A list, in lieu of a real post

Because? Lazy. Hello.

1. On Tuesday, my sister is having a baby girl. I'll be an aunt again! This has sent me into a knitting frenzy. Also, my sister tried to strong-arm her doctor into inducing her on Sunday so the baby's birthday would be 10/10/10, but the doctor doesn't work on Sundays. How cool would it be to have 10/10/10 for your birthday?

2. Stealing a quote from my favorite birthday girl, because it sums up my feelings perfectly: The phone part of my iPhone totally sucks, but the awesomeness of the “i” part makes the suckage of the phone part sort of totally worth it...

3. Carlie has missed two weeks of school. Started with a stomach bug, ended with severe flare of her IBS and a trip to the hospital for blood work and an abdominal x-ray. Actually, it has not ended yet, but now that we've confirmed she doesn't have an Asian parasite (thanks for nothing, WebMD) and just needs to take a good poop, I am hopeful that the end is near and she'll be back in school Monday.

4. Missing two weeks of school is extremely stressful when you're in sixth grade and prone to anxiety.

5. Having a sick kid at home when you have to go to work is also extremely stressful.

6. My work schedule got screwed up last week and I was sent out on a job that I was not prepared for and, honestly, not qualified to be on, and yet, BAM, here I am and let's deal with it. Only "deal with it" turned into "mess it all up" and... yeah, I don't want to talk about that just yet.

7. Why is it so hard for me to accept the fact that the only way to lose weight and feel better is eating healthy food and exercising? I refuse to believe I cannot find a magic shortcut. One that involves fries. And donuts.

8. I've recently diagnosed myself with two new ailments... the one where you think you have bugs crawling on you, but you really don't, but it doesn't matter that you really don't, because, hello, invisible fucking bugs are crawling on me RIGHT NOW. Also, I've developed a case of animism with regards to my love for my new coffee maker. Like, I want to marry it. OK. Not quite as bizarre as these folks, but still.

9. Fall is here. I love fall, even if it means rain. Fall makes me nostalgic and homesick. But I love it anyway.

10. I am making a quilt for my oldest daughter, Maggy. It involves cutting and pressing and sewing and cutting again, and pressing again, and sewing again, to the tune of eleventy million 6x6 inch squares. My original goal was Christmas. My revised goal is her 50th birthday.

11. The combination of my love for American Pickers and mid-century decor a'la Mad Men has led to some extraordinary finds lately... including a pair of 1950 glass lamps, a 50's era mod wooden lamp, a 1960's drop leaf table and some very cool artwork circa 1974. Photos in next post.

12. Lastly, Not to sound cliched, but TGIF. Actually, more like FTFGIFF. Insert F word for all extra Fs. Yeah, it's been that kind of week. xox.

Spreading the love

I've been spreading the love, wherein *love* = strep throat. I was going to insert a picture here, but was so horrified by what google images presented me with when I looked for strep throat images, that I couldn't bring myself to do it. You're welcome. In my defense, I thought I had allergies, and then I thought I had a cold. I never would have attended those two birthday parties and one dance party had I know that I was contagious.

Meanwhile, our family continues to single-handedly keep the medical industry afloat. Sunday, Carlie and Erinna went to the grocery store to buy eggs to make brownies for dad for a Father's Day treat after dinner. The joys of having a teen driver in the house, no more last minute grocery runs!

I get a call from Erinna to "meet them at the hospital" because the "ambulance" is taking Carlie and BLAH BLAH BLAH I can't make out the words here because HELLO, WHAT?

The store is less that five minutes from my house, so I tell her GO NOWHERE and Tim and I hustle our butts off of the couch, where we're both being lethargic and streppy ( he has it too ) and get to the grocery store, where we find this...

Tell me that's not enough to give you a little heart attack on the spot?

Per Carlie's telling of the tale, she tripped and bumped a wine display. At this particular store, wine bottles are stacked on the corners of aisles and I've come pretty close to knocking a couple down myself when rounding corners. When she bumped the stacked bottles, one fell, but it didn't hit her in the head. It hit the ground in front of her and shattered. And a big chunk of the bottle rebounded up and smacked her in the forehead. Seriously. How does this even happen?

The store personnel called 911 because she was bleeding profusely from the head. The emergency guys got her cleaned up and she had a small gash in her eyelid that would need stitches. They were worried about glass in her eyes, so they bandaged them shut.

