Thursday, July 28, 2011

My So-Called Breasts: Celebrating the Flat-Chested One Hazelnut At A Time

A very flat-chested woman finally decided she needed a bra and set out to the mall in search of one in Her size. She entered an upscale department store and approached the saleslady in lingerie, "Do you have a size 28AAAA bra?" The clerk haughtily replied in the negative, so she left the store and proceeded to another department store where she is rebuffed in much the same manner. After a third try at another department store in the mall, she had become disgusted. Leaving the mall, she drove to K-Mart. Marching up to the sales clerk, she unbuttoned and threw open her blouse, yelling, "Do you have anything for this?" The lady looked closely at her and replied, "Have you tried Clearasil?"


I want boobs.

Well, I actually have boobs, they're just less cantaloupey and more fried eggish. I'll never have surgery because (1) it's expensive and I'd rather go out to dinner at really nice restaurants with fabulous foods and (2) I don't like increasing my odds of never waking up again and (3) I scar weird. I get keloids, which basically is like whacked out scar tissue growing out of control and you end up with a big, raised scar. It's not pretty.

There are things they can do to offset the rapidly growing scar tissue, but that's called Steroid Injections At The Site which basically means I have to sit there while someone pokes a needle 4,000 times into my fresh, tender scar. You'll only feel a pinch, my ass. And it takes more than one office visit to work. So you have to willingly go back for more injections.

I've also had scar tissue removed which is called Let's Take A Scalpel And Cut Out The Scar And Hope To God It Doesn't Keloid Up Again. That hurts, too. Just in case you were wondering.

I refuse to get my c-section scar fixed because I'm pretty sure only one person is ever going to see it and Big V likes it because it reminds him of the puffy stickers of his youth. Besides, when it's exposed he's oddly interested in other parts of my body....

But I digress. The point is, I'd never get a boob job because I'm afraid the incisions will keloid. They'd end up looking like side nipples and I don't think that would be a good look for me. And I get that they can go through the belly button but I'm going to be 40 in a couple years and I'm pretty sure that means I missed the whole Your Outtie Is SO Cute train.

Since I could probably pass as Macaulay Culkin's chest double, it's obviously quite difficult (and near impossible) to find proper fitting brassieres. Although I have found success in the tween section at our local WalMart, there comes a time in a woman's life when a bright pink and white polka dot training bra with lime green straps is no longer considered age appropriate.

I've tried purchasing the smallest option at Victoria's Secret and, here's the thing - the secret is they don't cater to the small chested woman. I've got enough space between my flesh and the fabric to store my lunch. No matter how convenient that is, it's still very unsexy.

And don't get me started on those stiff formed bras; sure they might make you look like you've got a solid set of ta-tas, but hold one set of books to your chest while you're walking and they indent. A breast is not supposed to have a plateau.
Then I stumbled upon something even more secret than Vicky's... there are actually companies that focus on women with petite chests. Isn't that cute? Petite? It means small, people, but it's a much classier way of saying it, don't you think? Of course, there are only two companies in the entire world, but still. I see hope!

I looked at the options online; and, well, they looked like regular grown up bras... only smaller. The only thing I needed to do was measure myself. Which I couldn't seem to do by myself so I had Big V help me, which was totally okay because he's had to extract me out of one of those slimming tank tops that act like a girdle and that was a very awkward situation for everyone. He's seen me at my worst more times than he's seen me at my best so nothing really scares him anymore.

Here, I said, throwing a fabric measuring tape at him. Can you measure my boobs? I want to order a new bra.

You're naked! His eyes start to sparkle and he gets this devious look across his face.

We're not having sex.

Oh. The smile quickly fades.

Just measure me.

Fine. He stands up and approaches me.

And he takes the tape measure and holds it vertically on top of my breast. Like, up and down. From the top of my tiny cutlet to the bottom. (If Confessions of a Corn Fed Girl was here she would totally insert a hand drawn illustration of Big V measuring while I scowl at him. She's awesome at illustrations. Maybe she'll make me one for my birthday.)

And there he is, standing across from me like a tailor with his arms out, squinting at the tape measure and announces, it looks like about three inches.

