It's all about the accessories.

One more story about my fabulous surgery, and I swear, I'll stop:

The husband drove me to get my STAPLES plucked from my abdomen.  That went fine, with the husband sitting in the really tiny room with me laying on the bed thingy, the doctor plucking STAPLES from my belly and some resident standing there pretending that this whole thing was a lot more fun than texting her friends.

The husband was slightly mortified when I told the doctor I had some questions and one of the questions I asked was when we could start having sex again [the husband and I] [NOT the doctor and I, although I'm sure he's a lovely man and wild in the sack] [What? I needed to know.] [About me and the husband, not about the doctor].  I was slightly put off that the doctor told me to go ahead with my questions so he could answer them while he was removing the STAPLES, because YOU NEED TO BE PAYING ATTENTION TO THAT SHIT, but he did a good job answering questions and the husband did not spontaneously combust or flee from the room.  Mostly because he was stuck in the corner and couldn't get out.

Anyway, after that bit of mortification, we headed to the elevator and as we were walking, we ended up going single file because an elderly couple was coming toward us down the ridiculously narrow hallway.  The woman was slowly making her way, using her silver and red cane to aid her, and her husband was behind her, using his silver and blue cane to shuffle along.  Just after we passed them, the husband turned around to me, and we both said at the same time, "We're getting matching canes."

I think this may be less a story about surgery than it is about true love.

Why is our couch so fucking low?

Convalescence at Home, Part II of My Saga

I spent the bulk of Surgery Friday enjoying a drug induced haze and hating how much my throat hurt.  Did you know that you get a tube shoved down your throat to help you breath during general anesthesia? Yes, you do.  And that shit hurts like a mother.

The husband humored me when we got home - and kept me on a strict pill popping regimen.  He let me watch the BBC Pride and Prejudice and Community dvds and I dozed and drooled and realized that our couch? Is a piece of shit.  Seriously.  Be glad you don't come over.  It's comfy-ish, but when you lay down on it and try to get up? FORGET IT.  Particularly if you've been cut open, say, in your midsection, and all your muscles are pretty fucking pissed at having been assaulted.

I spent the day on the couch, with the husband hauling me up so I could shuffle to the bathroom and pee. I was really wishing we had a bed pan or I had a catheter and I was pretty tempted to have the husband stock up on the Depends, but I decided I should put off the inevitable for as long as I could.  So it was me trying to swing my legs gently to the floor and grab the edge of the couch and the husband trying to cantilever me upright until I could push up from a squatting position because evidently the couch bottom is pretty much the floor. FUN!

I took a shower the next day, where I finally got a look at my scar and the MULTIPLE STAPLES holding it together. Yes. MULTIPLE. As in NINE. METAL. STAPLES. Just above my belly button.  It was pretty fucking disgusting.  And they stayed in for 10 fucking days.  Gah.  I thought I had better insurance than this.

I also watched a lot of Scrubs [because medical comedies speed the healing process, they did a study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association.] and half-reading a backlog of magazines and drool/sleeping because I couldn't come up with a single dumb romantic comedy that sounded even remotely watchable. 

I even came to appreciate the prunes and prune juice I had to drink because did you know those Tylenol 3s will stop you up? THEY WILL.  Also, FYI, organic prune juice is the way to go. I never thought I'd have a preference, but there you have it.  All of this made me so pretty.  Particularly when I grunted myself off of the couch.

My family came over to help, which was awesome, particularly since they'd cook and clean and put away my dishes.  That I still can't find certain things is a small price to pay.  I felt kind of bad that they were doing all the work, and then I'd take another pill and it was all fine. 

The girl was home for a few days - which was wonderful.  She was super sweet and made me happy, particularly since she was able to cover me when I needed it, and also find the remote and put new DVDs in the player [which was too low to the floor for me to reach without feeling like I was being cut in half] [and grunt-crying].  Also, she made cookies. 

And now, here I am, ready to very, very gently get back into my groove.  I'm thinking I'm going to work out and wear a bikini this summer, so I can show off my kick ass scar.  It's a nice complement to my appendectomy scar. And my c-section scar.

My abdomen kind of looks like a relief map.

In Case You Were Wondering . . .

Where the Hell I've Been, Part I

At 7:30 am a couple of Fridays ago, I ended up having surgery.

I only cried once, very briefly [for like 5 seconds], in the bathroom, holding onto an IV and telling myself in the mirror that it would all be o.k.  I almost feel bad for the nurse standing outside who probably overheard me, but then I figured I just gave him a hilarious story to tell his friends later, so I'll just call it even.