After some haggling about the direness of this emergency, I had them wheel her on the gurney to my car and I drove her to the hospital myself. WORST MOM EVER, I KNOW, SHUT UP. Sorry, but I'm not paying $800 for an ambulance ride to a hospital that is two miles away, at least I wasn't once they confirmed that there was nothing further they could do for her in the ambulance and it was just a matter of getting her to the ER. I got her there.

Not going to lie. I contemplated going home and putting a butterfly closure on the wound. It was very tiny but deep. Carlie was not complaining or crying, she was a little discombobulated with her eyes bandaged shut, but she had no eye pain, nothing. I asked the emergency guys if they could just but a butterfly thing on it and they said they could, but really they wanted her eyes checked for glass. Even though was not complaining of eye pain, it was a concern. So that's what led me to the hospital ultimately.

And as the doctor flushed out the wound, a glass shard about the size of a half-carat stone popped out of the wound.

OMG. Can you even imagine if I had left that in her head? Shudder. I placed it next to the penny for scale, because it doesn't look like much, but when it POPS OUT OF YOUR HEAD, it seems a lot larger.

The end result, she got five stitches and she's got a shiner. No glass in eyes, thank God. And we can add the ER to the list of places that I spread my streppy plague, because I sat in there coughing for a good three hours.

So, what did ya'll do this weekend?

At least I own it

Carlie has not been to school this week. Today is Thursday. She has a stomach bug. She is queasy and runs a little fever every now and then. When she is not laying in bed, clutching her stomach and moaning, she feels pretty good. It's been back and forth like this since Sunday. I described her symptoms to her doctor, who happens to be out of the office, at home with her son who has the stomach flu, and the doctor said, yeah, probably that nasty stomach flu that's going around. So, yeah, awesome.

I moved a truckload of boxes over to the townhouse last night when Tim got home from work at 8:30 pm. When I got home at 9:30, Tim is in bed on his laptop, and Carlie is sound asleep and snoring like a lumberjack. In our bed. UGH.

Tim relocated to Carlie's bed. I slept in my bed with Carlie, wherein *slept* = OMG I AM EXHAUSTED FROM NOT SLEEPING NOW, THANKS.

The point of this post: I think I am sick now. I woke up feeling queasy and nauseous and Tim felt my head and said I felt warm, even though I am under the covers and shivering.

FUCK.

I am self-aware enough to know that this is very likely psychosomatic. Wherein *self-aware* = yeah, so, I'm fucked up, at least I own it.

UPDATE: Took a shower, ran some errands and feel less vomity. Screw you, psyche! I win!

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.

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.

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?

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?

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?

To Friend, or Not To Friend

Regretsy... how I love thee

I'm in bed, day two, semi-sick. I say semi-sick because I am, at this point, feeling pretty much fine. Unless I make any sudden moves. I'm having a revisit of the labrythitis that I had at this same time last year. Freaky, no?

Yesterday, the room was spinning and I ran into the door frame every time I got out of bed. Today, nothing is spinning as long as I make no sudden moves. I did see the doctor yesterday, got an Rx refill, and the good news is I pretty much am not going to die. So yay!

24 hours spent in bed in a lovely/horrible/lovely thing. I did a lot of Internet goofing around. And a lot of OH MY GOD, I HAVE SO MUCH TO DO, I CANNOT JUST LAY HERE FOR ONE SECOND LONGER. And then I'd attempt to get up and do something, and the floor would drop out from under me, and my stomach would have that feeling that you get at the tiptop of the highest plummet on a roller coaster as you start to shoot straight down, and, yeah, back to bed and the Internet. Also, OH MY GOD, I MISS CABLE TV. There, I said it.

My most fabulous Internet discover was the website Regretsy. It's all of the most horrible things available on Etsy, with snarky commentary that is hysterical, wherein hysterical = seriously fucked up hilarity at the expense of others. Just what the doctor ordered!

My second most interesting Internet discovery is the contact information for a former best friend who totally broke up with me without saying a word a couple of years ago and I've never gotten over it. This was a friend made in adulthood, and we were very close. We spent a lot of time together, she was beloved by my entire family, and all of the things that the term "best friend" implies, like shopping, and girls' weekends, and dinners and drinks and movies and sharing the past histories of every boyfriend either of us had ever had. You know, best friends.

And then one day she disappeared. I mean seriously dis-a-fucking-eared. Moved into a new apartment with a new roommate and did not return phone calls. I knew she was not abducted or missing because we had some friends in common that would see her here or there. But she absolutely refused to respond to any contact from me.