And then I explain how he's supposed to measure. Around the body, just under the arms, which is according to the directions posted on the Minuscule Mammories website.

And he wraps the measuring tape around me and pulls tight. Like, really tight. And now there's two inches of fatty mass oozing over the tape as well as oozing under the tape and I ask him what on earth he is doing. And, bless his heart, he said he didn't want me to be upset with the numbers so he's trying to make it as small as possible.

So I ask him to quick measure my waist and thighs because those are the numbers where smaller is better. But in the case of the girls, bigger is better.

I tell Big V we need to take the measurements he's written down and determine the cup size. "To calculate your cup size, subtract your band size from your cup measurement," I read from the directions. "A one inch difference would mean you are an A cup. Less than one inch, is an AA cup size, and less than one-half inch is a AAA cup." Okay, I look up at Big V. What cup size am I?

He stares at me.... What if it didn't change and it's the exact same measurement?

I contemplate a roundhouse kick to his jaw but quickly realize that (1) violence is never the answer and (2) our bathroom is far too narrow to execute a good sweep.

Ahh! I'm just kidding!! Oh my goodness; he honestly thinks he's funny.

We're measuring you next, I deadpan.

You're a double-A. Can I go now?

Please.


All this reminded me of one lazy summer as a teen, when my sister and I were lounging around the living room flipping through magazines and I came across a sizing chart for bras that included an A and an AA option. Not knowing the difference but assuming my older, wiser sister would, I asked, What's the difference between A and AA?

Her answer: One is short and fat and the other is long and skinny.

I sat there for twenty minutes trying to figure out what the hell my itty-bitties resembled more of before I realized she was talking about batteries.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Perhaps you should read that again. In fact, I insist you read that again.

I had intended to be back at a decent hour.  Except, you know how things go... later than usual. So, I sent a courtesy text to Big V letting him know what was up.

I arrived home to find him sitting in the comfy chair watching Rambo or Rocky or whatever movie that was.

He finally acknowledged my presence at the commercial (as if he was going to miss some key component to a movie he's seen 487 times before): So, where did you go to get tampons this late?

What?

You sent me a text saying you were stopping off to get tampons...

No, I sent you a text that said I was stopping off to get homemade tamales.

Oh.

.... Just curious, but what exactly did you think a 'homemade tampon' was?

I don't know... like maybe you needed someone to make them wider or something.

Just stop talking.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Personalize my Sharpie? Don't mind if I do!

I am amazed beyond belief.

And that doesn't happen often.

Except for that one time when I discovered the art of dipping Ranch Doritos in ranch dip. Blew. me. away.  This is like that, only with way less finger licking and much better breath.

See, I discovered that Sharpie will allow you to personalize your pens. Oh, yes. That means I can have a thousand Sharpies with my name on them! Which was never possible when I was a child, because my name can be spelled four thousand ways, none of which was ever stamped on a ruler, pencil or a bookmark.

But I digress.

Back to the personalizing of Sharpies.

Anyone who knows me knows I love me my Sharpies. I take special care in purchasing calendars and planners with pages thick enough to support the Sharpie. (You can't be organized with bleed through's, you know?) I get kind of territorial over my Sharpies, too. Hands off if they aren't yours, got it?

So, imagine my excitement when I learned I can put whatever I want on a Sharpie!

It was literally like Christmas in July! Because it is July. Duh.

Since the American Cancer Society Relay For Life was coming up (it's tonight) and I've been busy fundraising for the Walworth County Cloggers, I thought I would be full of love and selfless giving and try out the personalization option on them. Because what if it looked like crap? I can't use an ugly Sharpie. It goes against my beliefs.

I placed my order on Tuesday, July 19th.

Less than two hours later I received an email confirming that my order had been shipped.

WHAT?! But I wanted them PERSONALIZED!!!! Why would I pay the standard shipping fee for something I could pick up at Staples on my way home?!

I couldn't believe they mucked up my order.  I was so upset I sent Sharpie an email. It went something like this:

"Umm... yeah. So, I just placed an order for personalized pens and ten seconds later got an email confirming they've been shipped. There is no way you could have personalized them they way I wanted. Basically I just had plain pens shipped to me. Not cool, Sharpie. Not cool at all."



