STFU
June 30, 2010 at 3:09 pm | Posted in I shouldn't have even posted this, I's for reals, Me myself I and me again, Pain | 2 CommentsTags: Endometriosis, FU, Pain
So. This post has been sitting in my draft file for-evah. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post it for 3 reasons.
- There is a lot of cursing involved.
- There is a lot of talking about lady bits and their malfunctions.
- No one likes a complainer.
Here are the reasons I posted it anyway.
- The cursing is APPROPRIATE for me in this post. Besides, I have a feeling no one really fucking cares about it anyway. Damnit.
- My lady readers are not weirded out by lady bits. If they are they need to make friends with their lady bits. My male readers are way too hardcore to be weirded out by a little bit of lady bit talk. (If I’m wrong? YOU’VE BEEN WARNED)
- My knee-jerk? I’m not complaining. But, alas, there is some bitching going on here. However, awareness is good as in “Hi! I’m Endometriosis! I want to get stabby! Let’s be friends!” and “Yes, I say I’m fine but I am in a lot of pain but you really don’t want to hear about it because you’ve heard it before or you’re more comfortable with talk of flesh wounds.” Also? I just HAD to get this off of my chest and out of my draft file. Close or read on:
Endometriosis (from endo, “inside”, and metra, “womb”)
You know what’s supposed to be inside my WOMB, Endometriosis? A baby. My womb is supposed to be a warm hospitable enviroment in which to grow a child.
And the misnomer, by the way, is a dick move. YOU aren’t even INSIDE my WOMB. You’re all outside of it… on my intestines and ovaries… hidden in corners like a little bitch.
You disguised yourself for years. Deceiving doctors and making me loopy with pain then making me question it. If no one can find anything, am I really in pain? Am I THAT much of a pain wuss?
You didn’t show yourself until they opened me up and looked you in the eye. Burnt you. You hid and grew some more.
Then, just to trick fuck you, we conceived our baby boy. You hadn’t invaded my tubes yet and you didn’t make me infertile like you do 40% of us. (You are such an asshole)
Suddenly: Bliss. No pain.
He arrived and I was feeling fine until now. Now you’re stabbing me and whispering in my ear:
“I’m rotting your insides”
“The pain’s not going to stop”
“Are you sure you should take another pill?”
“You’re going to have to get all your insides ripped out.”
(That last was said all sing-song like, the prick!)
But you know what I’m really tired of? The way you’re making me feel. The way I’m letting you make me feel. The sadness about a choice: hysterectomy or not – it could help (COULD being the operative word here) (Operative being the intentional pun there). I don’t always get a choice when it comes to depression but right now I’m putting myself there. I’m opening the dark closet and pointing the way.
Fuck. That.
You know, Endo, you’re just pain right now. Good, old-fashioned pain. WHOOP-TEE-DO! You couldn’t even kill me if you wanted to. I’ve known LAUGHTER with a higher mortality rate.
So you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to do what I always do with irritating bitches such as yourself. I’m going to ignore you. I’m going to roll my eyes at you when you’re at your loudest and quietly be proud of that accomplishment. I’m going to label the bottle of pills my “STFU ENDO” pills.
That’s right Endo, SHUT. THE FUCK. UP.
I’m getting down on the floor and playing with my son. I’m going to get out of bed and spend time with my family. I’m going to run. I’m going to gracefully live with your pain. And the next time I see you in the operating room? I’m totally going to kick your ass.
I was in pain here. See how my son's knee is jammed against my ovary? Ouch. WORTH IT.
Adventures in Potty Training, Part 1 of 3,673
June 17, 2010 at 10:14 am | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this | Leave a commentTags: 21 months, big boy, potty, potty training
The scene is Daycare. Evan stops playing suddenly and makes his “concentrate on pooping” face. They check his diaper and its empty. They decide to set him on the toilet. Then he poops. He POOPS!
Pooooooooooop! In the potty!
He spent the rest of the day going to the potty. He was very successful. I picked him up and dropped him off at home and raced to the Big-Box Baby store to get him a toilet seat. I raced home ready to tear it from its packaging and drag it and Evan to the bathroom loudly singing some sort of made up potty song.
I arrived to find my husband and son on the couch, sleeping. Dang it. No potty song.
When we get home the next day I get all excited and jump up and down saying, “Wooooo! Potty time! YAY! Evan, let’s go TO THE POTTY! WOOT!”
“no”
“please?”
“no”
So I unload the dishwasher and then lean down to him and say, “You know what I was thinking Evan? You should go use the big boy potty!”
“yes”
So we head in and I plop him down and… nothing. And in the week since… nothing. He spends a lot of time on the pot… just sitting there. Normally demanding I sing Itsy Bitsy Spider or Wheels on the bus, (but only the horn part, don’t even THINK about talking about the damn wheels! Beep! Beep! Beep! Only!). We’ve read books. We’ve colored. He sits for a while and then whines: “Eh, eh, eh… all done.”
