very special signal I beam out into the cosmos when I’m dead tired. That signal can be picked up, far and near, by everyone who knows me. I don’t mean to broadcast it; I wish I knew how to turn it off. My only thought is “I want to go to sleep,” and yet the signal blares and my kindred respond.
Do you hear it? It’s coming your way!
“Now would be a good time for you to pick up the phone and call me–with an enormous problem or deep melancholy, if possible–and talk to me for an hour or more.”
I’ll just be unplugging the phone and going to bed, now….
Off to a tragic start
So I arrived at camp today bursting to ask Chickadee all about her day, and just in time to miss a boy about twice her size decide she was standing too closely to his Foosball (sp?) table. Said boy shot one of the sticks directly into her stomach, and she screamed. I don’t blame her.
The rec room where all of the campers meet at drop-off and pick up is utter mayhem. I don’t know how many counselors where in there, but there were way too many kids, running around like maniacs, and apparently some of them were impaling smaller children for sport. The counselor who brought my sobbing, hysterical child to me was embarrassed and apologetic. Which she wouldn’t have had to be, if the kids had been properly supervised.
So instead of an animated retelling of what should have been (and maybe even was) a very exciting day, I got to listen to weeping all the way home. And very. punctuated. declarations. “He meant to hit me!” “He was a very bad boy.” And my personal favorite, “If I was his mother I would spank him!” Hell hath no fury like a six-year-old traumatized.
No good deed goes unpunished. Why is that such a hard lesson for me to learn?
Now that we are home and somewhat calmed down, things are better… for Chickadee. She is alleviating her collected stress by tormenting her little brother, who is just happy to have her back after a day away. He is gamely playing along with every rotten thing she keeps doing to him. Then a moment of clarity dawns and he says, “Hey! Stop that!” And then it all begins anew five minutes later. Fabulous.
Time for me to go fix “I don’t want that!” for dinner.
Muffin Wisdom
Me: Hmmm, should we check them and see if they’re done yet?
Him: Yes! Let’s check!
Me: Okay. *turning on oven light* Whatcha think?
Him: They’re done! Let’s eat them!
Me: Really? Are you sure?
Him: Yes…? I want to eat them!
Me: Look closely. Do those look the way you think muffins ought to look?
Him: *nose pressed to the glass* Hmmmm. Mama? They’re kinda flat.
Me: Yeah, they are. They’re not ready yet.
Him: Cuz muffins is supposed to be kinda round on the top, right?
Me: That’s right, buddy. Muffins should be round on the top.
Him: Like my head!
Me: Right, like your head.
Him: I want the muffins to be round like my head! Then I will eat them! With my head!
Me: Good plan.
And now for something completely different, except not really
I know that I tend towards the melancholy, soul-searching, where-is-my-life-going sorts of stuff on Sunday night, but that is not what I have for you tonight. Nope. Tonight my ex was kind enough to switch the channel from “vague discontent” to “is it really possible that a person could be so smart and yet so lacking in common sense.” Be sure to thank him for his (unwitting) efforts when you next see him. Which, for most of you, will be never (and thank your stars for that as well), and for those of you who might happen to run into him, don’t bother, because I doubt you could get a word in edgewise, anyway.
My ex has plenty to say. Oh yes. First, he wants to tell you that he is “a very involved father.” He used that phrase this evening no less than three times. I may have physical custody but he does “just as much” for and with the children as I do. Uh huh. I registered our daughter for camp; I paid for camp; I took her to the pediatrician for a physical; I submitted the health forms; I took her on no less than three shopping trips for the various gear she requires; then went shopping two additional times without her for her dang shoes; labelled all of her gear; packed her backpack; and in the morning will pack her a lunch and take her to camp. But he wanted me to understand that this was a joint venture. Because he gave me some sperm six years ago, I think. Ooooookay.
Next, we have been tossing around the idea of starting Chickadee in piano lessons. This has somehow turned into I am not fulfilling my obligations as a good mother because she is not already in lessons, and when I pointed out that I am trying to figure out the whole job thing and what my schedule is going to be before I make another time commitment, he suggested I leave it to him to handle, during his visitation time. Which led to my pointing out that visitation will change once school starts, because right now he gets the kids at 1:00 one day a week. And before I knew it, he was gesticulating wildly about how I can’t just cheat him out of those hours of visitation, they’ll have to be made up elsewhere. And as I stood there looking at him like he had two heads–no, that’s not right, more like he was going to sprout a second set of arms, ala Stitch–I found myself telling him that while he seems to believe my primary goal in life is to keep him from his children, my priority lies in letting them be kids. Well, he was having none of that silliness. I make them go to bed far too early for his liking (he wants to keep them later, since he’s not the one who has to get them up for school), and he could handle the piano lessons (leaving me to travel to his town any time he’s away on business or late for visitation; oh yeah, bringing that up really ticked him off), and I was just being difficult.