Ever eat crow?

The next day... yes, the very next day ... I pulled in the driveway as the UPS man was leaving. Guess what he left me? SHARPIES!!


Better than diamonds, right?
 And they were beautiful!  I even looked back at my order to see if I accidently paid for an overnight order; I didn't. Sharpie is just that awesome!

When does anything ever happen that fast? And to your expectations? I've waited longer at the doctor's office.

I'm giddy. I'm excited. And I had to share. And I was not paid to write this post. Sharpie doesn't even know who I am. Well, except as the person filed under "Oh, Ye of Little Faith." Sorry I doubted you, Sharpie. Forgive me? 


Next up: MY name!
On every single color they have.



Have you been surprised by the outstanding service of any big, major companies lately? Has any of them surprised you by exceeding your expectations? Or am I the only one feeling like they just won the lottery?

Monday, July 18, 2011

Vegemite Cocktails for all the Kids!

This weekend I watched three kids who were at various stages of 1-year old for two hours straight. Without vodka.

And even though they were seriously the best kids on the entire planet, I now realize why God has never blessed me with multiples.

Because God does not give you anything you can't handle.

And when He looks at me He's all uh-uh, not for you. No, you can't handle this. You will barely be able to tolerate nasty, crusty socks left on the living room floor; twins or triplets would throw you over the edge and I have bigger plans for you. Plans that include an early retirement and a vacation home in Bora Bora, but let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?

For 120 minutes I was able to view life through the eyes of a Mama Cat, scrambling to gather one kitten-child back to the middle of the living room floor where all the fun toys were, only to find that now another kitten-child had escaped the nest. Do cats have nests? And then I would go find that particular kitten-child and another would escape.

I spent the majority of the time in retrieval mode.

If you're a mother of twins or triplets or *gasp!* more than that, you deserve a medal. The kind of medal that comes with a full time nanny, housekeeper and a lifetime supply of your favorite booze.

Anyway, I kind of half-laughed / half-punched Big V in the jugular when he suggested I should open my own day care because hasn't he ever met me before? It's amazing these parents actually asked me to watch their kids in the first place. Which made me think they were either really, really desperate or really, really drunk.

I do have to say that out of the three kids, the one I wanted to get rid of was my own. The other two toddlers were so sweet they made my teeth ache. They were cuddly and full of snuggles and kisses... meanwhile Cletus is climbing up the back of the couch attempting to swing from the curtains while screaming, "MOO! MOO! MOO!" like a crazed mental patient.

The two sweeties and I are playing a captivating game of Where are your eyes? Where is your nose? and Cletus is running 87 miles per hour head first into the china cabinet. Over and over and over.

The cute kids are sitting side by side eating blueberries and giving each other kisses and Cletus is smushing the blueberries in between his fingers and laughing hysterically as the pulp oozes through his digits.

I am hereby announcing that all future Parent/Teacher Conferences shall be attended by Big V. Alone. While I'm off having a much needed spa day. In another city. Out of state.

In other news, I also tried Nutella for the first time in my life. Surprisingly, it tasted nothing like Vegemite. Which is a good thing. Unless you're into yeasty extracts. Then you probably wouldn't like it.

I also found this drink recipe for something called a Nutella Cocktail (except it's written in that crazy metric way of measuring so I'll just have to guess on the actual amounts and cross my fingers):
 
Nutella Cocktail
1 cup ice
½ cup milk
2 tablespoons Nutella
30-mls Frangelico
30-mls Baileys
30-mls Vanilla Vodka

Place all the ingredients into a blender and blend until thick and creamy.


Just try THAT with your tasty Vegemite.

Friday, July 15, 2011

In 24 Months This Person Will Be Considered An Adult.

Actual message I received from the Teen Bean:

i know you dont aprove of me getting my belly button pierced but last night my friend did it cause my dad was too lazy to bring me...and it got stuck so i learned my lesson.


Honestly, I don't know why I'm not an alcoholic by now.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite (or move in)


Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement and looked over towards my left. There he was. Crawling up the wall. Mere inches from where I sat. 

We have a bug problem in our office. Every couple of days you'll see a spider or beetle or ant or earwig or other random creepy, crawly things traversing about.