One rumor floated was that she had joined AA and I was a bad influence, what with my glass of wine with dinner and beer with pizza heavy partying lifestyle.

I got mad, stopped reaching out, assumed that whatever was going on with her, she needed to work it out on her own. I heard a rumor that she'd moved out of town. We haven't spoken since I'm guessing about 2005.

So I randomly came across the web site for her new business in a town about an hour away from here. Apparently she's moved. I'm tempted to try to get in touch, but don't know if I should or if I should let it go.

Maybe I'll go back to Regretsty and send her a nice gift. Maybe I'll shoot her an email. Maybe I'll friend her on Facebook. Maybe I won't.

WWTBD? (What would the blogosphere do?)

Today was the first day back to school after spring break...

... and Carlie? Spent the day at home. With me. Because? Coughing.

Coughing. And coughing. And coughing. And coughing. And then? More coughing. Constant coughing since Friday.

I took her to the doctor today and wasted my money on an office visit to confirm what Dr. Google and I had already diagnosed: allergies. We went to Sav On and walked out with Rx generic nasal spray $55, generic Claritin $12 and cough drops $3. Plus sour gummie vitamins, $9, because, yum.

I also asked the doctor to write a note saying Carlie does not have TB or whooping cough. The doctor partially complied and wrote a note saying Carlie has allergies and is not contagious. Because tomorrow? Carlie is GOING TO SCHOOL. I repeat. GOING TO SCHOOL.

And here's the part where I show off my really stellar parenting skills. I just asked Tim to go downstairs and close Carlie's door. Because the sound of the coughing is ON MY NERVES and making me MENTAL. Like, does she really still need to be coughing, at 9:45 p.m.? Have we not had enough? Is this a passive aggressive ploy on her part because I refused her request of mashed potatoes and gravy (and nothing else) for dinner? I think she's using her cough as a weapon against me. And it's working. I surrender. Just PLEASE STOP COUGHING.

A snapshot of my life for the last week

Things have been hectic, for no particular reason. Just busy and crazy and lots of shit to do and stuff going on and a major case of blog neglect. A few highlights, in no particular order.

We went to a wedding in Lincoln City and spent the night at a hotel, with no kids. Always a treat! It was cold and rainy for the most part, but gorgeous and bright at the actual time of the wedding, which was beautiful. The couple reminded me of these guys, and not at all of these guys, and that's all I'm saying about that. The wedding was gorgeous and heartfelt and beautiful.

My cholesterol is high. Doctor has tried to get me to take Zocor for months and I have fought it, and now I have given in and am taking the stupid pill every night. (Hello, middle age! Nice to meet you NOT). So the first two nights I take the pill before bed and, wow!, I actually got a decent night's sleep, twice in a row. It was a miracle, because I am the worst sleeper ever. The third night, I actually looked at the pill bottle and WHOOPSIE, I'd been taking Valium, not Zocor, before bed.

What else can I report? Carlie is on spring break this week. I have nothing fun planned, but I do have depositions two days so she'll not only have no spring break vacation fun, but will also get ditched twice. Best. Mom. Ever.

We've started Operation Rearrange the House. Which sucks. Majorly. Because? Cleaning and such. To recap our plan, Taylor has moved out of the house and Erinna is here every other weekend for one night, which basically leaves me, Tim and Carlie living on three floors and taking up every inch of space in four bedrooms and two living areas. Kind of ridiculous. So Tim and I are moving down to Taylor's old room and we're closing off the upstairs of our house, which is our master suite, which is a drafty attic conversion. And the master bathroom, which was a poorly done addition by a sucky contractor, has black mold issues, so we're going to gut the bathroom while we live downstairs and do an overall rehaul on the attic. Did I mention the contractor who did it 12 years ago did a shitty job? Yeah.

Long term plans: we're looking for another house in the neighborhood that we can downsize into, but that would mean selling our house, and the market, while PERFECT for finding a good deal on a smaller house, is not so hot for selling our house. So we're doing the projects that need doing with hopes of selling, but if we never sell, at least those projects that have been back burnered for the last, oh, 11 years, will be done.

So yesterday I sold Carlie's two twin beds, dresser and nightstand to someone on Craig's List and we moved her into the smaller bedroom with Maggy's double bed. What a chore. Carlie's room was such a sty. Now it is empty. There's something about a clean empty room that is unbelievably satisfying. And Carlie was definitely living large last night in the mile high princess bed with six pillows and a cat. Because every time we move anything in the house, the cat has to claim the "new" spot as her own.