Don’t get me wrong. As much as he irritates the living crap out of me, I appreciate that my children’s father does love them and want to be a part of their lives. And he does the best that he can, I guess. But this constant insistence that all things be equal is making me batty. It rather reminds me of being married. You know; it’s like being told–after I stayed up all night breastfeeding and changing diapers and then spending the day with a colicky infant and screaming toddler and he came home from work and played with them for half an hour before bed–that we were equal parenting partners. Um, no. We weren’t then and we aren’t now.
I fail to understand why acknowledging that I bear the majority of the parenting duties threatens him to the point where he becomes agitated if I do not agree to his delusional assertions that he does exactly as much as I do. I know this, of course. Usually I try to just nod and agree rather than argue. It’s pointless to argue. Nonetheless, I just don’t get it.
Want to hear the scariest part of this? Somehow we resolved this little scuffle; we agreed to disagree, or deal with it another time… I don’t really even know… and I remembered that I’d wanted to tell him that the kids had gotten into a big discussion about how Daddy should get married again and have more babies! (Yes, they really did. Mostly Chickadee saying she wanted a little sister, but Monkey was brought on board when he figured out this would mean he could have a shot at being a big brother.) I was curious to see what he would say. Keep in mind that this is a man who bemoans his financial situation at every possible juncture; there’s never a moment’s hesitation in telling you how poor and badly off he is. His reaction to the kids’ discussion?
“I really miss having kids in the house all the time. I probably will have a couple more if I can.”
Because children are replaceable, dontcha know. And they’re a must-have accessory in all the finest homes. Hunter Douglas blinds, real oak floors, and oh yeah, a couple of smallish people to run around.
I mean, okay, whatever floats his boat. I don’t begrudge him having more kids. People do that all the time. But his reasoning scares the bejeezus out of me. And don’t even get me started on what sort of impact that would have on our kids, and on one very sensitive little girl in particular. Right now, all he offers them is Fun Daddy with the toys and the fun activities. If Fun Daddy has other kids, other financial obligations, and a wife who is (rightfully) going to want him to spend most of his time with her and their kids? My kids are going to tire of him, and quickly.
But at least we can all agree that when that happens, it will somehow be my fault. Ah, the many rewards of motherhood.
And now back to our regularly scheduled… rambling
I swear it was not intentional that I ended up doing two rather heavy posts in a row and then dropped off the planet. It just kind of happened that way. My weekend was not spent in deep contemplation of my marital status; honest!
Yesterday I made a trek to Logan Airport with friends. As I told another friend, before we departed, I would rather pluck out and digest my own eyeballs than voluntarily drive into Boston to the airport. I never fly from there. Because getting there is enough to make you want to get out of your car while you’re sitting in bumper-to-bumper standstill traffic on the bridge and jump off the bridge. Boston is a great city, and all, but unless you live inside the city limits or take the train in, I just don’t see the point. Anyway. The reason for the trip was that my friend’s husband is headed to Africa on a mission trip.
This is my friend who took me to my surgery and stayed with me all day. So eating my eyes in an effort to get out of the trip seemed ungrateful.
Down we went, flying over the miles of highway between here and there, until we reached the outer limits of the city. Then? The last four miles took longer than the entire rest of the trip. I sat in the back with my friends’ five-year-old son and fed him wheat thins and had endless discussions about how many lamp posts we’d passed, how many airplanes we saw, and how actually if you stop poking at it, your penis will stop being big. (Yes, really.) I think my friends were really pleased to have me along!
We made it to the airport and unloaded and everyone said their goodbyes (more wheat thins and airplane discussion for me and the 5-year-old while the couple had a last few moments), and then we drove back home again. My job–as I understood it–was to keep my friend from being too sad and whatnot. I took my position very seriously. I have no idea what I babbled about for the hour and a half that it took us to get home, but I’m fairly certain I talked the entire time. There was a lot of laughing. Probably because I divulged quite a few of my recent highlights as an idiot, including things like losing my temper with my children at bedtime and then hollering, “Use the hamper and put your clothes in the potty, NOW!” Yeah.
