Date Night... or how I took my giant fat stomach on a date

Tim and I had a date night last night. We went to one of our favorite local restaurants,Lapellah, which never disappoints. Also? We used a Groupon, and BOO YAH... xoxo the Groupons.

I wore a new dress. The dress? Looked hot. In the try-on room. Lots of cleavage, but not the slutty kind, the nice kind.

My new dress, minus my stomach

The problem with looking hot in the try-on room? Uh, yeah, I didn't get to see how the dress looks sitting down. Until I was home and dressed and ready for my date and sitting down. And then? Hello, upper stomachical region, where did you come from?

I am a small person. I hover somewhere between 5'1" and 5'2". It's called petite, shut up. Of course, in my current 44-year-old incarnation, I am not small anywhere but the height department. I need to lose about 15 pounds to get back into my *healthy BMI* range.

My body "problem" zone has always been the hips/low-stomach/saddlebags region. Frankly, is that not everyone's problem region? After having my first two children via C-section, I became resigned to the fact that I would have a low belly pooch evermore. I convinced myself that part of it was the doctor's fault. He had obviously damaged my stomach muscles because that pooch? It was not going anywhere. Do all the crunches you want sister, the pooch is here to stay.

The thing about the pooch, though, is that it is a pretty universal dilemma. Just pick up an issue of "Redbook" or "Good Housekeeping" and there will be at least one article on how to "dress for your body type," and in that article, there will be tips to hide your pooch. Pleated pants, long tops that accentuate the waist, blah blah blah.

But this upper stomachical bump? This is a relatively new phenomenon for me. And frankly? I'm not digging it.

So effective immediately, I am officially back on the STOP EATING ALL THAT SHIT bandwagon. And also the GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS bandwagon. I've got the all clear for "full activity" post-surgery, so this weekend I. Am. Going. For. A. Run. For the first time since... wait for it... December? Maybe even November?

And so it has been written, thus it must be done.

I am also THROWING AWAY the remaining Tagalongs. You read that right. I am throwing them away. In the garbage can. And not only am I putting them in the garbage can, I am burying them in the bottom of the garbage can to avoid any potential (and regretful) garbage can retrieval of said Tagalongs.

So in summary: Date night? Fun. Upper stomachical region? Fucked up. Shopping in the Junior's Department? Never again.

Amen.

TRUE STORY

I just put my no-longer sick 11-year-old on a bus. For a three hour bus ride. To Outdoor School.

What is Outdoor School, you might ask. Here is a simple formula:

Summer Camp - Summer = Outdoor School.

So take all of your fun outdoor activities of summer camp, but do them prematurely in late winter/early spring, in the Pacific Northwest, with an expected high temp of 53 degrees and scattered showers, and you've got Outdoor School. Fun? Yeah right.

Last night, I resigned myself to the fact that she'd be going, because she has had a good 24-hour stretch of being not sick. I even started to look forward to the quiet and the solitude. With (step-daughter) Erinna at her mom's house, this would leave Tim and I Home Alone for three days. For the first time in... 11 years.

10 pm, the phone rings. It's my son, Taylor, calling to *surprise* me with the news that is is currently on the road from Santa Barbara, heading my way, for a visit. Until Friday. True story.

Taylor. The Man Child. Why yes, that is a nose ring.

PS: What empty nest?

The Sick Kid Blues

Yesterday was my first day back to work. At my new job. Which I started on Feb. 1, worked five days, and then had three weeks off. How much do you want to hire me right now? (Technically, I worked four days, had two weeks off, then worked one day and had another week off. Does that make me less of a loser?)

Of course, it could not have been an easy and uneventful transition from lollygagging to working. Of course not. No, Carlie had to stay home from school. She now has the stomach ick, the ick that knocked Tim on his ass for an entire week. The ick that put me in the hospital for 24 hours.

Setting aside the issue of "working mom leaving sick kid home alone" guilt, this is NOT a good time for Carlie to be sick. Last night was her one shot only interview to get into the Vancouver School of Arts and Academics in the fall. I did what any good mother would do. I let her sleep all day, then gave her a false sense of "I'm not sick anymore" by pumping her full of gatorade and meclizine and dropping her off for the THREE AND A HALF HOUR interview process.

In my defense, she begged to go. She swore she was up to it. Who am I to argue with an 11 year old (insert sarcasm here).