It totally gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Mostly because it reminds me of:

Once, in the middle of the night, I got up to go pee, and you know how you're not really awake and your eyes are half closed but you still know where you're going because you've walked this same path a million times so you could totally get to the toilet it in the dark? Well, it was like that.

Half asleep, shuffling to the bowl, I sat down and did my business.

And then I wiped.

Just like a thousand other times.

I grabbed the toilet paper from the roll beside me, balled it up and wiped.

Except something most definitely did not feel right.

I didn't know what it was exactly, but I was pretty certain it required a blood curdling scream while jumping up, spinning around and Holy, Mary, Mother of Jesus! There, frantically swimming around in the water, was an earwig that had just milliseconds earlier touched places that are considered most private on a woman's body.

These are my options:

(1) The earwig was sleeping peacefully amongst the layers of toilet paper and I accidently scooped him up and introduced him to my vaginal entry. He was merely a victim.

(2) The earwig was prancing around the toilet bowl and jumped over to view the activity. He was a nosy pervert.

(3) The earwig purposely and intentionally made it's way across my bedroom floor, crawled up the side of my bed, under my covers, and up into the leg of the shorts I was wearing and had begun the process of moving in and getting comfy when this strange activity unconsciously registered into my sleeping brain, thus causing me to want to empty the contents of my body - including bug and urine, ultimately saving me from having an earwig roost amongst my innards which would have resulted in several months of doctors appointments and debilitating health where I just don't feel right but they can't find anything wrong and they just keep saying it's all in my head until finally some doctor from Canada hears my story, realizes I have an internal earwig infestation, saves my life and I end up being featured on a special medical mystery edition of Nightline.

Suffice it to say, I am that girl who looks on, around and under the toilet seat as well as shakes out all toilet paper before wading it up for use. Seriously, I'm like one step away from sleeping in tights.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

It's time to get your pen and your pencil!

I now have proof that I did not "make up" the whole Bill Cosby Picture Page thing. Picture Page is a for real fact, people:


I kind of feel like justice is served and my life's mission is complete.

Thank you, YouTube, for helping me prove Picture Page's existence. Now, if you only had video documenting which one of my siblings really started the epic food fight of 1985, I could finally establish without a doubt that it was not me.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Billy Bob Thornton and the Amazing Scape Goose

We were at work for a lot of hours without any computers to do any work on and when there's no computers I start thinking about what else I could be doing around the office that might not require a computer.

The first thing I did was wipe down the wall next to my desk where I accidentally splashed half my latte once when I was dramatically and enthusiastically making a point. The point was don't slam your cup down or the contents will splash everywhere and nine weeks later you'll have to wash the wall when the computers go down. Let's just say I made my point.

And then I started to file. But that pretty much bit the big one so I decided to change the goose's outfit instead.

See, one day the Co-Worker decided we needed an office mascot so he brought in a goose that some lady pushed on him when he was at her house during an inspection. (Don't worry; it wasn't alive.) You might think that people try to hand us money so they can make sure they pass building inspections, but that never happens. Usually you just have to put up with dirty houses, unrecognizeable odors and untrained dogs. But not in this particular case. In this case, some lady shoved a plastic goose in the Inspector's hands along with a bag filled with goose outfits. (God help me if I ever become that woman who pawns off her plastic animals to people just trying to do their job...)

Co-Worker walked into the office with a goose under his arm and, well, what was I to do? He's standing there with his big ole' can we keep him eyes and the goose just looked so darn happy... so it became our office mascot: The Scape Goose. (I was really pushing for a scape goat but fake goats are surprisingly difficult to find. And if you do happen to find one you can almost never find clothes for the darn thing.)

Anyway, no computers meant Scape Goose got a new outfit. Since it's three thousand degrees out I decided summer wear was the way to go, but putting a coconut bra on a goose can be tricky.


I asked Co-Worker to help, but he seemed to not get a handle on the right things...


We couldn't figure the sucker out. Honestly, I consider myself a fairly intellegent person but this was just getting the best of us. That's when we thought of Miss J from up in the front office. Miss J can do everything so if anyone was going to know how to dress this goose it'd be her. Co-Worker dialed her extension and asked if she had a moment, could she come assist us with something.