So after that exciting adventure, we ran some errands, and had some dinner, and then once her kids were in bed we watched Pirates of the Carribean, which neither of us had seen before because we live under rocks. We both loved it. It turned out to be an excellent choice for the end of an emotional day. And any time I get to see a somewhat-recent movie, I’m happy.
That was Saturday. Today, I’ve done church, errands, lunch with (other) friends, and various puttering around here at the homestead. Chickadee starts dance camp tomorrow and I’m still scrambling a bit to make sure we have everything we need. Lest you think I’ve put off the preparation for too long… well, I have. You’re right. But the Amazing Foot Growth Spurt Girl needed both new ballet slippers and new tap shoes, and I wasn’t shelling out money for two new pairs of shoes until I was sure her feet weren’t getting any bigger. (Now that I’ve typed that, she’s gonna grow two shoe sizes before camp ends; I know it.) So all of that stuff is just about ready, now. I predict huge meltdowns tomorrow morning, regardless of my preparation, but that’s part of the joy of kids, right? Right?? Heh.
And now, I have a date with a power screwdriver. Wow. That came out a lot dirtier than I meant it to. Ahem. Um, I have to go put together one of those toy storage bin doohickies. This is me, in my never-ending quest to get the toys up off the floor, where I just keep spending money on storage items and never really accept the reality, which is that we have plenty of storage area, just very lazy toy owners. I’ll keep dreaming, though….
I’m scary. Booga booga!!
I’ve just come across another blog that is referencing me as proof of why divorce is scary. “Please tell me it won’t happen to me!” she pleads.
In the words of my esteemed, dearly-departed grandmother: Oy. Vey.
Apparently, as I am highly educated and obviously brilliant (no, I never joined MENSA; those people have no sense of humor), it is just so wrong that my life didn’t work out precisely as planned. How do marriages go wrong when you’re so smart is the implication I get.
Last time I checked, there were precious few guarantees in this life. Would I have liked things to be different? Hell yes. Is this the way it worked out? Yup. Will I still be fine? Yup. Am I grateful for my blessings? Every day. Is my life a cautionary tale? Not particularly. It’s just a life. Do I know far too many people who’ve been forced to endure way more hardship? Sadly, yes.
I’m not scary. I’m human. And I’m going through exactly what I need to go through to get to where I’m supposed to be. I won’t claim I always do it with grace, but I’m doing the best I can. Sometimes I wish it were easier, but the truth is that I tend towards being an ungrateful pain in the ass… and I need a good smattering of difficult to juxtapose the good stuff and make me appreciate it. I have absolute faith that I’m where I need to be.
You can sit around being afraid of the things that might happen, or you can live. Seems like a pretty easy choice, to me.
Embrace your inner screw-up
I believe I once characterized my town as “not exactly a Stepford community,” but something close.
I lied.
It is, in many ways, worse than Stepford.
Tonight I had a new friend over for dinner. D and I met through another dear friend, and upon discovering that we are both newishly (is that a word? she brought wine; consider yourself forewarned) divorced, we bonded instantly. So we’ve known each other a while, but it has taken some time to finally coordinate a get-together. We ran into her at the beach today… and when I discovered that we were both going to be kidless tonight, I invited her for dinner. I was thrilled when she came over.
D and I both know a third woman–also through the same friend who introduced the two of us–who is also newly divorced. This third woman, let’s call her Cleo (that’s short for Cleopatra, Queen of Denial), is quite something. She’s been separated and (I think) even legally divorced much longer than either D or I have, but downplays that fact quite a bit. And by downplay, I mean she boldface lies about it to most people. She’s told us the truth, because we’re divorced, and part of her really does want some acceptance and kinship with other women like her. But to watch Cleo in action at a party is mind-boggling. She pretends she’s still married. She cannot abide the thought of being rejected by anyone she perceives as the “elite” of our snobby little town.
Cleo also confessed to me and our mutual friend, one night, after quite a few drinks (her, not me) that she was sleeping with her divorce lawyer. Oooooh, classy! This was, mind you, after she’d insisted to me on multiple occasions that she was nowhere near ready to date. I guess I just misunderstood. Technically, she didn’t say she wasn’t ready to screw.
Needless to say, I wasn’t halfway through my glass of wine before I felt the need to share with D the story of Cleo spilling the beans about schtupping her lawyer. We laughed until we cried. D has also been present for many of Cleo’s long, intense soliloquies about how she just isn’t ready to get involved again. For some reason, dissing this poor woman over pizza and wine was a fabulous evening.