She seemed to rally about an hour before the interview, was eating Goldfish crackers, watching You Tube videos, laughing and stressing over wardrobe choices. Ah, the sweet feeling of false recovery thanks to temporary acting medication.

She survived the full THREE AND A HALF HOURS, but looked a little worse for the wear when I picked her up. Wherein "worse for the wear" = OMG what kind of mother am I? this child is obviously ill.

She is taking another rest day today. Because tomorrow? OUTDOOR SCHOOL. Outdoor school is a 3-4 hour bus ride to a camp, where they will do fun outdoorsy schooly stuff for three days before coming home. A three day field trip. If she has to miss that, she will be devastated.

So another day of resting and pushing fluids. For her. But not for me.

Because, hello, just took three weeks off of my new job and CANNOT POSSIBLY CALL IN SICK AT THIS POINT.

In other news around town today:

Our sure thing buyers for our house have officially fallen through.

I have two house showings scheduled for this weekend and have been getting lots of calls, so I think (hope) the market might be picking up a little bit?

I have a 30% off your entire purchase at Kohls. I am not even the biggest Kohls fan, but for some reason this has me giddy.

I do believe I am 100% recovered from my medical ordeal otherwise known as February. And also? About five pounds lighter for my efforts. I know, it's kind of a drastic weight loss program. But still. Five pounds.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

I'm home. My 24-hour stay at the hospital was much ado about nothing. I am fine, except for a squirrely little bit of a stomach bug. The good news is, I got my liver faucet removed, so I am no longer a member of the cyborg colony.

The bad news is I have a tiny little hole in my stomach where the tube was and HOLY HELL DOES THAT SUCKER HURT! Which means I am either an incredible wimp, or it is quite possible that the way Jack Bauer is able to soldier on after a knife wound to the gut is unrealistic. Because I am pretty sure Keefer Sutherland is a fucking real life kick ass ninja, I am assuming I am just kind being a pansy.

Viva la being home.

Just call me Tipper

I am by no means a prude. I personally have been dropping the "f" bomb since middle school AND I bought the "explicit lyrics" version of Justin Timberlake's "I'm bringing sexy back" when given the option on iTunes. I? Am hip like that. Cutting edge, yo.

So while I may have felt a little niggling of doubt when my daughter was singing, loudly...

"I'm talking about everybody getting crunk (crunk), Boys try to touch my junk (junk), Gotta slap him if he gets too drunk (drunk),"

I didn't freak out. And also? I know all the words too.

"The dudes are lining up 'cause they hear we got swagger. But we kick 'em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger."

What can I say? The tune? Is catchy. Plus? Carlie is 11. She's not *really* brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack. It's just a song.



But yesterday, when Carlie began using an irritating nasally affect and was beseeching Dr. Dre to...

"Just blow a little bit of that smoke my way," because "We're now smoking with the best (the best),"

????

Um... yeah, no. Eminem? STAB.

UPDATE: So, yeah, I had this post all written and ready to post up in the morning, because I didn't want to steal the limelight from Rex Smith too soon. So as you read this, know that I am not in the hospital fretting over Eminem song lyrics. I am in the hospital, though, fretting over my own stupidity. I have had an upset stomach x two days now, and assumed that I was catching the stomach bug that is probably not food poisoning after all. But when I called in with my symptoms, I was told I needed to spend the night in the hospital. I swear, I heard the CHA CHING sound when the doctor's office informed me of this. Their CHA CHING, not my CHA CHING. I am having whatever is the opposite of a CHA CHING. Because? Hospital Bills. And Deductibles. Yeah. Awesome. Oh, and new job. Yeah, I am sure they are LOVING me long time right about now. And just the general overall ick of being in the hospital. Again.

It will certainly end up being much ado about nothing, but if you need me, I'll be back at the hospital. Again. Seriously. As soon as Tim gets home from work, to drive me. Because I don't know where to park for an overnight at the hospital. Lamesauce.

To All The Men I've Loved Before... The Addendum

So, if you don't know Rex Smith, you need to see this movie. You. NEED. To see this movie. STAT.

OMG, do you remember being 13 (yikes) and yearning with your entire soul to be 16? Oh, holy hormones.

Click. And Enjoy. Pour yourself a glass of wine to go with the cheese.