The strange part was, she didn't even blink when she walked into our office and we told her we needed help dressing a duck. Uh, goose. She just acted like it was the most normal thing in the world. Which was good, because it lets me know I'm working with the right people; the kind who believe we all do better when we work together.


And then I started thinking about how sad it is that in some jobs people would think you were a tad bit off if you dressed up a  plastic Scape Goose and allowed someone else to take a picture of you with it. But not here, because I don't think my co-workers are off at all, you know?

Also, don't you think Co-Worker kind of has that Billy Bob Thornton look about him?  It might just be the way he's ogling that goose...

Monday, July 11, 2011

Reason #817 Why YOU Need a Sister with a Good Sense of Humor

Reason #817: Colorful Text Messages

I got this picture text from my sister a while ago and just thought I would share:


"I would be so good at swear word Scrabble."


Sorry for the vulgarity of this post, Mom. You know, she was always the naughty one.

Three Long Days


These are Big V's dirty socks.

He comes in from a long, hard day of sweating in his feet and rips them off.

At the door.

And then they sit there.

Until I pick them up.

But I haven't picked them up.

For three days I have not picked them up.

And for three days he has walked past them.

Over them.

Around them.

And yet I have not picked them up.

For three very long days...

Thursday, July 7, 2011

The one in which I think I'm going to vomit as I watch TV with my partner.

Last night I practiced tolerance as I watched Big V tear off his overgrown, crusty toenails and pile them up on the end table. We were supposed to be bonding together while watching some MTV Real World Road Rules Challenge with the Enemy show but I couldn't actually watch the show because instead I was looking at him sitting next to me thinking this has got to be the grossest thing I have ever witnessed while trying not to hurl.

And then I thought of the time my little brother got his finger torn off and I didn't know the appendage was actually still in his winter glove, all I saw was the glove go flying and then him running to an area of fresh clean snow that he kept flipping his hand around in and then all that snow turned pink and my sister sped out of the woods with him on the back of one of the 4-wheelers and I picked up the glove and kind of shoved it as far as it would go on my hand (which lucky for me wasn't past my fingers) and me and my cousin walked back out of the woods and by the time we reached the side of the road some van pulled up and these rescue worker guys jumped out and were all is that Patrick's glove? while pointing at it and I was like why yes it is, strange creepy dude who just hopped out of a van, what's it to you? and the guy took the glove and looked inside it and then took a bit of shaved ice and dumped it in the glove and swirled it around a bit and then emptied the contents of the glove into a baggie that had more shaved ice in it and the contents were a finger.

[World's longest run on sentence right there, people. Someone contact Guiness.]

But then I realized the finger, while gross, wasn't actually the grossest thing I ever saw because it happened once but Big V yanks off those toenails all the time. So the choice to do it over and over again is what makes it gross, whereby Patrick had no choice, he was just an innocent victim, therefore, not gross by default.

Also, Big V leaves those suckers everywhere.

Like the other day I was picking up the baby's toys from the living room carpet and I put my hand down and almost got cut by what I was sure was a razor blade hidden amongst the loops... except it was a hardened toenail. I swear if Big V ever goes to prison he'll be using his big toe nail as a shank.

When he got home I turned all naggy wife on him: ohmygawd I cannot believe there was one of your huge, fossilized toe nails on the living room rug! What if the baby had found that and put it in his mouth? It could have cut up his esophogus and he could have bled to death! Why on earth would you throw those disgusting things on the carpet?!

And he looked and me and said, "Huh. It must have fallen off the top of the TV."

And then I was all: ohmygawd I cannot believe you actually put them on top of the TV! That's disgusting! What are you doing? Building a temple out of toenails? That's gross! And if you can take the time to walk up to the TV and throw them on top of it surely you can continue the fifteen steps it would take for you to throw them away in the garbage can!

Then he pointed out that the baby can not reach the top of the television set, whereas he can, and has, been caught digging through the garbage. In which case, placing the clippings on top of the television set was actually safer for the baby because he couldn't reach them. And what probably happened was that I carelessly dusted the furniture in my standard I want to get this done is sixteen seconds so I can watch Real Housewives way and it was actually I who endangered the esophogus of our son by knocking the clippings haphazardly to the floor.