We also spent TWO FREAKING HOURS yesterday cleaning the laundry room, which consisted of sorting towels and sheets. Apparently I have an obsession with sheet hoarding, because we had at least five sets of sheets for every bed in the house PLUS at least half a dozen sets of sheets for bed sizes we do not even own. WTF? And the towel situation was also quite out of control. Apparently there must have been a blackout period of my life when I decided to just buy new towels instead of wash the towels we already owned, because we had literally DOZENS OF BATH TOWELS in the laundry room, laundered and folded and stacked up on every surface because there were so many they didn't fit in the bathroom storage. I am, like, one click away from being that lady with fourteen cats and stacks of newspaper. No lie.

I am totally out of touch with Facebook and the blogs that I follow, so I am allowing myself one hour this morning to hit all of the hot spots and then I have to work. All day.

And on the work front, I am busy. Very busy. Are you tired of my constant hot/cold whining? That is the nature of being self-employed and working freelance. I am either OH MY GOD, THERE'S NO WORK, WE'RE ALL GONNA STARVE or I am OH MY GOD, I HAVE TOO MUCH WORK, I WILL NEVER GET IT DONE. It is a horrible, horrible way to live your life. If you have a steady job with a guaranteed paycheck and benefits, NEVER LET IT GO!

Oh, I almost forgot another major event in my life. I am cyber stalking Augusten Burroughs. I have attempted cyber stalking Augusten before, but I was kind of lazy about it. But this time, I am going full throttle. As God is my witness, August and I? We shall be BFFs. I swear it. I know he will love me and we will totally connect on a deep and meaningful level once I get his attention. We are soul sisters, even though he is gay and psychotic and I am for the most part a yuppie housewife. These things don't matter, for he and I are meant to be bonded in undying friendship.

So that's it for me. Off to start my day with some blog reading and cyber stalking, followed by proofreading and closet reorganizing. If all goes well, I won't be found hanging from the rafters by lunchtime.

UPDATE: I forgot! Also? This week? We babysat my nieces, ages 5 and 7, for two days and two nights. Quite undramatic, but a lot of fun. Carlie also had a friend stay over to "help" her babysit. Much nail painting ensued.

UPDATE No.2: Oh, and I also joined a running club, with a 27-week commitment to train for the Portland Marathon in the fall. HOLY CRAP. But my running is just dribbled down to next to nothing lately (3 or 4 miles once a week) and my weight is up, like 7 lbs from my trip to New Orleans and not going down. Again, can I just say Hey, Middle Age, F Off, would you?

UPDATE No. 3: The plan was read blogs from 7 to 8, then get to work. Just FYI, it is now 10 a.m. and I am putting down the Mac and exiting the bed.

UPDATE No. 4: Speaking of Middle Age, I just plucked a weird-ass wiry hair from the MIDDLE OF MY DAMNED FOREHEAD. What the hell, people? Also, I have moved from the bed/laptop to my desk/work computer. Progress!

Question for local mommas...

This nasty illness going around all of the schools? Have your kids got it too?

Carlie was home ALL WEEK. Monday and Tuesday she was lethargic, slightly fevery and had a headache. Complained of upset stomach, but wasn't vomiting. Wednesday she "said" she had a headache, but seemed fine. Thursday and Friday she was 100% normal. And Saturday? She laid in bed and alternately cried then dozed, cried then dozed, complaining about her stomach and headache. No fever, refused to eat. Woke up Sunday morning FINE. Wants to call friends and have a play date.

Yes, I am the worst mother ever for not taking her to a doctor. But every time I decide this is it, I'm taking her in, she's fine again!

The incredible growing girl

Carlie woke up for school this morning, and her clothes were too small. Like, as in nothing fit. Seriously. Her plaid school skort? Skin tight and barely buttoning at the waist. Her sweatshirt? Knobby wrists sticking out when she raises her arms. Even her tennis shoes were tight. SHOES THAT SHE WORE YESTERDAY. I am not even kidding.

How is this possible? I mean, I know kids have growth spurts, but she literally grew overnight in a measurable and tangible quantity. This is freaking me out somewhat.

Also freaking me out? My core. I mean abs. I mean stomach. I mean gut. Because? Loose and flabby is why. And my little nanosecond of plank the other day drove home the point that I need to be doing some kind of exercise other than running.