To All The Men I've Loved Before... The Early Years Edition

In an effort to break the streak of depressing, woe-is-me posts*, I have decided to write a little homage today. The theme is hot guys and failed relationships... mostly failed because the relationships were actually just in my mind. But still, breaking up is hard to do. It hurts.

Upon first blush, this list might indicate to you that my young years were spent consumed by fantasies of rockers, preferably rocking mullets, and General Hospital. Sadly, this would not be a wrong impression.

So we'll begin with my first true loves, in the 1970s

Speed Racer. The original Speed Racer. I never thought Trixie was good enough for him. I also thought Ace Deucy was kind of hot.

The Bay City Rollers. S-a-t-u-r-d-a-y Night. Need I say more?

Peter Frampton. Specifically the Frampton Comes Alive Peter Frampton. With the talking guitar.

The Hardy Boys. Both of them. I had a poster over my bed. Plus a 'life size' Shaun Cassidy on my bedroom door.

The Fonz. The details are blurry, but I do believe my first sex dream was about the Fonz. TMI? Sorry.

Rex Smith. He may have missed your radar, but he was definitely on mine. How beautiful is that hair? I had both of his albums. And saw his move. Repeatedly. I think the movie was about statutory rape, now that I'm remembering it.

And now the 1980s. When I was in high school. This list is by no means complete, but merely a random sampling.

BONO. My love for Bono began in the early 80s, and has never waxed, never waned, only grown stronger.

The Men of General Hospital. I was obsessed with General Hospital. Seriously. And I'm not going to lie. I still know what's up in Port Charles.

Dr. Noah Drake. aka Rick Springfield.

Blackey. aka John Stamos. Who has, OMG, aged well. If you know what I mean.

Frisco. aka Jack Wagner. Who I rekindled my romance with, briefly, during his stint on Melrose Place.

Matt Dillon. Flamingo Kid? The Outsiders? Little Darlings? Oh my.

Johnny Depp. Much like Bono, my love has remained steadfast. But 21 Jump Street? Where it all began.

Kevin Bacon. The Footloose Version of Kevin Bacon. Though I have to say, I still love him. You had me at Let's Dance!

I'm saving the 90s-current for later, but I must mention my one mainstay of true love in the 90s...

Duncan McLeon, of the Clan McLeon. aka Adrian Paul. OMG, THIS WAS THE MAN OF MY DREAMS. For many years. With the sword and the orgasmic "quickening" when he chopped someone's head off? Owning the complete Highlander TV series box set is on my short-list of things to do.

*The depressing, woe-is-me shit is still happening. We're just not talking about it today.

They say it comes in threes...

1. My gallbladder, et al.

2. Carlie's wrist and thumb.

Presenting health crisis 2010, the third edition...

3. Tim has food poisoning. Wherein *food poisoning* = go to the Blazer's game, sprint to the bathroom four minutes before halftime and puke your guts up for half an hour in a public men's room, then come home and not eat for 48 hours and pray for a fast and merciful death.

But here's the real *surprise*... his food poisoning? Might be a little less poison and a little more bug because guess who went to bed sick to her stomach last night and woke up still wanting to hurl this morning? If you guessed ME, you win.

Did I mention that I have a deposition this afternoon? For my new job? The new job that I haven't been to in two weeks, after working one single week and then being out sick for two weeks? Don't you wish you could hire me right here, on the spot, to come and not work for you?

I don't have to leave the house for work until 1:00. Thankfully, the job is about 1/2 mile from my house. So I am going to sleep until then and wake up feeling fine. How? Because I SAY SO, that's how.

Also, Carlie is still in bed, sleeping, after crying thru the night about her wrist throbbing. I think the "cast" is psychologically convincing her that there is more wrong with her wrist than there actually is. Because an immobilized sprain would not be hurting MORE after two days, right? It would be feeling better?

So here's me... waving the white flag, crying UNCLE, whatever. OK. I get it, Universe. You win! I quit!

Things that an 11 Year Old CANNOT DO with her arm in a cast

Sorry, kiddo, maybe next time

Buckle her seatbelt

Tear toilet paper off of the roll

Pour liquid into a glass

Shampoo her own hair

Put a shirt on

Take a shirt off

And to her own complete and utter horror...

TEXT!

Carlie went to a birthday party at the ice skating rink Saturday. And fell. Being the attentive mother that I am, OF COURSE I was nowhere near the skating rink when this happened. I became the master of the drop-and-dash birthday maneuver when she was in kindergarten.