And then I told him to shut up.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I didn't mean to carry that wrong; it just ended up that way.

A couple weeks ago I hobbled into the ER expecting to be diagnosed with a heart attack, or neuro-syphilis, but instead spent a couple lively hours talking through the curtain to total strangers. It turned out I was overdosing on allergy medication. And also that I was pregnant. Which was a total shock to me because I was pretty sure it was too early to tell that. Apparently they caught the sperm as he was hooking up with the egg and saw it all go down. And then the weird people on the other side of the curtain were all congratulations! So, there I sat, twelve seconds pregnant thinking this is going to be the longest blasted pregnancy in history because who ever finds out the second after they conceive?

That was Monday, the 20th. I went home stunned and worried because (1) it is impossible for me to keep my trap shut so there is no way I could keep this silent for the next obligatory twelve week waiting period and (2) it is impossible for me to keep my trap shut so I was bound to let the cat out of the bag before it was deemed safe.

Then on Friday I ended up back at the doctors because of some other unrelated stuff that was related to my girly parts. I have a history of problems with girly parts so they wanted to see me right away. Mostly to worry me, I suppose, but in this case there were some issues that needed attention and so I was put on a host of drugs. And that lasted a week.

And then on Sunday, just about the time I got to thinking hey, at least now I don't have to try to get in shape for our 20-year high school reunion this August, I started bleeding. Like, a lot. Normally I wouldn't have thought anything of it. Normally I would've said something along the lines of phew! You're a couple days late but, boy, am I glad to see you! But since I knew then I also knew this wasn't a good sign.

So I ended back up in the ER waiting room once again. This time with a bunch of really crazy people that I enthusiastically texted my sister about. People like gross puking guy who sat right in my direct line of vision. He hung his head in a bucket and made gagging noises that made me want to scream.

And then there was crazy motor scooter lady who I think just happened to be hanging out in the ER drinking their free coffee and watching TV and randomly trying to strike up conversations with people who were desperately trying to avoid her. Like me.

And then there was the loud talking cell phone user. She seemed quite jolly, laughing about the barbeque she just come from and how crazy that be-yotch Danielle was, what with all her gettin' all up on every man that walked by. Girl, she gots to learn to reign that shee-yot in!

Finally it was my turn and since I was considered a sensitive patient I got my own private exam room with attached bathroom and a flat screen TV and warm blankets. Three of them. And I felt kind of guilty because, you know, they seemed to be fussing a lot over something that was the size of a grain of rice, and yet it was awfully chilly in that there exam room so I gladly accepted those warm blankets.

And that made me wonder why we didn't exercise this practice more at home. So I turned to Big V and asked him if he would be interested in warming a blanket in our dryer every evening before I went to bed and if he would also be so kind as to go down to the dryer in the basement and carry it up quickly - but not too quickly because I wouldn't want the cool breeze of his quick ninja-like movements to tragically cool the blanket, because then he'd have to go back down to the basement and do the whole warming process all over again, but Big V said he was not at all interested in that plan because he's warm blooded and doesn't need blanket heat assistance.

Whatever. I still think he should at least consider it.

Anyway. After the IV from hell....


This is like the Alcatraz of IVs
 ... and a bunch of really invasive prodding the doctor announces I need an ultrasound. Which I've had before because I've had kids and ultrasounds are easy. You just lay there while some stranger smears cold goo on your stomach.

Except that's not exactly what he had in mind.

And his description included the words after inserting the catheter
and I was all woah! woah! WOAH!
and the nurse was all you'll do fine
and Big V was all haha! you need a catheter
and I was all I'm suddenly feeling faint
but the nurse was like a slick car salesman and had me actually believing I wouldn't feel a thing.

But she lied.

Because I don't care how gentle someone is, you can feel that.

And then she had me all believing I was brave and did great and even complimented me on my fantastic urethra. True story. I even sent a bragging text to my sister because I don't think anyone ever told her that she has a fantastic urethra. Take that, stereotypical over achieving, successful big sister who tans easy whereby I am left with pasty white skin no matter how much sun I am exposed to!