So, okay. We made fun of this woman who so desperately wants to fit in with our town’s “society” that she will lie, deny, and otherwise cloud the realities of her life to appear more acceptable to the ladies of the Junior League. I’m a very cheap date, and one glass of wine will do that to me. Mea culpa.
The reality? I feel so sorry for Cleo. I do. Life is too short to pretend to be someone you’re not.
Guess what? My marriage crumbled. I’m divorced. I’m still a worthwhile person, I still deserve to live here, and if you so much as look at me sideways like you feel sorry for me in any way, I will occupy myself elsewhere, thanks. This is my life. Good, bad, indifferent, it’s mine. I’m not going to lie about it or dress it up for anyone. You don’t like it? Fine. Enjoy your self-appointed time as judge and jury. But you’re not worth my time.
Even here in Stepford, I’ve had no trouble finding myself a plethora of friends who love me for who I am. I think it’s beyond sad that Cleo is so unsure of herself (or is it of the rest of us?) that she dare not chance embracing her reality, lest she be rejected. And her inability to be honest infuriates me, because she’s condemning me and D and all the other imperfect women along with her, in her refusal to risk being herself. I want to shake her. I want to tell her that anyone who can’t deal with her reality–my reality–isn’t worth it.
But of course I have no control over her. So I will just make fun of her behind her back. All the while, reaffirming my decision to basically write off anyone who can’t deal with me on my terms.
I didn’t say it was rational. Or mature. But really? Pretending you’re not divorced? Continuing to wear your big-ass diamond? Lying to people so they won’t think less of you? It makes my skin crawl. Is there any greater self-hatred?
Hi, my name is Mir, and I’m divorced. I’m also a cheap date, and well-buzzed on a single glass of wine. I’ll make you a deal. You be yourself, and I’ll be myself. Flaws and all. Doesn’t that make it all more interesting?
Eighth Installment: Facts and Fiction Friday (part two)
We fought the beach, and the beach won. A sandy time was had by all. Monkey and I are still the whitest white people on the planet. (Chickadee has browned up a bit, but Monkey and I are still casting a fierce glare off of ourselves.) The children are now exhausted and “resting” in front of the TV, and I am finishing up your queries rather than looking in the mirror to see how badly burnt I became through the SPF 45 sunblock.
Genuine wants to know what we would be writing about, if we were collaborating on a book.
“You Too Can Overcome Your Obsession With Nudity,” by Genuine as told to Mir (fully clothed). (Fiction.)
Hmmmm, Gen, I dunno. Is that an offer? I think I could probably put some sarcasm into that Genuine Romance for you and double your readership ya know…. (Fact, maybe.)
Angela wants to know what superhero I’ve always dreamed of being or having.
Remember Gleek, the monkey on Superfriends? Mmmmmmm. (Fiction. Ewwwwww.)
As a child, I often dreamt of being part of the G-Force from Battle Of The Planets. I don’t know why that particular show caught my interest so much. I think I liked that they were a family and fought crime together. Or maybe it was just the part where the one guy would put out his magic watch (or whatever it was) and shout “TRANSMUTE!” and they’d all change. Who knows.
Now that I’m grown-up… hmmm… Spiderman is kinda cool (Monkey told me so). Tobey Maguire isn’t too hard on the eyes, either. (Fact. Heheheheh.)
Tonya wants to know the secrets of Target markdowns, like how do you know if the price is as low as it will go, and why would one size be red-tagged but another not.
Stick with me, grasshopper. I shall teach you the way.
First of all, there are scanners all over Target for a reason. Always scan everything. Items that are marked down corporate-wide will be reduced in the computer system regardless of whether the markdown team has gotten to them or not. Items are often lower than marked, if already red-tagged. So, scan, scan, scan.
Second, it used to be true that final markdowns at Target always ended in a 4. I’m not positive that that’s the case, anymore. But if something was $3.74 or whatever, you knew that was the last price drop. Those little red tags? Have a number in the upper right corner. That’s the percentage off. It’s usually 15, 30, 50, or 75. The stuff that hits 90% off rarely has time to be retagged before it’s sold. If you see something you’re dying to have and it’s at 50% and there’s an entire wall of them, you can probably wait. But if you want an item and there’s only a few left, it can be a gamble to wait.