So before bath time the other day we sat on the pot for a while. After about 5 minutes of nothing, I get him down, wash his hands and go upstairs to get his bath going. I let him run around the house naked.
Not even a minute later, Evan walks upstairs and with panic in his eyes proclaims, “Uh oh!”
“What?”
“UH OH!”
“What? Where uh oh?”
He stabs the air with his finger-pointing downstairs. “UH OH! HELP!”
He leads be straight to a wet spot on the carpet. Shoot. He did.
He crouched down and pointed it out again in case I missed it. “UH OH!”
“It’s OK. This is the kind of stuff we do in the potty you were on not 45 seconds ago. We just need to get it cleaned up now.”
“YES!”
So I tear off a couple of paper towels and Evan snatches them and runs to the accident. He gets on his knees and starts to wipe it up. I try to show him how to press down on it to soak it up and the tutorial must have been .23850 seconds too long because he shouted “NO!” and continued to do it on his own.
“Fine.” I walked back upstairs to finish his bath.
When it’s time I head back down to get him and he is stuffing the wet paper towels in the trash.
This entire scene boggles my brain. He recognises an accident, comes to me for help, gets the tools to clean it up, cleans it up and then throws away the trash. Wow. He’s not a baby anymore.
My only hope is that he has the same reaction when and if he POOPS on the floor. I hope he wants to clean THAT up by himself too.
Birthday, Doctor, Roseola and LAS VEGAS!
April 14, 2010 at 12:28 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again, The Others | Leave a commentTags: LAS VEGAS, Roseola, toddler
Here is your last few week’s summaries of stuff that has been going on because for once things have been going on and I haven’t been here to tell you and I’ll try not to ramble on and on and on. (Damnit. I fail.)
April
1st – The first of the month is a hectic time at work for me. It’s delicious. I have a big fat list of things to punch out and I love playing the work horse. Also the first was Evan’s daycare Easter party and I had a dozen little eggs ready to go. I should have known the night before that we were in trouble. Evan was fussy and started getting feverish and Wayne called at about 8 or 9pm to tell me he got a flat tire on the way home from fishing. So while my husband was on the side of the highway changing his tire in the dark, I was struggling with bedtime and an ill toddler. The next morning, Evan’s fever was at about 103 so I had to call in ‘Kid Sick’ to work. I miss the 1st of the month and Evan misses his party. I did get a lot done around the house. Eventually however, Evan was getting ultra-cuddley. Like, I would be standing on a step stool and he would climb up just to wrap his arms around my leg… or I would be washing the baseboard and he would lay his head in my lap. Finally I took him to cuddle on the couch and he fell asleep. I went back to cleaning and when he woke he was ON FIRE! Well, not literally kinda, but his temp was over 105! Panic Mommy in me wanted to run him to the ER or something but Level-headed Mommy saw that he was not acting sick… just a little uncomfortable. All night we were dosing him and making him sip water and trying to cool him off.
2nd – He woke up fever-less. I took him to daycare and went into work. Mid-day, I got a call that he was getting the fever back. Bummer. Wayne’s sister got in town that day from West Virginia and we were really excited to see her. I picked Evan up and we went to Wayne’s Grandmother’s house. He still had a fever and he was cranky, but OK. Right before we went to leave, he started looking really unwell. I picked him up and as we were saying our good-byes, Evan became a fountain of vomit. 3 times. Right after a bottle. All over himself, me and Grandma’s kitchen. Wayne changed Evan, I changed me and Grandma & Sister cleaned up the kitchen. I felt awful for everyone.
3rd – My birthday. I turned [inaudible] on this day. Evan’s fever was down and Sister was still in town, so we went shopping and out to lunch. I spent the day fearing that Evan would become a fountain again. He did not.
4th – Easter Sunday. Evan’s fever was gone and when he woke up we sent him downstairs to inspect his Easter basket.
He had a little rash on his neck. I figured it was from the fever or something along those uneducated lines. By the time we got to Grandma’s house the rash was really kicking in. It covered his belly and back. He didn’t seem bothered by it. He was still cranky. A cute little sourpuss.
5th – Back to daycare, back to work. Evan still had the rash but Ms Di was OK with him hanging out. Mid-day she calls and thinks it may be Roseola. I call the nurse and she says to come in for an appointment. Sure enough: Roseola. Too bad it’s one of those ass backwards viruses that are all contagious but completely UNcontagious once any sort of symptom appears.
6th – The rash is still hanging out. I’m stressed because we are leaving in 2 days for Vegas. As in LAS VEGAS but with child. My bestest fabulous friend Stephanie is getting married on the 9th and we are all flying out to join her. Packing, or more-to-the-point OVERpacking.