Also, I'm pretty sure I have the best urethra in the family because no one has ever mentioned it before and I'm thinking they would have if someone told them they had a good urethra because that's just not something you hear every day and you would be proud of that sort of compliment.

But things quickly took a turn for the worse when I heard the words we'll just fill your bladder up with fluid.... because that confused me. Isn't a catheter meant to drain things? Empty things? What is this whole fill things up talk?

Oh, yes, believe me, they actually can - and will - use a catheter to fill your bladder up with fluids. And it does not feel very pleasant at all.

Then comes the part where they have to take the catheter tube out. Naturally, I was all am I going to pee on this bed? and the nurse was all naturally, you are. And so I made Big V promise to never use this against me in case he tries to put me in an old folk's home. (I am older than him by six whole years; you never know when they can turn on you.) And then I peed my bed a little bit.

Eventually, I was let loose and told the drill and told to return to the lab on Tuesday for more blood work. Which I did. And that blood work came back saying, yep, I did miscarriage and I needed to follow-up in 10 days with another exam like the one I had before. But I told them I would be busy in 10 days and unable to have my bladder unnaturally filled through a flexible straw and they were all nice try.

Then, when  I called to make the appointment, the girl there tried to tell me I hadn't miscarried that it was just a threatened miscarriage and it would need to be confirmed through a blood draw in 48 hours and I had to point out that actually it was past threatened because the nurse I talked to twelve minutes earlier told me it had been confirmed through yesterday's blood draw and didn't they know I was emotionally fragile because now I have to do crunches for that darn reunion? So she apologized and I said that's okay, maybe you can just coordinate some warm blankets to be delivered to my home and she acted like she didn't even hear me. But I know she did.

So, today, at work it all came out and I felt weird because we were all sitting around eating and they were saying I'm sorry but actually, I felt very lucky. See, I didn't even get a chance to wrap my head around everything so I don't feel devastated and also it made me think that maybe I am getting older and if we do want to add more children to this crazy mix of a family, now would be the time. You know, before I do get shoved into that old folk's home.

I grew up with a terrific extended family. It was belonging to our family that was important, not the clothes you wore, or the car you drove, or the house you lived in. My grandfather believed in God and hard work and being kind to others. And I think that is a pretty terrific life philosophy that I hope my own kids will someday live by. Also, the more kids I have the better my odds that one of them will end up a super successful rock star that will want to buy their Mommy a mansion. Just sayin'.

Also, I'd once again like to thank my awesome, wonderful, terrific sister who is the only person on earth who can make me die laughing during a play by play textathon during a miscarriage. Again -- I cannot stress enough - get yourself a sister if you don't already have one! Or get yourself another one if the one you have sucks.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Campfire's Buring, Campfire's Burning

In an effort to ensure I never get chosen as Mother of the Year, I allowed my 9-year old to go camping with friends. She's been camping with them once before; albeit a short, weekend trip just about an hour's drive away. This time they were headed up north. Over five hours away. For a week. A full week.

I dropped her off on Friday evening with plans they would be leaving bright and early Saturday morning for Land o' Lakes, Wisconsin. Did I mention it's over five hours away? Anyway, she called me last night, sobbing. They had decided to stay longer and wouldn't be home until Sunday. She begged me to please just promise to come pick her up. You know, over five hours away.

She's my baby; of course I promised.

But I didn't actually have an address. Should mom's get the actual address of where their child will be residing for seven days? Perhaps I should have.

And also, perhaps I should have said no to the whole camping bit. Why? Because this is the kid that freaks out if her ice cream isn't smooth and rounded. It's my job to teach her that she has the ability to work through her irrational panics and anxieties and fix things herself. For instance, if someone scoops ice cream with a regular old spoon in a scraping off the top skin motion she can use her utensil to shape the ice cream into a rounded scooped out shape conducive to eating.

See, I know this about my child. I know she has quirks. I know she has expectations. I know she has all these hang ups that make any other normal person go what is her problem? The explanation is simple: this is just what makes her tick.

So what kind of mother to a child like that says, Sure! Go camping with another family that does pretty much everything different for seven days! Have fun with your world all turned upside down and inside out and have fun coping with all those unknowns. See ya in a week, kid!