As for some sizes being tagged and not others, sometimes that’s on purpose and sometimes it’s an oversight. Always ask. The day that my friend and I bought all the cute Sunny Patch Kids stuff, the entire display was clearly marked 75% off and several items my friend was buying were in the computer as 50% off. The cashier gave us the additional markdown with no problem. But occasionally they do intentionally not mark down everything in what seems like it ought to be a “set” of the same stuff.
I heart Target.
Alrighty, I think that wraps it up. Looks like everyone else is out enjoying their Fridays as well. My snippet of good news is that one of the resumes I sent out actually yielded a request for further info, so that’s sort of exciting. I’m trying to pretend it’s exciting and might actually turn into a job. Play along with me; it’s fun!
As always, thanks for playing Facts and Fiction Friday with me. Answers to your queries are crafted from organic materials right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.
Eighth Installment: Facts and Fiction Friday (part one)
(Apropos of nothing, I feel compelled to point out that BlogSpot has endorsed me for the position of Shoe Shopping Wife. My banner ads are now for shoe stores! Sweet.)
This week’s edition may be a bit briefer than usual (I can hear you cheering there, in the back!); the kids and I are getting ready for a jaunt to the beach. That pretty much means that they are busy piling up every toy in the house by the beach bag, and I am sitting here wondering if I remembered to shave. Anyway. Let’s get started!
Heather asks, what’s the most peaceful place I’ve ever been?
This one time? When someone locked me in the trunk of their car? It was nice in there. I fell asleep. Curled into the fetal position. (Fiction.)
I have never considered myself a terribly outdoorsy sort of person, but during my first cross-country drive I was seriously tempted to stay in Jackson Hole. My dad and I went horseback riding on a mountain, and I could’ve believed we (along with our guide, and his dog) were the only people in the universe that day. It was very Zen. (Fact.)
mc asks, would the people who know me in real life recognize the person I am here?
Well that’s easy, since my blog is triple-top-secret. No one else here at the correctional facility has any idea that I have a laptop stashed in my cell’s commode. (Fiction. Sorry for the visual.)
Quite a few folks from my “real life” read my blog, including my parents and several friends. I have been told on multiple occasions, “I could just hear you saying that!” I think I’m pretty true-to-life, here. The difference perhaps lays in my willingness to expound on my neuroses. Most of the time, when I get really tied up in something that’s bothering me, I will self-censor with my friends–at a point–because I realize I’m whining and I don’t want to drive them away with my incessant complaining. Here, this is for me, and you can read it or not. So I’m more likely to let it all hang out. (Fact.)
Jules asks a long, convoluted question about watermelons growing in my stomach and regenerating uterii, but points out that I don’t need to answer.
In the interest of soothing the minds of anyone who was worried after my post from last night: I posted about my spotting/cramping to a hysterectomy support board, and someone said it was probably internal stitches dissolving. Good enough for me. Also, so far so good, this morning. (Fact.)
Alektra wants to know my favorite babyword from my kids that we still use.
Sorry, there are no baby words around here. Both of my children popped out with 5,000+ word vocabularies and impeccable diction. (Fiction. Wasn’t that a really bad movie, once?)
I gave this one a lot of thought. Sadly, most of my favorite babyspeak has gone the way of the highchairs and diapers. Chickadee used to hold up her arms and say “Uppy doo!” when she wanted to be picked up. She never just said “up.” Cracked us up something fierce. And my favorite with Monkey has always been the various permutations of him pronouncing his sister’s name. She used to get so angry with his mispronounciation and I tried to tell her she’d miss it once he could say it properly. Now sometimes I catch them playing and her telling him to call her what he used to. Heh. We do still call Oreos “yo-ee-yos” just for fun! (Fact.)
Janet is sucking up to me something fierce, complimenting my intellect, visage, and feet, and wondering just how insane my ex is.
Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. (BWAHAHAHAHHAAHAHA Fiiiiiiiiiiiiction….)
My ex went through a really difficult time, handled it badly, and I think now–as he puts his life back together–also realizes that we weren’t a very good fit for one another. We might’ve made it, had he not had such a huge crisis… but I’m one of those “everything happens for a reason” kinds of people, ya know? He’s not insane. He’s just really different than I am. I hope that in the final analysis we’ll appreciate our time together because of the two fantastic kids we got out of it, but that both of us will find greater happiness elsewhere. I was not the right person for him, nor he for me. (Fact.)
Marcia wants the dirt on the ex’s new woman.