I had a hernia that needed to be taken care of. According to my doctor. According to me, it was just fine as it was, thanks, and I would continue to work around that bit of intestine sticking out through to my skin.  I named her Alice.

But I succumbed to "medical science" and went to the hospital for outpatient surgery.  The husband drove and as we went along, I kept reminding him that we didn’t have a will, but be sure that the girl got whatever she wanted and also be sure to understand that unsecured creditors and student loans were not to be paid back [FUCK YOU, CITIBANK AND SALLIE MAE!].  I also told him that if he was going to remarry, he should marry our friend who has two girls, because she and the husband get along well, and the girl likes her daughters.  He agreed to that pretty quickly.

We got to the hospital at 6:03am and I was immediately whisked away for urine samples and changing into awkward gowns and me constantly mentioning/wailing to every nurse / anesthesiologist / technician who entered my curtained cubicle that I was prone to anxiety and panic and was afraid of medication.  I’m sure I was quite charming.  I’m not sure why the anesthesiologist kept mentioning that he had something that would make me relax and forget everything that happened until I woke up. 

My doctor, a man of VERY few words, came in to check on me and poked and prodded Alice and said, “Fix this. And then everything is fine.” And started to leave. I asked about recovery time and resuming yoga and showering and all sorts of life things, to which he replied, “Everything fine. Rest today, start normal tomorrow.” Um. Do I look like a robot?

The surgery went fine.  My mom and dad came to sit with me and the husband for a bit and my sister showed up in time to take my post-op drug addled picture.  I went home awfully, awfully quickly in my opinion – I was back in my house by 11:30am.  After having had general anesthesia, I would have at least thought I rated a whole day of being taken care of by nurses.  I mean, my recovery nurse was efficient [and really, really pretty], and I wouldn't have minded being taken care of for at least 24 hours.  I'd even shut up about the anxiety and panic [note: that's probably a lie].

Also, I had a vicodin, and I was less than impressed.  I ended up with Tylenol 3 to "manage the pain", which I highly recommend. Mmmm . . . codeine.  I was so thrilled with my ability to take medication and NOT COMPLETELY FREAK OUT that I may try Xanax.  WOW, right?

The sexy nurse told me to keep the bandage on and that I should sleep today and start slowly getting into the swing of things tomorrow.  And that I could shower, and not worry about getting the incision and staple wet.  Staple? WTF? I chalked that up to the vicodin and anesthesia. Mmmm . . . anesthesia.

The husband helped me get dressed [I think this is why people partner up in life], and I made sure my Einstein hair was appropriately tamed before I sat down in the wheelchair to be wheeled to our car.  I almost asked if I could rent a wheelchair to zip around our tiny house, but then realized there isn't room to maneuver, and let that dream die.

Once home, I entered my convalescence period, which I will tell you about next time.

Coming up . . . Recovery at Home, or How I Managed to Get Up Off of That Low, Low Couch.

It's time for me to make up for accidental bible camp

Remember how I accidentally sent the girl to god camp? Yeah, she still remembers that, too.

In order to make it up to her, I want to send her far, far away, to the other side of the country, so that she can enjoy camping with those weirdos like her, who like nature.

So I am entering to win a session of summer camp for a child at Catalina Island Camps from The SITS Girls!

It's amazing, really, how once I sent her off to boarding school, how easy I find it to send her off to camp far, far away from me.

But she deserves to have an amazing adventure that I cannot provide her because:
1. I loathe Nature/nature and it loathes me right back,
2. Man, camp costs a lot of money, and
3. We never get to take her on vacation because of our horrific debt load [Hello, upside down mortgage! Hello, student loans that are killing me!]

She's a great kid who loves to try things and be part of communities that strengthen her abilities and push her to be her best.  She also enjoys working with others and easily assumes the leadership role when she needs to.

So, in short, she needs to go to camp, I cannot take her, it would be great if she won this contest.

I'm not the only one

. . . who can't read the title of Glenn Close's new movie Albert Nobb without giggling.  There HAS to be a joke about Albert's knob in there somewhere, right?

. . . who swears she only bought the buy one get one free bags of Doritos because they were on sale and, you know, people need snacks when they come over, and then ate pretty much both bags by herself?

. . . who already hated Komen and their pink bullshit, just a little bit?

. . . who thanks her lucky stars for Twitter and blogging because oh my god, people in real life can suck?  And they are so long winded! 140 CHARACTERS, PEOPLE. I don't want to hear any more than that from you.

. . . who gets unreasonably angry when other people don't stand in line the right way - I NEED SOME SPACE ASSHOLE. There are times when I wish I could fart on command.