7th – Evan is being a complete asshole butthead boogerhead. A cute asshole butthead boogerhead that I adore and love and is my pweashus! wittle! baybee!… but a temper tantrum throwing, inconsolable baybee as well. Ms Di says the word EAR and I place the word EAR with AIRPLANE THE NEXT DAY and call the nurse AGAIN. Nurse says EAR and APPOINTMENT and we head to the Doc’s office AGAIN. Evan’s mood is improving by then and by the time the doctor walks in the room Evan is ready to great him with a full on smile. “So, what’s up?” Doc says. (As I’m editing… HAHAHAHHAHAHAAH!!!!1!! ROTFLMAO!! What’s Up Doc. I SLAY me) “I’m here because my kid is super grumpy” I deadpan. Evan giggles. My god. Sure enough his ears might-just-be-looking-a-little-pink so let’s-get-him-on-antibiotics-right-away because of the airplane situation, you know, TOMORROW. I spend the evening packing up the last of our stuff as my husband is out buying stuff he needs last-minute, which is good because if he didn’t I would wonder what the aliens did with my REAL husband. Wayne’s last-minute like that.
8th – I work until noon and head home to load the car and button up the house. Then I go to daycare to pick up and pajama-clad Evan. He gets strapped in and we drive the hour and a half to Wayne’s work. We pick him up and quickly dash to the airport. And it’s a damn good thing we did because I would hate not to arrive 3 hours before the flight takes off. SIGH. Evan runs UP the terminal and BACK to DADA over and over and over.
The flight goes OK and I have to switch this over to the
9th – because we are landing in Vegas and it’s now the 9th. Just to sum that up for you. We get checked in and get up to the hotel room. And Mandalay Bay has no milk located in the miles and miles of its sin city acreage and I would say that they shouldn’t… they should have vodka and NOT milk because it’s VEGAS and not DISNEYWORLD but you would be SHOCKED at the amount of children I saw there. Even that late. Half of them weren’t even drunk. Wayne ended up walking across the strip to an AM/PM for a gallon of milk and a cooler. It worked. We sleep. We wake.
We get together with THE BRIDE. We pool. Evan hates the pool. I get ready. I taxi to THE BRIDE’s hotel. She get’s ready.
I capture gorgeous bride.
Stranger takes picture of us.
We wait for non-english-speaking limo driver that is lost. We hop in the limo and head to the LAS VEGAS sign. Wayne is there with a passed out Evan who is awesomely so cute in a little white shirt and tie. We push through the masses and I listen and watch as THE BRIDE becomes THE WIFE. It was beautiful and I know she’s so happy. Then we are all back in the limo and smushing and drinking champagne (well, except for me cause its icky and Evan because he was asleep. I’m kidding, he was awake but I didn’t have his sippy cup. I kidding, I had a sippy cup with me but I was too lazy to take it out, so no champagne for him. I’m kidding for fuck’s sake. I’m not lazy.) We arrive at dinner and are greeted with MEAT on a SWORD. I casually grab a diaper and some wipes to go change Evan and find no changing table. Restaurant is attached to hotel/mall – walking everywhere to find restroom with changing table – back in my seat lots of minutes later. After the noms on a stick, Wayne and I and Evan head out to catch a cab. Did you know that you can’t catch a cab on the strip unless it’s at a hotel? We did and yet we started walking anyway. OMG. Ouchy-foooty-ouchy. Hubby crying about shins in his splints or something. Evan chillin’ in the stroller accepting hooker cards being handed out by non-english-speaking over aggressors. We walk from the Planet Hollywood hotel to Mandalay Bay. OMG.
10th – By today we make it back to our room. We pass the hell out. We eat. We pool. Evan still does not like the pool. We meet up with THE WIFE and THE HUSBAND and THE BEST MAN. We go eat. (Did I mention that Wayne has a couple in him?) Wayne is kinda drunk. We go to a restaurant that has a GINORMOUS BURGER that they will give you for free if you can eat it in 5 minutes and 20 seconds. Wayne is down for it. I am mortified. Evan’s getting cranky. I leave early to get Evan situated and eating. Wayne comes back all WHOA BIG BURGER and falls asleep. I meet THE WIFE for FROYO and wish her a pleasant flight home. I go to bed at a decent hour.
11th – Our last day in LAS VEGAS. We eat and do touristy things.
We head to the airport. 4 hours early this time to shake things up. Evan falls asleep and
12th – we are mid-flight home. Wayne is headed right into work so I am on hold EVER HEAVIER baby during flight and don’t let him kick neighbor and baby is only comfy if you are not. I turn into ZOMBIE. We land in Metro Detroit and I drive Wayne to work. I drive Evan to daycare. I drive my ass home and sleep. Sleeeeeep. Opps. I mean, Bwaaaaaains. Eh, I’m so confused.
Things are all sorts of normal now. Getting prepared for the March for Babies walk. Then 4 days later flying to Arizona and then 4 days after I get home from that flying to Florida. On Mother’s Day. Without mah baybee. Again. Something to whine about on another day.
Hey there, thanks for reading the whole way through, you one person you! I have a unicorn for you.