She’s a mail order bride and rodeo clown. (Fiction. I hope.)
I know very little about her, and the ex is being very tight-lipped so I’m not asking. I know she’s working out-of-state on a 6-month assignment. I know she’s a chemist. I know she was nice to my kids. I know the ex seems much happier. I very much doubt I’ll learn more prior to hearing either that she left him or that they’ve set a wedding date. When I’m not feeling sorry for my pitiful single self, I’m very glad to know she’s around.(Fact.)
Kimberly wants to know where I would live if I could live anywhere in the world.
I believe someone asked this before, and I joked about Alaska (because really, someone who hates the snow as much as I do should just not be allowed to live where I do), but said I’d go to Maui. Weather-wise, that’s true. Culture-wise, I’m not sure. If price wasn’t an object, I think I’d move back to northern California. I miss it there, both for the weather and the culture. (Fact.)
Shelly wants to know how the job-hunting is going, and what’s the worst job I’ll settle for?
Well, I’ve just been hired as the new CEO of Victoria’s Secrets. Free thongs and angel wings for all my readers! (Fiction. Ow.)
Since resuming my search, I’ve sent out two resumes and felt out three possible contacts in addition. It’s slow going. Should I be unable to find something along the lines of what I really want (blogging for pay aside, I’d like to get back into technical writing), I will probably apply for a job at Target. I’m sure the job itself sucks, but it’s Target. And I’d get an employee discount. But yeah, it’s not exactly how I pictured my life. Maybe I can hang up my diplomas in the employee break room…? (Sad, sad fact.)
Aurora wants to know if I’m closer to my real-life friends or my blogger friends.
I don’t have any real life friends. Also? All the comments on my blog are just you, and my other personalities. (Fiction. No offense to Sybil.)
On the whole, of course I’m closer to those friends I can hang out with in real life. I do have a few “internet friends” from waaaaaay back, pre-blogging, with whom I have a very strong bond. I would say I’m as close with a couple of them as I am with my “real life” friends. But blogging friends? I’m meeting fabulous folks, here, but I’ve only been blogging for a few months. Relationships take time to build. (Fact.)
Jennifer asks how serious I am about working in daycare.
I am serious in the sense that I would like to pay less for daycare. I am not so serious in the sense that I do love children, but I have never felt “called” to work in childcare as a serious gig. I’m good with kids but I don’t see it being my career. (Fact. Thank you for the offer of advice, though!)
Jen wants to know where she can get a Wife application.
The form is about twenty pages long, and needs to be filled out in triplicate and notarized. Send me a self-addressed, postage-paid mailer and I’ll get it riiiight out to ya. (Fiction.)
I had no idea that my commune scheme was going to generate all of the enthusiastic interest that it did. And now I feel I’m caught with my pants down, completely unprepared to organize our progress as necessary. Who’s gonna be Paperwork Wife? This is her job. (Fact. Inasmuch as the commune becoming reality is fact, that is.)
My current time is up; the beach is calling! I will answer the rest of the questions later today. Enjoy your day and don’t forget the sunscreen!!
Pass the Advil and ask your questions
Well, the bubble burst a little. Surprise! But those few hours of contentment were nice.
So, you know how thrilled I’ve been about finally being on the right medications and hormones and all of that, and feeling pretty much myself again? It’s been great. Right up this evening, when I started cramping and spotting. And… uhhh… not to get too technical here, but that area is no longer connected to anything, supposedly; so I for one am kind of puzzled as to where that blood might be coming from, ya know? Plus… cramping? From what? Phantom cramps? Or maybe my uterus grew back? (This is when I totally need to have a Medic Wife on hand.)
Now don’t go getting all worried on me. I’m gonna ride out the evening and call my doc in the morning if anything weird is still going on. Right now? I’m practicing my denial skills. La la la!
So! In lieu of detailed discussion about my bizarre and embarrassing medical issues (whoops! too late!), let’s start getting in those questions for Facts and Fiction Friday. Ask away, and I will answer your queries with truth, or humor, or by scraping the bottom of the barrel in such a way that you wonder why you bother coming back here. That’s the excitement–wondering what you’ll get. You know you want to play. Leave your questions and prepare to be amazed! Or possibly perplexed! I cannot promise talking meatballs, but I can promise you… words. Lots of ’em. (“Oh, I was totally hoping for talking meatballs, but lots of words sounds even better!”)
Oooookay, time for me to stop talking now. Ask away.