. . . who can't ever remember who sings that song about Oxford commas, and asks, every.single.time. who it is? [PS I HAD TO LOOK IT UP AGAIN WHILE WRITING THIS SENTENCE. It's Vampire Weekend. Just so you know. I will forget as soon as I reach the end of this page.]

Please tell me I'm not alone.  Also, confess - what do you do that you think no one else does. I won't mock. Much.

Isn't it romantic?

The husband and I are in bed late on a Saturday night, ready to live it, married style.  Meaning, I have my bite plate in and am reading [Hello, Half-Blood Prince!], and the husband has put in a Burn Notice dvd.

The Husband:  Man, she's really nipping out.

Me: What? [Glancing up from my book] WHAT?

The Husband: Look, you can see her nipple.

Me: OH MY GOD, STOP TALKING ABOUT SHARON GLESS'S NIPPLES.

And they say romance is dead.

I can't unsee it and now neither can you. Sorry, Christine Cagney. I do love you, but oi.

It was just weird. That's all.

You know how I read when I'm working out? I just finished reading The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown, and I have to say . . . meh.

It's about 3 sisters who grow up in a small college town in Ohio with a Shakespeare loving professor for a dad and a scatter-brained mom.

Again, meh.

I'm not a huge fan of Shakespeare. I prefer Christopher Marlowe [Dr. Faustus? COME ON!] and Ben Jonson [Volpone was a fave] but I do like his work, so I don't think that's what was so off-putting about the book.

I was offended, somehow, by the artifice of the writing style.

First, the dad pretty much only speaks in Shakespeare - an affectation the sisters also adopt on occasion. I know I quote movies and tv until I don't have an original thought in my head, but on me, it's charming. In the book? It was NOT a natural flow.

Second, the omniscient/prescient/amorphous narrator just kept getting on my nerves.  At first, I couldn't figure out who was talking, and then it just grated.

Trying to pull off something unique in writing, particularly when it is an integral part of the book, is tricky at best and deserves some applause.  However, it's a high wire act that shouldn't be attempted unless you are truly on top of your game. Because when it fails, as it did here, it fails spectacularly. 

Finally, it was too religious without being religious.  There was a religious undercurrent, and it came off as more morality play than anything real or exciting.  Sister is pregnant? She will keep the baby.  Sister is a slut and a thief? She will become the town librarian [spinster, anyone?] and repay the money.  The dull sister - the oldest, Rose - will go and live with her fiance even though there's the opportunity for the job of her dreams coming.

I was underwhelmed.

*************
BlogHer Book Club paid me to read a book and write a review, but my words and thoughts are my own. As if you couldn't tell.

I know better NOW

You know how Yahoo! is your home page?

It's not?

Am I the only one a step above the AOL people?

Whatever.

Yahoo! is my home page [which I immediately switch to something else, so I'm not sure why it's my home page. Nostalgia? Possibly. Laziness? Probably.] and even though I KNOW I shouldn't, because it will only make me angry, sometimes I'll click on something despite my better judgment and then I spend the rest of my life trying to wash away the idiocy.

Like this.

Yes, an entire article about how Tom Brady has a magical ass washing toilet and how his teammate loves to use it.

What the FUCK, Yahoo! ????

WHAT.

THE.

FUCK?

Now, I'm pretty loosey goosey when it comes to talking to people while I'm using the toilet [fair warning for those of you I'll be seeing at BlogHer or when I break into your house because I need to pee], but to discuss the machinations of a toilet is beyond even what I would do.  [I am also completely offended by those Charmin commercials with the bears. I just . . . it's fucking wrong on so many levels.]

Anyway, I'm sorry, but I couldn't handle having been polluted by this and not discuss it with you.  You're like my giant group therapy sessions and if I could afford it, you'd all get a co-pay.

I know! I can't believe it either!

You know when you're kind of feeling like life is a big, fat pile of bullshit and you can't seem to find one fucking silver lining? You know, kind of like I did when I was dealing with stupid Maytag and feeling like you're going to have a heart attack because you have all the symptoms?

Sometimes, like some of you said, shit is just bad and you have to realize you will work your way through it. Or just get through it and good things will happen.

Well, a good thing has happened!  I've got a post on Aiming Low.

I KNOW, RIGHT? HOW FUCKING AWESOME!  An outlet for my genius!

I mean, if there's one thing that I'm good at, it's making sure that people get a real glimpse into the inner workings of my mind. And that's what you'll see, here.

Go, read, and enjoy.  And comment. And make sure you tell people about it and me and how awesome I am.

It's good for the environment AND it will make your hair shiny.

And this explains A LOT about me

Me: Ugh. Cats are so needy.

The husband:  Cats? If you think CATS are so needy, you need to rethink pet ownership.