I got the call from the birthday girl that Carlie had fallen and she was hurt. Because I know my child, I headed straight for the skating rink immediately, hoping that she had not caused too much drama and terror already for her host. And also because I know my child, I didn't even consider the fact that she might actually be hurt. Because drama? Hello.

Did I mention that the skating rink is nowhere near our house and I was at home? Yeah.

So when I arrived at the rink about 30-45 minutes after the fall and saw that Carlie was (a) still crying (quietly and embarrassedly) and that (b) the wrist had been on ice the entire time and (c) it was significantly swollen after being on ice for 30-45 minutes, I took her to the E.R. Plus, it had been a whole two weeks since I had been to the E.R. and so I really wanted to go. NOT.

SIDE BAR: The trickiest part of navigating the E.R. on a Saturday afternoon is avoiding the sick children. Because, holy shit, was the place teeming with them. The coughing and the hacking and the ICK GET ME OUT OF HERE, jeez, it was disgusting. We found a spot in the "adult" waiting area, far, far away from the germ-infested "children's" waiting area, and parked ourselves in front of the Olympics next to healthy people who were waiting for sick people. So hopefully we will have escaped the trip to the E.R. without any swine flu or staph infection. Time will tell.

Anyway, the E.R. nurse said she was sure the wrist was fractured, and got Carlie all jazzed up about choosing a color for her cast. Carlie has never had a cast, but she has gazed lovingly at and lusted after the many, many casts that her fragile-yet-clumsy older sister has had over the years. So besides the whole OW OW OW MY WRIST! IT HURTS! thing, she was actually pretty excited.

Only problem? Three x-rays later and nothing is broken. Her diagnosis was a sprain of the wrist and a sprain of the thumb. Since I had a party to get to, I was pretty jazzed about the fact that she wasn't actually injured badly enough for me to have to cancel the party plans (bad mom, bad mom) and I was ready to hotfoot it right out of the E.R. when the doctor announces she wants to immobilize the thumb.

Insert 45 MORE MINUTES IN THE E.R. here while the "med tech" plasters Carlie's thumb and then creates a half-plaster cast-like (but not really) thing on Carlie's arm. Which is just plain old white plaster and wrapped in an Ace bandage. Quite disappointing.

So while she didn't get a purple glitter cast, she does have a clunky pain-in-the-ass cast-like contraption going on. Of course, she cannot wait to get to school tomorrow and have everyone ask what happened. Because? Let's just say the attention whore doesn't fall far from the tree, is all.

And on that note, the most important part of this story, yes, I did make it to the *party*. And was only 30 minutes late. Thank you for asking. And wherein *party* = eating a giant vat of homemade paella in a barn at an organic farm where the dinner seating = hay bales and orange crates. Because? We are surrounded by awesome.

Also of note, I had a follow-up with my surgeon on Friday. He removed the disgusting and heinous liver bile collection bag that I had been sporting for two weeks (praise be!) and capped off the faucet coming out of my liver. So I still have a tube coming out of my stomach (which still freaks me the fuck out) and it has a faucet on the end of it, but it's not connected to anything. Which is still eleventeen kinds of messed up, but less bulky and easier to hide under clothing. And thus, I am going back to work on Tuesday, wearing real clothes.

As much as this entire get sick/go to the hospital/have operations/feel like shit while recuperating thing has SUCKED IT HARD, if I were forced to choose one bright spot, it would be the fact that I have worn nothing but pajama pants and yoga pants since February 6. Which is about one billion kinds of awesome.

And along with going back to work, I will also be ramping back up my FSBO house sale efforts, because our sure thing buyers? Turned out to be never call you back assholes. So, yeah, I've got that to look forward to. That, plus finishing our taxes, which will surely lead to Near Divorce Moment No. 1 of 2010. We're do. We haven't had one since Near Divorce Moment No. 2 of 2009, otherwise known as CHRISTMAS SHOPPING.

Two Near Divorce Moments per year. That's not bad, right? RIGHT?

Yeah, I know, 1972 called, wants their braid back

First... let's all ignore the fact that I look like I am 92-year-old hippy in this picture.

Now on to the post, which falls into the category of "cute kid stuff."