I feel like I set her up for failure.

Especially since she's signed up for Gymnastics Camp on Sunday. (Yes, the same Sunday they are now returning on.) Although it's a short sports camp only fifteen minutes away, it is still an overnight camp. Why yes, I just allowed my daughter to spend a week camping with friends the week before she goes away for camp. I suck at this.

And, yes, I will be going to pick her up. But not until Thursday. See, I know this about her, too. She needs to have a clearly defined goal. I explained I could get her but needed to ask my boss what day I could take off work, which turned out to be Thursday, so if she could wait until Thursday I would pick her up. And she was okay with that.

For now.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Position Wanted: Mansitter

I'm currently accepting applications to find a special friend for Big V. Perhaps we could call the position Mansitter. Because if I don't find someone soon I might explode. Or maybe Big V would explode. Accidentally, I mean. Not like premeditatively. Because that would be very wrong.

But the man doesn't seem to understand that I have a really good book that I am currently obsessed with called The Kitchen House and so I want to read that really good book and not have to entertain him. And by entertain I totally mean look up from the page long enough to acknowledge his presence. Because it is a really good book.

At least the first half of the book is really good and so I expect the second half to be just as exciting because if it's not then I'm totally planning a Eh, it was alright campaign and then no one will ever bother reading that disappointing book and the author would be upset. But maybe not, since all of you probably immediately scrambled to buy the book based solely on my First Half Recommendation and the author could care less if you ever finish it because she's probably booking a cruise around the Greek Islands right now based on her enormous sales revenue, suckas!

Also, I think I would like to go on a cruise around some Greek Islands based solely on the fact that once I ordered Greek pork chops from this little restaurant downtown and they were the bomb! But then the restaurant was all boarded up and closed the next time we went but I don't think it was the pork chop's fault. I'm pretty sure the pork chops carried that restaurant because Big V had ordered spaghetti which was (1) incredibly boring of him and (2) did not taste very good at all. So, I blame the spaghetti.

Anyway, last night I get home with plans to read my book and Dotter is all revved up because she's going camping with friends this weekend and wanted me to pack everything in the car rightnowthisverysecond and Cletus the Used to be Fetus was loud talking about God knows what and was driving me nuts because he says, "Mama! Mama! Ma! Ma! Mama! Ma!" 4,876 times just like that damn Family Guy dweeb and if you don't know what I'm talking about, allow me to share. Trust me when I say it's not that funny when you live it.

Knowing the book is on the shelf waiting for me to discover its secrets I hurriedly make dinner, pretend to enjoy eating as a family and toss the toddler into bed. Dotter and I tag team the dishes and she asks if it's okay to go watch some movie that's on the Disney channel in the other room and I'm all HELL YES YOU CAN because it's Reading Time for Mama!

I giddily grab my book and snuggle in my cozy chair in the living room while Big V starts scanning channels on the big TV. And I think to myself this is so nice

But then every thirty seconds he's commenting. About nothing.

What?

"Oh, nothing, I was just talking."

I go back to my book.

He starts mumbling again.

What?

"Oh, I was just saying the new Road Rules Challenge is on MTV; they paired up rivals with each other."

Oh.

I go back to my book. It is so good I can barely contain myself!

He starts mumbling again.

What?

"Oh, I was just wondering if the Brewers were playing Tuesday."

You know, I smile, I think I'll go outside and read. It's cooling down some and that would be really relaxing. (And then I won't end up being spotlighted on Snapped!)

And so my little book and I head out to the front porch and sit. And it has cooled down. And there is a comforting breeze. And it's actually quiet on our usually criminally filled block. And I start to read once again. And it is really, really good.

And I am holding my breath it is that good!

And I can't wait to read what happens next it is that good!

And then the freaking front door opens and Big V pops his cute little head out and asks if I've seen the new iPhone commercial....

So, if you know of anyone who would be interested in entertaining Big V (or just listening to him ramble) while I finish my book, let me know. It's a quick read so I expect with four uninterrupted hours I'll be done. Maybe you could take him to the park. Or a ball game. I'll even pay you in Greek Pork Chops. Thanks.

The One in which I take my Father for his Covid Vaccine

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