So today I was going to see how long I can maintain plank position. I had previously worked up to, like, 90 seconds. But I can't find my stopwatch -- the stopwatch I specifically bought to time myself in the plank position when I was all "let's get fit" last year. So how am I supposed to exercise if I don't even have the right equipment? This is like a giant conspiracy, though I am not sure who exactly it is that is conspiring against me. Possibly one of my alternate personalities, because I am pretty sure no one in my family gives a rat's ass about my ability to plank or my $1.99 stopwatch. 

In other news, I bought peanut butter cups at Trader Joe's yesterday. Because the big peanut butter scare? Makes me want to eat nothing but peanut butter all day, every day. Because? I am broken that way. So as I complaining about my flabby belly I am scarfing away on peanut butter cups. If this were an Alannis Morissette song, it would be ironic. But since it's real life, it's just me, being stupid. And then whining about it.

But guess what? Chocolate and peanut butter and diet coke are the only thing that actually make my headache feel better. The headache that I woke up with. Is that not the most horrible feeling in the world, to open your eyes and realize first thing in the morning, I HAVE A HEADACHE. AGAIN. ? The worst. The second worst? The realization in the following moment that you need to haul your headachey ass out of bed and take your daughter to a 7:15 a.m. violin lesson. To which we were late. Because see the nothing fit rant above. I went on a 4.5 mile run to try to shake off the headache, but it's still here. The peanut butter cups really do help. Because? Candy is magic.

If I can find my stopwatch, I will time myself and see how long it takes to finish off the entire family sized box of peanut butter cups.

UPDATE: Still no stopwatch, but estimated time to finishing off the peanut butter cups is about three minutes.

Free phone... and free is good when you're broke

Shiny!

After giving up two hours of my life visiting three different Verizon stores and then waiting and waiting and waiting at the tech support center, I have a new Blackberry. Yay! It's just like my old phone. Except silver! And shiny! and functioning! Yay again! Oh, and FREE! Did I mention free? Free is good. 

No one was going to tell me that I was entitled to a new free phone when my phone was dying. But with a little legwork I found my old phone paperwork and, yay, because that sucker was 10 months old with a one-year warranty. Score Shana-1 Verizon-0. Uh-huh.

And good thing. Because money? I have none. But bills? I've got some of those. The time off for weather and holidays and being sick as a dog in November are all catching up with me now, and the paychecks trickling in from the last few months are skimpy. Freelance self employment is oh so glamorous. Seriously.

And also? I think my car is on the verge of exploding. It made a REALLY LOUD scary bad sound this morning. Twice. But when I got home and drove Tim around in it, of course I could not recreate the sound and it was just fine. I have a job about 15 miles away from home this afternoon, so Tim took my car and I'm driving his. And just hoping for no explosions in either vehicle. Because my car repair/new car budget? Hahahahahahahahaha. Good one.

All of this two weeks before I am flying to New Orleans for a week. Thank God the plane tickets are paid for, we have a free place to stay (my dad) and don't need a rental car (my sister will be driving in from Little Rock). And Mardi Gras parades are free. Otherwise? We'd be not going out of town in two weeks because, seriously, who travels across the country with no cash? 

I really hate the ebb/flow of freelance work. But I really love the freedom of being self employed. I can't imagine going back to work for anyone else on a regular daily grind basis. But I long for the good old days of having a scheduled payday on which I knew I would without a doubt receive a paycheck. Also? We are cutting back our health insurance policy to an even crappier one because our monthly premium went up $100 effective Jan. 1 and our coverage is still crap. I'm thinking about switching to a medical savings plan and going cash only for all of our medical needs, maybe carrying a policy for catastrophic illness or something like that. Does anyone have experience with anything like this?

We had to completely give up our dental insurance and Carlie and I are both due for cleanings this month. I actually clipped a coupon yesterday for a $85 first time visit with a pediatric dentist for cleaning and x-ray. How ghetto is that? Coupon clipping for medical care for my child. My life has hit a new ghetto low.

This is not the first month that this is happened, and it won't be the last. I am in such a cyclic business and I am so bad at budgeting and keeping something in reserve for months like this. So basically, I create all of this money-related stress for myself. Though the insurance stuff? I won't take responsibility for that, because our health care system sucks it, big time. And with both Tim and I being self-employed, we are just screwed.

I was planning on a quick trip to the gym this morning, but the sounds like it's going to explode car thing sent me home instead, and I completely lost my motivation to go now. But I did not lose my motivation to eat M&Ms. If I could channel my M&M eating mojo into working out mojo, I'd be a freaking gym goddess by now.