Carlie went on a field trip yesterday, to OMSI. It was all very exciting. In any event, she took money for the gift shop, because she had a hot $20 burning a hole in her pocket, which she earned by cat-sitting last weekend.

She put her $20 in an envelope, wrote her name on it, and was going to give it to her assigned field trip chaperone to hold on to until it was time for the wonders of the gift shop. But when we got to school, she panicked because she forgot the money! At home! Oh no!

I gave her another $20 bill and told her she could pay me back later. I also reiterated the discussion we had had earlier, that $20 was a lot of money to spend at a museum gift shop, and that she should really think about her purchase and not just blow the money for the sake of buying something.

Fast forward to the end of the day, when I pick her up at school, and she hops in the car completely full of post-field-trip euphoria, and she announced that she bought me a birthday present! Do I want it right now? Since I am driving, I tell her let's wait until I get home.

When we got home, she presented me with the lovely pair of butterfly earrings that you see in the above photo. How adorable is that, that she not only spent her own hard-earned cash on earrings for mom, but that she is just bursting with pride that she did it? She told me no less than four times that she "had the receipt," in case I want to exchange them. Because she's a very mature shopper and knows that is the thing to do.

Later that afternoon, as we are clearing the dining room table, I can't find the original "Carlie" labeled envelope with MY $20 in it. And I ask her, hey, where is that? And guess what? She didn't forget it at home after all! She had it in her backpack the whole time, ha ha, isn't that so funny?

So in summary: I sent my child on a field trip with $40 cash and received a $36 pair of crystal butterfly earrings for my birthday. There is something that is not quite right about this scenario.

The Donger Needs Food

Theoretically speaking, if your husband FORGETS YOUR BIRTHDAY after you've practically ALMOST DIED* on the operating table during EMERGENCY SURGERY**, but then he remembers that it's your birthday as soon as he leaves the house, and calls you and says happy birthday... does that count as REMEMBERING your birthday or FORGETTING your birthday?

Also, this photo led me on one of my one click leads to another forays into cyberspace, and I cannot find anything more current than 1991 for the smoking hot actor who played Jake Ryan, except for a "where are they now" reference from 2006 which says: He and his family have been living quietly all these years in northeastern Pennsylvania, where the while teen dream operates a successful business building fine hand-crafted furniture.

*Okay, not really.

**Kind of/sort of

I'm kind of like an Olympian

Diet Coke heart necklace by RepurposedForYou.com, available here.

I have not had a Diet Coke since February 5. I know, right? I know sodas are bad for you. I know that the whole concept of "soda" is unnatural and icky. And then throw in the artificial sweeteners and such and, seriously, the whole thing is disgusting. But the thing is? I love Diet Coke. I freaking LOVE Diet Coke. Like in an unearthly, unhealthy, come-to-momma-baby kind of way.

When I went into the hospital they were all, like, here's some water, woot, and I was all, like, how about a diet coke? And they were like, um, yeah, no. So in addition to getting my guts yanked out and tubes drilled in, I also suffered from a caffeine withdrawal headache in the hospital. And then on day two I had coffee and so, yeah, that whole close call with giving up caffeine was dodged.

And then I got discharged, with a funky and burpy stomach and a piece of paper that says blah blah "low fat" and blah blah "no carbonated beverages for a week." So for a week I was, all, blah blah no, I can't eat that and blah blah more iced tea, please.

And then the week was over, but my stomach? Was still kind of funky and burpy. So I didn't drink a Diet Coke.

It bears repeating. I didn't drink a Diet Coke. Even though I had no paper telling me that I shouldn't. Which basically = I was under doctor's orders to start drinking Diet Coke again, and yet did not. DID. NOT.

Now it's been over a week, and my stomach is still funky and burpy and so, yeah, I am still not drinking Diet Coke. And it's kind of like how I didn't have any money to get my hair cut last year, so I just didn't get it cut, and then it kept growing, and growing, and then when I was ready to get it cut it was, like, shit, I have long freaking hair, what am I going to do with it. And it has kind of become this *thing.*

So I am having this not drinking Diet Coke *thing* now. Except I don't know how I feel about it.

It's like I am exactly like an Olympic athlete, with the training and sacrifice, except instead of ice skating or mogul skiing, my event is not drinking Diet Coke. And also trying not to puke/cry/scream every time I have to *deal with* this disgusting cyborg tube/faucet device sticking out of my stomach, which is SEWN to my LIVER and is FREAKING ME THE FUCK out 24/7 x 365.