This Is My Brain On Metaphors
November 10, 2009 at 12:29 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I have unleashed the crazy, I shouldn't have even posted this, I's for reals, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again, Rewind, The Others | 2 CommentsTags: suicide help resource bipolar
Years and years and years ago my mind was a mess. As you remember I’m Bipolar. I was always depressed and never consistent with my medication (if I was even taking it). Like a lot of people with similar issues, I had what some call “suicidal ideation”. I had an out. I had a plan. It was like my morbid little teddy bear… if things got hairy I could snuggle up to that. Things weren’t so bad if I always had that. That was also my little secret. Not many knew of my plan and those that did never knew about my back-up plans. I could tearfully confess that my teddy bear was there, destroy said teddy bear with the confessee and proclaim absolution, smile and grab other teddy bear out of hiding. Safe.
You might not understand how safe it feels to have a plan. On the outside looking in, things may not seem that safe at all. Life is precarious on a hair trigger (That would have been HILARIOUS a few years ago). You spend days terrified that something will set off your loved one and the plan gets carried out. It’s terrifying to think about. But to me… it was safe.
Why the hell am I talking about suicide? Well, because things have changed for me. And things have not changed for a lot of other people. Things may not have changed for you. But it can.
This was my mind during the time of the teddy bear:
Confusing and loaded. There was nothing in there that told me, “Ya know Amber, that’s kinda fucked up.” And anyone that would say that (and many people did)… it just wouldn’t get processed.
Then Wayne came along. My husband is NOT a bullshitter and he certainly isn’t going to tell you what you want to hear. ESPECIALLY when it comes to this. He told me that if I committed suicide he would not go to my funeral but he may drop by later to piss on my grave.
The hell?
At first I was kinda pissed. I’m fragile, damnit! Kid gloves, sir! His view was that he loved me. He wanted me around as did a couple other people (heh), he said it would be selfish to do such a thing. And then I thought about people being pissed off at me after I was safe and felt like shit.
At long last my teddy bears were gone. Not forgotten, but not there. Wanted, but not an option. At first I felt trapped. Then I felt safe… with him. He became my Permanent Marker. He covered up some of the confusion and disaster in my mind. It was still there, but I really couldn’t get to it:
A few more years crept by and my biological clock was ticking JUST! LIKE! THIS! Then this guy came into play:
I knew that of course there would be no more thoughts. No more plans. I “knew” it like I “knew” getting cut in half for him wasn’t going to hurt. I convinced myself of it. I was a big fat FAIL if not.
Evan came along and suddenly things changed again. He was my Eraser:
Poof! It was gone. ALMOST not even there. But there’s some residue left behind and I’m glad for that. I need to remember what it was like to feel that way. I need to try to recognize those souls that are cuddling with that teddy bear when I’m not looking. And, I guess, I had to tell you.
(There’s HOPE and HELP. This is a good resource: http://www.preventsuicide.us/hopeline-new/)
(Will you find a Permanent Marker or better yet, an Eraser? I don’t know. I hope so. That’s what you should do too: HOPE.)
September (part hopefully-the-only-one)
September 18, 2009 at 12:39 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again, The Others | 1 CommentI would like to start today’s blog post with a big EFF YOU to September. You’ve really lived up to expectations, September. I’m not close to death like last year but YOU STILL HAVE A FEW WEEKS. Try not to be a douche, September and chill out.
Anywho. It’s been a while, I know. They say with depression you don’t want to do the things that you normally like to do. So that means I love you Blog! Except today apparently.
Yes, the depression has rolled in with September as it normally does and I do believe I’m handling it pretty well. Although it’s hard to tell what with family drama and my son’s first birthday and the flu and Evan being sick and my Grandmother’s cancer diagnosis, it could be justifiable white flag waving – closet hiding – exhausting sadness. Humm. Let’s just say it’s probably a combination of both.
I’m not standing in a gray room longingly staring out a window as my dog expectantly holds a leash in his mouth looking all disappointed with his puppy dog eyes. Depression’s hard to make pretty for a commercial, y’all. It’s just things inside. It’s stress and fatigue. It’s hopelessness in the face of hope. It’s jumping half heartedly to reach your optimism before you say, “Fuck it” and sit. It’s disorginization while you’re trying to think of positive steps and you forget your footing. It’s this paragraph: Depression just doesn’t make sense.
September started with planning a first birthday party for Evan. Joyful, right? Noooo, stressful! Who is invited? Who’s not speaking to whom? Who the hell did I invite? Who did I send an invitation to? Who was a throwing a birthday party for? Oh yeah, right. This little light of mine:
Seeing Evan is like taking a Xanax. You’re all: WTF was I all worried about? Everything’s OOooooo Kkaaaaaaaaaeeeeee. (You should only take Xanax with a prescription which I have. Or if you really trust your drug dealer.) Just knowing I’m about to see him lights up the dark. I’d sell bits of Evan to all the sad people out there but he’s mine and I wuv him and I hear there could be a legal issue if you dismember children and do business without a tax id.
