Come out! Come out! Wherever you are!
I know you’re out there, my wonderful lurkers, I can seeeeee you.
Okay, I can’t REALLY see you, altho convincing my son that I am psychic is a stroke of pure genius. Honestly, you should do it.
So here’s where I beg of you, my lurkers and lovingest of the loving followers, to help a sister out. My Home Girl Emily (who has probably never been addressed as a Home Girl or Home Slice by anyone but me) nominated me awhile back for some awards.
I checked today after forgetting about it for ages, and I see that I’ve got about 28 votes. 28 is a lovely number. I am 28 years old right now. Soon to be 29. But I know for a fact that I have more readers than that.
So I propose a tit(s) for a tat (hehe TITS): If you go over to this site and vote for me:
(I was nominated twice, because THAT is how cool Em is)
Registering takes about 20 seconds and is not at all annoying.
Come back and leave me a comment telling me that you did. Then ask me a question you want me to answer–no topic off limit–or a special request of something you’d like me to do for YOU. (I cannot cook) I’ll vote for you if you want me to, I’ll write a post about a topic of your choosing, I’ll even do something embarrassing and humiliating and tell the internet all about it if that is what you want.
Thank you, Internet, for being there for me when I needed you to be. Have you lost weight? You’re wasting away in front of me. But your ass looks fantastic in those jeans.
I puffy heart ALL of you.
Alex asks, “Please vote for my mother. She’ll love you forever and somehow make you Rice Krispy Treat Cuppy-Cakes.”
Last week after sprinting jauntily to the mailbox to see if I’d finally won that bazillion dollars I keep hearing about (a Nigerian Prince TOLD ME SO), when I found a pile of junk mail. After sorting through it, I realized that I had one piece that was not junk. From the county. Dreading anything I ever get from the county (on principal, not because they send me Nasty-Grams. DOWN WITH THE MAN!!), I tore into it.
It was a referral for Amelia to Early Interventions.
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen this paper (the name of the child was different, of course) and for some reason it smacked me blind. It’s SO not the end of the world to have a kid that needs some therapy. Shit, she’s in decent shape, by comparison (and by comparison, I mean NOT DEAD. Because this kills a lot of kids), and I really need to get the fcuk over myself.
I guess I’d just been in denial the whole time. Like going through the day to day motions with all that goes on in my Circus of a House, without thinking, honestly THINKING about what a diagnosis of encephalocele really means. I am, apparently, the only one who thinks this way because I called The Daver at work that day in a mild panic:
(ring ring)
“Hello?”
“OHMYGOD DAVER, OHMYGOD.”
“Uh…what?” (he knows better than to really worry when I call in a panic)
“Amelia….got her referral to Early Intervention,” I waited to hear him freak out.
“….” Typing sounds in the background.
“…and?”
I sighed deeply before we hung up. Apparently, I am the only one who is bothered by this. Figures.
I need to put on my big girl panties and just call for the appointments and evaluations, I know I do. Well, okay, I’ll tell YOU Internet, but let’s keep it between us, okay? I actually DID call. And then I promptly hung up when someone answered. Maturity has never been my strong suit, you know?
So I will do what I always do! Distract you with pictures! Because what else can I do? AND WHO DOESN’T LIKE PICTURES?
The Devil doesn’t. I swear.
I know that I post more pictures of my younger kids and while that would make it appear that I am favoring them, I assure you that it’s not.
This, this picture is Ben, In Real Life. Always in motion.
And this is my second born, Alex:
Playing with bath crayons. Outside the bath. Because he is that kind of kid. (what the fuck ever that means)
Daver was sick a couple of weeks ago with the flu–influenza I mean–and slept pretty much 24 by 7 for a week. While I am normally annoyed by him and his irritating and incredibly dramatical Man Colds, my cold, mean heart felt sorry for him.
MAYBE IT WAS THE SWINE FLU!! OH EM GEE!! (note the 2 exclamation points which should illustrate just HOW emphatically emotional I was being) Actually, I think it might have been.
And lastly, Amelia says, “You moron. It wasn’t the fucking swine flu.”
I spent the morning paying someone to take chunks out of my cervix, which, trust me, is even less fun that it sounds. I didn’t mention it here, not because I didn’t want to whine and pout and stomp my feet, but because, dammit, I heard the weather this year and it didn’t call for a shit storm.
Plus, with all the medical shit that’s been going on I feel like I might have Munchausen’s, or, at the very least, an ugly flair for the dramatical. And nothing annoys me personally more than someone who is constantly convinced that they are dying of a rare form of syphilis and expects that everyone else wring their hands along side them.
(and no, I’m not talking about you.)
But I went for my Uncle Pappy at the same time as my 6 (8) week post-partum check up and low and behold, I had another bout of abnormal cells on the old cervix. I had my first experience with the abnormalities of my cervix while about 6 weeks pregnant (and bleeding!) with Amelia and (thank you God) decided not to pursue the biopsy at that time. Because yeah, even if they found that I needed to have my cervix shaved, would I really do it while pregnant?
(it’s supposed to be rhetorical but in case you wanted an answer, here it is: No fucking way)
So after waiting on bated breath last week to find out that, no, my mother does NOT have breast cancer, I waited rather impatiently to find out my own cancer status.
While I wasn’t really thrilled by the whole notion of having my cervix manipulated and doused with vinegar, I tried to think of the bright things:
1) I don’t have a real use for it anymore
2) Perhaps I will be told that my cervix is the most beautiful the doctor has ever seen and I can gloat about it (like I did after my colonscopy. Side note: Daver wouldn’t allow me to put pictures of my colon in our Christmas cards that year. Ass)
3) I happen to have a wicked love affair with vinegar
4) I can spend the rest of the day moaning and lying about the house while I make The Daver do things for me (say it with me now: Yeah, RIGHT)
5) It will make the Vicodin I want desperately to pop actually serve a purpose other than getting Really Fucking Stoned.
Still, though, I was nervous. What was it going to feel like? Like birth without an epidural (a special shout-out to the lack of epidural-y goodness I had with Amelia! Hooray!)? Like a bikini wax? Like having to go to the DMV? I just didn’t know. And not knowing shit makes Aunt Becky pissed off. Almost as pissed off as people who talk about themselves in the third person.
So I dragged The Daver with me after guilting him about having to go alone, something that proves to be a Very Fucking Good Idea, indeed.
And what can I really say about the procedure itself? It started off totally bearable, the vinegar stung like a mother-fucker, and the biopsy itself was not so terrible. Honestly.
But (we’ve established that there’s always a Butt, right? Otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you this story)…
I noticed that I could feel myself, well, gushing blood. The nurse and the doctor scurried around, changing the pads underneath me, putting plastic bags on the floor, and going through packages of 4×4′s like it was going out of style.
Apparently, I have a bleeding problem. So much so that after the pathology gets back, my OB wants me to see an Internal Medicine doctor. She has (and I quote) “Never seen someone bleed so much” and should I require follow-up (F/U) care in the form of removal of bits of my cervix, I will have to go to a surgery center.
I’m less upset about this and more amused, because at this point, sometimes you realize that being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Whomever “they” are.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make some tinfoil hats…
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