But I digress.

USA... USA... USA...

PS: What Vicodin?

Chicken Cabbage Salad with Peanut Sauce

Just because I don't have a gallbladder doesn't mean we can't all enjoy a tasty repurposed rotisserie chicken this week. You're welcome.

Check out my guest blogger and her Chicken Cabbage Salad with Peanut Sauce. Yum.

Because Tomorrow is Valentine's Day...

Things that I love (in no particular order):

Stinky cheeses.

Girlfriend movie night.

Sleeping in.

The river.

U2.

Facebook.

"The Breakfast Club" and

"Sixteen Candles," in equal measure.

Holding babies.

Bulldogs.

Tim.

Jeans that fit right.

Oysters on the half shell.

Snuggly covers.

A clean house.

That "new car" smell.

"The Way We Were."

Tomato soup.

High school stories.

Magnolias.

Johnny Depp.

My kids.

Flannel pajama pants.

Boiled crawfish.

Vaseline lip therapy.

"Project Runway."

Diet coke with lime.

Watching "How I Met Your Mother" with Carlie Belle.

Going home.

My Kindle.

Chocolate.

The Saints.

Pajama days.

Iris on Skype.

Kayaking for wussies.

Mushrooms.

My Blackberry.

Happy Valentine's Day Eve.

Sick and Moody and Blah

If you've read my blog lately, you know I've been ill. Not so much ill as much as OW FUCK MY STOMACH HURTS and then had surgery. And then had another surgery.

Nothing life threatening. Nothing cataclysmic. Stupid gallbladder and gallstones. Laproscopy and endoscopy procedures = I don't even have a big, gnarly wound.

And yet? I am whipped. I am utterly defeated. I am not being dramatic when I say that this illness and recovery is absolutely depleting my resources of "positivity" and "glass half full" and "I can do this." Not that I generally run real high on the "positivity" stuff to begin with, but still. All I want to do is crawl into bed and not get out. Ever. Again.

Which has me thinking about *real* diseases and *real* illness and how completely and totally ill-equipped I am to deal with any kind of serious slow down in either my professional, personal or family life. I mean, I was in the hospital for 2.5 days and have been home on "light duty" for 2.5 days and my house is a complete STY. My youngest child is ACTING WEIRDer than usual. My husband finally realized that maybe, just maybe, he should take a day off of work to aid in my recovery (after parking me at home, alone, Monday and Tuesday, which I would really love to get indignant about right now, but after 2.5 days in the hospital, the solitude was blissful).

My point is: my life runs on a toxic cocktail mixture of HURRY UP and WE'RE LATE and I'LL DO IT LATER and I'LL REMEMBER WHERE THAT IS and DON'T TOUCH THAT, YOU'LL RUIN MY *SYSTEM.*

For example:

Saturday, from the hospital, about to be wheeled into surgery, I am on my Blackberry coordinating with my proofreader how to walk my husband through the steps to send her transcripts from my computer.

Monday, I come home from the hospital at noon, and then am on the phone, coordinating a ride home from school for Carlie (no bus service).

I feel overwhelmed. I feel like this family would fucking disintegrate into microscopic dust if I were not here to keep things running. And while I know this is not *really* true, and that life certainly would go on, it's what *feels* true right now.

I had a post-op follow up today. The doctor, in an effort to cheer me, said, "Don't worry. By summer, this will all be behind you."

SUMMER? DID YOU JUST FUCKING SAY SUMMER? BECAUSE I WAS THINKING I COULD HANDLE THIS SHIT FOR MAYBE TWO MORE WEEKS. NOT UNTIL *SUMMER* OMG.

I am the worst patient ever. God help us all if something really bad ever happens.

PS: Still ahead: some kind of dye injected into my liver to see if there are anymore stones. And if so, some kind of "plunging with wire" (that's the exact medical quote) into my liver to remove them.

PPS: I know it's better than getting your faced ripped off by a chimp. And I'm still thankful that at least it doesn't smell like poo. But I am finding it difficult to pull the plug on my pity party tonight.