So then I got a call from my Grandma. When she was in the hospital she said they thought they saw something in one of her kidneys. She said they were going to do a scan. They scanned, they did a biopsy. She said it was cancer. She forgets the name. (This is one of the major suckages about living on the other side of the country). Then one day I say something about kidney cancer. She says that her sister had that. I say, well maybe it’s hereditary. She says, it’s not in my kidneys. I’m all, WHA? Nooooo, it’s in her lungs because of course it’s in her lungs and she told me it was in her lungs and she’s a smoker with COPD and no, she’s still smoking and yes, she can’t breathe and noooo, she’s not going to do this or that because that’s stupid and I need to clean my house and stress out my granddaughter. I know people die. I’m OK with that. She says she’s ready. What kills me is my need for her to pass with dignity and without any pain. I hear it doesn’t always work that way. But that’s my problem and my job is to be strong for her so SHUT UP ME!
Aaaaand then I got the flu. Swine or Influenza… I don’t know. He shoved q-tips so far up my nose he could have collected brain and said, “Feel betta, bye now!” So I went and spent the week watching my one year old while fighting off the flu. Then of course HE got sick. Took him to the doctor so he could tell me it WASN’T the flu. And staying home from work for ANOTHER day to soothe my fevered, sleepy child with Motrin and some good old fashioned naps in the rocking chair. He had lots and lots of naps. The good ones where you drool. Those are the best.
There you have it. September still has some time to kick my ass a bit more and I’m sure she will. But October brings fall and apples and pumpkins and leaves and cider. And hopefully some good times.
Birthday Watch 2009
August 24, 2009 at 2:41 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, Me myself I and me again, Putting on Baby Weight (Pregnancy), Rewind, The Others | 2 CommentsTags: birthday first baby boy
TWO WEEKS.
There are just two of them left until my baby is a full grown man that goes to bars and college.
OK. Maybe not. I have 2 weeks left that I didn’t have with him last year. Two weeks until Evan starts to roll his eyes over stuff I show him because he’s BEEN THERE, DONE THAT before.
“Looky at the pretty colors of autumn. See how the leaves are changing color?”
“Duh, Mom. Saw it last year!”
And don’t say, “YAY! Evan’s almost as year old. w00T!” Because if I was excited and happy about it I would be all LOLzies up in this bitch. But I’m not. No LOLs just some big, fat 😦 s. 😦s all around. Because not only will Evan practically be living on his own in a couple weeks, but I won’t be a mother to a baby anymore. The mother with the tinsy sleeping infant in Target will smuggly say her daughter is just 5 days old and she won’t even bother to ask me how old Evan is because HE’S OBVIOUSLY AN ADULT. You loose smugginess after your baby turns one people and you all know how much I LOVE MY SMUGGIES!
So let’s turn back the clock shall we? Let’s look back a year and she what I was arrogantly doing at the time when I thought I had a month and a half before the baby was born when I really had just 14 days. LET US LOOK DENIAL IN THE FACE.
- I sent an email to my coworkers with pictures of newborn Lilah who was born just days before.
- I was on my weekly Tuesday/Friday doctor schedule and tearing up over my modest amount of vacation time remaining.
- Wayne and I had our last birthing class. We learned infant CPR. The previous classes were deemed “the-other-word-for-homosexual” by my lovely husband who announced it in his “quiet voice” during pretend contractions. THANK THE LORD GOODNESS that I didn’t have that labor stuff because Wayne was the only husband in class not to rub my back while we practiced relaxation techniques and then bitched about how much his knees hurt while in various labor positions… (are we getting the irony here?)
- I was writing a mundane blog for MySpace telling the world that I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT and worrying that:
- I had less than 1,000 hours to go (in reality I only had 336 hours).
- the nursery was not done. (SURPRISE FORMER SELF! The nursery was JUST COMPLETED. You’re welcome).
- the baby was going to go to daycare. Wayne and I were seriously thinking about me staying home. (Oh silly FOOLS! SURPRISE FORMER SELF! Wayne was laid off most of 2009! Way to think about stopping your only income!)
- I was having too many Braxton-Hicks contractions and my finger tips were getting all hurty from the blood-letting.
- We were name-less. Wayne was suggestion-less. I was name-full. Other family members were suggesting-other-names-and-not-liking-our-name-full. Things were about to get bloody. (SURPRISE YET AGAIN FORMER SELF! You’re going to have to look at Wayne all confused while your insides are hanging out and the baby is taking his first breath when the doctor asks the baby’s name. You’ll be like, OH YEAH! HE NEEDS A NAME!)
OK… enough of that. I’ll continue to wig out on my own time and spare you yours. Until my next freakout of course that I’ll have to share the with internets OF COURSE. And when he turns that year number when he’s no longer a month number and you are unable to locate me, I will either be rocking in the corner of a closed, dark closet or replacing my birth control pills with sugar pills and practicing my surprise face.
And oppsies… almost forgot to give you a piece of the birthday baby.
But do Bitches really get Stitches?