More words of inspiration

Yesterday's mantra is day-old news. And though, "At least it doesn't smell like poo" was a powerful talisman in my self-help arsenal yesterday, today I was given this lovely, spiritual, uplifting tidbit, from my husband no less, as I may have whined a tiny bit about my throbbing incision sites, my gassy stomach, my bile bag and, you know, just generally whine-worthy stuff.

"It's better than getting your face ripped off by a chimp."

True dat, brother. True. Dat.

PS: On the how you doin' front:

I took a shower, did not die.

I removed my dressing (per nurse's orders) and HOLY SHIT THERE ARE TUBES RIGHT THERE JUST STICKING OUT OF MY STOMACH. I should have NEVER removed the dressing. But now it's done and hopefully tomorrow one of the drains will be removed at my late afternoon follow-up appointment.

I am starting to hate soup.

Post-surgical coughing jags have commenced. NOT FUN.

My discharge papers say I can't have carbonated beverages. I am thinking this is probably just a mean joke by one of the nurses who knows how I feel about diet coke, so I am not going to take this one too seriously.

A three-time review of my discharge papers shows no mention of "avoid alcohol." Just saying.

It's good to have girlfriends

My friend came over to bring Carlie home after school. Of course, I had to show her my ziplock full of gallstones and my cyborg drain in my gut and my cool bag of bile. Because I am cool like that.

When she finished gagging a little bit in her mouth, her comment:

"At least it doesn't smell like poo."

So you see there? There's always a bright side. Yes, I have two nasty bags of disgust hanging on my right hip. But neither one of them smells like poo.

I win! Yay!

Bye-Bye, Gallbladder

This smiley face image? You can thank me later. I was googling a picture of a gallbladder to show you, but it was all so horrible and disgusting that I went with the smiley face instead. You're welcome.

Friday night I had a funky belly ache. By 9 pm, it was really bothering me, so I skipped Carlie's dance party and had Tim take her. When they got home at 11 pm, I was contemplating going to the ER, but talked myself out of it, thinking I had gas or had eaten something that wasn’t agreeing with me.

By 2 a.m. I was ready to go to the ER, but didn’t want to wake up Carlie and drag her along, and didn't want to leave her home alone, so I convinced myself that I could wait until the morning.

At 5 a.m. I had Tim drop me off at small urgent care clinic just a few blocks from our house, and then come back home so Carlie wouldn’t wake up home alone and freaked out.

The doctor at the urgent care clinic (who looked like a cowboy, but that's a story for another day) sent me to the full blown hospital for a gallbladder x-ray. And by 10 a.m. it was decided that I’d be having my gallbladder removed and spending at least one night, if not two, in the hospital.

They took me into surgery Saturday at noon and removed my gallbladder laprascopically (sp) and then did a liver scan. My gallbladder, which I have never had a problem with once in my entire life, was in horrible condition. The liver scan showed gall stones in the duct, so I had to go into recovery, wake up from the anesthesia, and then go to a different type of operating room and go under general anesthesia again. I DO NOT DO WELL WITH ANESTHESIA, just fyi, so this was pretty horrible for me.

Second procedure was done with endoscopy, where they put a camera tool thing down my throat and basically roto-routered the liver duct.

So now I have: zero gallbladder, a ziplock bag filled with about 100 little gallstones (just for kicks) and two DISGUSTING DRAINAGE TUBES coming out of my belly into bags on my right hip. SO GROSS.

I’ve been home for about 20 minutes now. Tim has gone to fill my Rx and then he is going to work. A friend will be bringing Carlie home from school. WHAT A FUCKING ORDEAL THIS HAS BEEN.

No work for a week, no heavy lifting for months, no running for at least 6-8 weeks, soft/liquid food for the foreseeable future and a low fat diet forever.

It bears repeating; WHAT A FUCKING ORDEAL. Never in a million years when I had a stomach ache Friday night did I think I’d be undergoing surgery twice over the weekend. Total insanity. I am so glad to be home now. But honestly, if I had known that I’d have to be emptying these disgusting drains etc. at home, I might have stayed another day in the hospital. SO GROSS.

I have follow up with the surgeon on Wednesday and one drain will be removed. but the bile duct thing filled with disgusting green bile will be with me for…. get ready for this…. A MONTH TO TWO MONTHS. Seriously. A bag of disgusting bile draining from a tube in my stomach, carried around on my hip for up to two months.

ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?

The Cape

Oh, just found a better picture of Disco Girl's cape. Divalicious, who?