July 22, 2009 at 9:31 am | Posted in I have unleashed the crazy, I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am | Leave a commentSo yesterday I get an email from Mr. Northwestbballkiller via my Flickr account:
Hi my name is xxxxx first off. Let me kind of explain what I am wanting and what for it is kind of a long story lol. ok I think of crazy things while at work being bored out of my mind and i thought of a funny t-shirt design it will say bitches get stitches but…. i wanted a dog with stitches which is were you come in lol. i got off work and searched and came across this picture www.flickr.com/photos/ambersphoto/447163331i would like to make a t shirt with this image. I won’t be making money off of it or anything just kind of think it as a hilarious idea I wan’t to go through with. I’m sure i could just use the picture and no one would no but im not that kind of person i suppose so all im asking is permission to use the image. I will even send you a shirt when its finished.
Yes, that really just happened. Try to contain your need to proof that mess glee.
Mr. Northwestbbalkiller, a daydreamer and stuck in a dead-end job that does nothing to stimulate his vast imagination, needs this photo to achieve his goals/aspirations/dreams:
This is a photo of my bitch with some stitches. Or rather my then nine year old dog, Angel, recovering from a triple mastectomy and a hysterectomy. She had breast cancer* and got spayed.
(PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Get your girl dogs spayed people. Not only does it control the pet population a la Bob Barker, but it also lowers the chance of breast cancer. Consider your loved one saved. You’re welcome.)
Back to Mr. Northwestbballkiller. I’m damn tempted to tell him to DO IT! ANGEL LURVES ATTENTION! And bitches = girl dogs… GET IT? Shit, that’s clever right there.
Although, I’m not entirely sure that bitches do get stitches. I’m pretty sure I’m a bitch and I have successfully AVOIDED stitches even counting the 2 surgeries I’ve had. I have been glued and stapled… Bitches get Glued & Stapled? Doesn’t really have the same ring.
So what ‘cha think? Let Mr. Northwestbballkiller use the photo since he so kindly asked? If so, should I insist on receiving one? Maybe Angel sized?
Photo Phriday: Puweshus Momories, we haz it.
July 17, 2009 at 11:20 am | Posted in I shouldn't have even posted this, Me myself I and me again, Photo Phriday, Putting on Baby Weight (Pregnancy), Rewind, The Others | Leave a commentTags: pregnant photo maternity
A year ago this week, I was an over-pregnant, sweaty, waddley pregnant woman. I was riddled with fingerprint needle marks and had bumps where there shouldn’t have been bumps. Aren’t preggo bellies supposed to be round and full and not have a weird flat spot up front that makes you look like you have 2 bellies? Yeah, I thought so. Pregnant bellies are supposed to look like this here:
Carrie and I had a dual maternity photoshoot. She shot me; I shot her. Win/Win you see? Except when in your mind you are a glorious, glow-y, ethereal life carrier and it turns out you look like this:
I’ll leave you with the ACTUAL ethereal mommy-to-be (Carrie) so you can cleanse your WTF palate:
And just how are we going to take a group shot… hem-haw… WE ARE GENIUS!
OK. OK. One of me. Combo of Carrie and Evan making me look good:
Debbie did Dallas and I Just Sorta got Screwed There.
May 19, 2009 at 7:14 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again | Leave a commentI know. I’ve been back from Texas since Friday and I haven’t updated you. I can tell you’ve been here, awaiting the site to refresh, looking for a new title at the top of the screen… and you’ve been disappointed. Until now. Now, my pretties, I give you an update. The one you’ve been waiting for.
No?
Ok then. Moving on.
Thursday morning I woke up excited because the two breakouts that I needed to attend were going to be very informative and NOM! knowledge! (I so wish I was kidding about my lameness) and then I was flying back home! I tried to delay, but ended up heading to the airport at around 1:30pm for a 5:05pm takeoff. I hopped on a shuttle and happily chatted with my fellow passengers. Then one of those sons of bitches burst my balloon and that was the start of the deflation that was my day.
“Are you connecting by way of Dallas ?”
Me: “Why yes. Yes I am.”
“Bummer… all the flights to Dallas are delayed.”
Wha? I walk into the awful, unairconditioned, musty little “in construction” side of the airport to see American Airlines signs, kinda sorta… you know, if I stand on my tippy toes to see over the heads of the eleventy thousand people standing in line. I stand slack-jawed at the monitor to see that my flight is delayed 2 hours. So very happy I was early. I then call Wayne to let him know (and for him to find someone to replace him for work the next day) and call Stephanie to loudly proclaim my dismay as other would-be passengers didn’t even try to ignore my conversation but instead nodded their heads in agreement. At this point I’m in the giddy/stressed stage. The adrenaline is keeping me stable (you know, in a crazy sort of way).
Lots and lots of tens of minutes later, I get to the counter. “Help me get to my son!” I joke in all seriousness at the lady. She “aww”s and tells me she wants $15 to check my baggage (fees to check bags! and she didn’t even take my bag, I had to deliver it to the evil scanners myself!) and OF COURSE my connecting flight in Dallas will be delayed too so I’ll TOTALLY MAKE THE FLIGHT and DON’T WORRY and oh yeah, here is a number to call if you miss your flight which is THE LAST FLIGHT OUT OF DALLAS FOR THE NIGHT that you will totally make. I roll my bag over to the scanning machines, think twice, and dig out my wireless card and power cord. But WiFi in this dump? I girl can dream.
So I wander over to my gate and I’m about 5 hours early. I head back to the big hallway that’s lined with business travelers in their suits, sitting on the tile floor next to the coveted power outlets tapping away at their laptops and talking to no one unless you look closely and see that they have something jammed in their ear. So they are only slightly insane. I see an open outlet and settle my ass next to it. I hold my breath and turn on my laptop… double click on Internet Explorer… and SUCCESS! Terms and conditions! I scroll the page for fees… NO FEES! Whoop! So for a few hours I click through the interweb-super-dirt-road and chat with the other bitching travelers about delays and sore asses. At this point I’m at the tired/whatever stage. I’d casually flip off the world if it didn’t take so much effort.
Later, I settled myself in at the gate and read. (Dooce’s “It Sucked and then I Cried”) I LOLed IRL. At the last minute, I opened the laptop to check my connecting flight in Dallas that was totally going to be delayed too and it TOTALLY WAS NOT DELAYED! As a matter of fact it was taking off 3 minutes after the flight I was about to board. OMFGWTFFML!! As I’m walking (OK, standing) in the little rickety thing that connects the airport with the plane the other passengers and I are calmly discussing (OK, bitching and flitting around like birds) our connecting flights in Dallas . Super Business Woman in front of me takes out her IPhone with a gazillion apps on it and asks me my flight number. SBW informs me that it’s about to take off for Detroit . At like any moment. At this point I’m at peace with my sentence. I’m in the zen, I know I’m fucked what can you do haha, frame of mind. La dee da.
That frame of mind continues throughout the 45 minute flight as the plane-wide bitch fest continues its session. I just read my book and occasionally picked up my head to say, “Yes I am delayed. Detroit . Last flight of the night. I know, right? What can you do? Just want to get home to my boy. 8 months. I’ve been gone for 5 days. I left him on Mother’s Day. Not really anything I can do.” I smiled politely and went back to my book, proud of myself for my zen-like qualities in the face of doom. Glowed in the envy of my stressed out co-plane-ers.
We land and everyone shmushes for the door. I take my time, politely let people pass and debark. There is a chick at the gate letting everyone know about their connections. I casually strut over to her and say, “I was supposed to be on the 2204 to Detroit . Gone, right?” She’s says, “Oh yeah… it’s gone and it was the last flight to… hold on. No wait… there is one more flight to Detroit and you might be able to make it if you hurry… C17… go, run!” BABY! Oh! BABY tonight! C17! Ahhh! I jiggled my discombobulated ass down the A terminal to the train, across 2 terminals, on said train that didn’t go fast enough, down the C terminal to THE GATE! There it is! There are people there! And a line. I stand in line like I’m a 9 month pregnant lady waiting to pee. I think I was mumbling to myself, ‘Baby… go home… I see my baby? I fly? Can I? I’ll sit on the floor… baby… I want my baby’. Then, eons later, I hear, “Sorry, I only have one stand by seat and… you were first, sir.” And then some bald dude that looked like he might kill babies for a living steps in front of me like he was the shit when I JUST WANTED TO GET HOME TO MY BABY! I think people asked me what was going on and if she said there were any more seats or more flights? And I think I said, ‘Baby… I wanna go home… I have a baby. Only people that kill babies get on this flight.’ And I might have seen the looks of horror from them if I wasn’t already dragging my feet back towards the A terminal to find my luggage and a place to sleep. At this point I’m starting to feel a bit depressed. Chick got my hopes up and the baby killer shot them down. I’m running/walking/sulking around the Dallas airport with a heavy-ass backpack weighing me down along with my dead hope and my totally not melodramatic thoughts.
Scene 20: Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. Terminal A. I’m about to cross into the No Return Zone. The baggage pick up where you can’t go back into the airport and contaminate it with guns and bombs and 4 ounce containers of shampoo. I stand at the baggage-go-round as I notice that there are about 3 other people in here and two of them are baggage handlers. The other one’s luggage spits out. And that’s all. As in I-look-like-in-idiot-standing-here-waiting-for-my-luggage-because-DUH-I’m-shit-out-of-luck. I try my best little girl lost routine on the baggage lady. She says I can try to beg for my bag at the ticket counter, but they are about to close. She said, “You really got to stay on them. If you really, really need your bag, you have to beg and pester them until they get it. If you still don’t get it by 10pm, you’re out of luck.” As thoughts of unbrushed teeth and dirty underwear sprung to mind, I dragged my sorry ass out into the night. The hot, humid, assy, Dallas night. At this point, I’m pretty much done. I’m holding back the tears but everyone that passes me probably thinks that my puppy just died. Including my neighbor on the flight to Dallas who stops me and asks me what ended up happening. As if the lost, homeless, sweaty look on my face didn’t explain it all.
I do a few loops around the outside walkway and back into the baggage pickup and back out again before I found the shuttle to the another terminal that houses one of two hotels on the airport property. I stare at the floor of the shuttle and do the slow-mo eye blinks and consider whether or not I could stand washing my underwear and letting them dry as I slept commando in a rented hotel room bed. No, I could not. Finally, I walk up to the hotel clerk that looks at me like he should swat me with a fly swatter and I beg for a room. He calmly informs me that the hotel is full. BULLSHIT! No! I think about beginning an argument as my balloon finally gets limp and I hang my head down and cry. He hands me a slip of paper with the other hotel’s number on it and tells me to try them. How about a tissue, prick? Or how about you give me some service and call them for me because it’s a fucking Hyatt as well and where is your SERVICE and COMPASSION and I WANT MY BABY and WTF am I supposed to do now? I sit in his precious lobby crying on my cell listening to it ring. And ring. AND THEN BEEP BECAUSE MY PHONE IS DYING OF COURSE BECAUSE GUESS WHERE MY PHONE CHARGER IS? That’s right, with my clean underwear. I go back to drip on the dude and he lets me use a house phone. It also rings for a while and finally someone answers and says why yes… we have a room for you… I’ll send a shuttle to pick you up. So then I cry some more.
I go back into the night and realize that I am not at all thinking about personal safety because here I am sitting outside with my only belongings strapped to my back at night for 20 minutes. Oh well. I get on YET ANOTHER bumpy shuttle and bounce my way BACK to Terminal C. I make a bee-line for the front desk like they have crack for me there and say, “A room, you said I could have a room. I need a room. Do you have a store with underwear?” And her smile falters and she says, “A room? I think we’re booked.” Thankfully someone told her she talked to me and that she could give me a handicapped room before I leaped over the desk with my last bit of strength and asked her if she wanted to eat her keyboard or feel it rammed up her ass. Luckily I stayed sweet and calm and out of jail. I limped to my handicapped room and went back out telling God that he made a funny out of my night and HAHA I can take a joke, but PLEASE let there be some sort of store in here that’s open or you’re going to see one of your sheep lose it’s wool and then there it was: a store. With it’s door closed… and an OPEN sign. And I tried the door and it was OPEN! And it had T-SHIRTS and WATER and TOILETRIES and UNDERWEAR!!! Fresh, clean, $15 underwear. I took my $50 purchase back to my room and slept. I this point I’m feeling UH-GAH-Waa-tuble-okjahlgkjarhbkemroiqrvgned. Because I don’t think I could have spoke English just then.
Friday morning and I’m in a shuttle to the airport. I get through security and, Look! A Starbucks! I get a Tall Caramel Latte with Whipped Cream and go to my gate. I board the plane and it’s not even full. There’s a seat between me and the lady in the aisle seat. Don’t you just love it when there’s a seat there? Then the moment of truth. The baggage carousel. GOD ONLY KNOWS where my luggage is. And of course, because DUH! It’s not spitting out. I look at the American Airlines woman with desperation that could weigh down a camel and she invites me back to look for it. And… THERE IT IS! IT’S THERE! THE PLACE WHERE I’M AT NOW. THE PLACE THAT WHICH I AM IN! RIGHT THERE! I do a leap hug at the lady and run to my car. As I’m paying for the parking that was basically about the same cost as my flight, Stephanie calls and asks if I’m alive or on the planet and I say, “BABY! IN THE STATE! THE STATE THAT HAS MY BABY! Baby! BABY!” I don’t really remember the drive home, just alternating thoughts between, “BABY!” and “Should I try to go 95 MPH?” Before I know it, I’m squealing into the driveway, barely remembering my keys before having my husband and BABY meet me at the door. At this point I am complete.
FIN.
Away from my Son. Day 4: Desperation setting in.
May 13, 2009 at 10:05 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I have unleashed the crazy, I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again | Leave a commentTags: texas flight plane hotel work
So here I am in Texas looking out the 22 floor of some hotel in San Antonio. I cried after I left little Evan. He turned around for one last glace as I pulled out of the driveway. The flights were uneventful and on time. The hotel is like a place I would love to live in in the life before my son. (BTW: The only time I forced Evan out of my head was during sessions… otherwise he’s always right there, evaning me.) Evanyway, I wish I had this thrilling story to share with you but I am increadibly boring. I don’t drink. I go to sleep early. Sunday, I went to see Star Trek and there were 2 babies in the theater. So I was trying to see them as much as I was trying to see the movie. Otherwise I went on the Riverwalk twice and neither were to shoot photographs with the camera I lugged to Texas with me. I’m such a loser. A boring loser.
Anyway, I’ll be on an airevane tomorrow starting at 5pm. TX time. I should land in Michigan a few minutes before midnight. Then clear the damn roads! I will be flyin’ home to my sleepy baby. He’ll be sleeping on his Mommy’s chest in the glider all night long. I cannot wait!
Anywho… this is nothing but a bed-time, Ambien-riddled post. Sorry about that. I hope your bwain is OK.
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