Solitude by Edwin McCain being the biggest tear-causing culprit of the day).
And none of you bastards nominated me for a Pulitzer for the BEST PICTURE EVER, so HERE YOU GO AGAIN.
How can you not die from the cute?
Seriously, this fucking PMS is pissing me off. My fucking hormones are pissing me off. If I go off the pill I have my period closer and closer together until I’m on a one-week-off/ three-weeks-on schedule. If I go ON the pill, I’m on a three weeks off/ one week on schedule, but I also have breakthrough bleeding at random, inopportune times.
AND MY BOOBS HURT.
I knew my hormones were going to go all fucked up and floopy after the surgery but this is FOR THE BIRDS. I’m tempted to make an appointment with the gynecologist and demand she just yank everything out, but I’m sure that’d just make everything worse.
FUCKING HORMONES.
Maybe I just need to take up some good ol’ heroin.
KIDDING.
* * *
And fucking WordPress with their fucking new version, now all the comments y’all leave come to my mailbox as if they were mailed from bitchypoo @ wordpress.com, which means that GODDAMN GMAIL lumps them all into the same “conversation” and so I can’t file single comments away into my archives without filing them ALL away (I file comments that I intend to answer in the future) and I hate Gmail and their goddamn insistence on lumping emails into “conversations”, it REALLY PISSES ME OFF AND I FIND IT UTTERLY USELESS.
And I can’t figure out how to fix it in WordPress. THANKS WORDPRESS! YOU GODDAMN SUCK!
(If anyone knows how to fix that, let me know, would you? THANKS.)
* * *
I pounded down so much low-carb hot cocoa yesterday that my skin is probably going to go from golden yellow (though to be honest I don’t think I’m yellow anymore; certainly not nearly as yellow as I was a few weeks ago) to warm golden brown.
PMS, did I mention? It’s like, I NEED something chocolatey-tasting, but anything really chocolatey (3 Musketeers, M&Ms, Snickers) is going to make me sick, so I have to make do. It’s a pale imitation of what I (or rather the PMS monster) really wants, but it takes the edge off the craving at least.
* * *
As I was chopping the mushrooms to have sauteed mushrooms and onions over hamburger patties for dinner Sunday night, I heard Mister Boogers run through the cat door. I thought nothing of it, since he does it sixty billion times a day, but then I heard him growling, and looked over to see him standing in the hallway, something in his mouth, growling.
“Baby,” I said with an edge of annoyance as I didn’t for one minute pause in my mushroom-chopping duties, “he’s got something. And I think it’s dead.”
Fred came in from the computer room and had one hell of a time prying Mister Boogers’ jaws apart. As he tried, I could see that it was a bird he – Mister Boogers, that is – had in his mouth, and that not only did he have a bird, he had it by the feet.
Fred got Mister Boogers’ jaws apart, and the bird took off flying down the hallway.
“I guess it’s not dead,” I said helpfully, still chopping. I listened as what sounded like a herd of elephants went running up the stairs, and then I heard a door slam. I stopped chopping long enough to open the back door wide, then went back to my chopping.
Eventually, Fred came down with the bird cradled between his hands and his stomach.
“The door’s open,” I pointed out.
He went out back and the bird took off.
“We chased that thing up the stairs, and Mister Boogers leapt up and caught it in mid-air. I was impressed!” Fred reported.
That Boogers is such a little bastard.
This morning he brought a cricket into the house and began dismembering it. He yanked off a leg and let it crawl halfway across the kitchen before toying with it again. I didn’t witness this myself; the spud was in the kitchen getting her lunch to take to school when she reported it to me. I told her to get a piece of paper towel and toss the cricket into the toilet and flush it. Better to have it die quickly than be tortured by a Boogery bastard, right?
When I went into the bathroom just a few minutes ago, I found that the spud had yanked about a foot of paper towels off the roll to pick the cricket up and carry it into the bathroom.
She left a cricket leg in the middle of the kitchen floor.
My guess is that unless Tommy or Mister Boogers suddenly desires a mid-day snack, that cricket leg will stay there ’til I vacuum the entire house on Thursday.
* * *
I have an appointment this afternoon with the doctor who performed my weight loss surgery. It’s my six-month follow-up appointment, which was originally scheduled for a little closer to my actual six-month date – I’m now closer to my seven-month date – but they had to reschedule me.
I’m not looking forward to the appointment, only because I’m sure I’ll have to explain what’s going on with my bilirubin/ gall bladder/ whatever and I’m SO FUCKING BORED with the whole freakin’ topic. And I’ll have to inform him that I’m having an MRCP tomorrow, and I can’t fucking remember without looking at the piece of paper where I wrote it down whether it’s called an MRCP or an MRCE. Isn’t an MRCE some kind of test you have to take to get into medical school or law school or something?
I’m just tired of the whole fucking thing. I want the issue figured out and solved – it’s been a freakin’ month, now – and whatever steps need to be taken, taken.
IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?
On the up side, they scheduled the MRCP in Madison and it’ll take me about five minutes to get there. Hopefully it won’t be too scary or traumatic.
Either way, y’all know I’ll be reporting back as to how it went. I don’t expect to hear from the doctor about the results until sometime next week. I’m hoping that the MRCP shows what’s going on so I don’t have to have a liver biopsy.
Liver biopsy. Doesn’t the thought just give you the ookies?
* * *
Tomorrow’s entry is going to be another question-answering entry (at least for part of the entry). If you have a burning question, leave it in the comments!
* * *
Sugarbutt makes himself at home.
“HEY! Turn it DOWN! I’m trying to SLEEP over here!”
Spot, looking paranoid.
“Let us out! LET US OUT!”
All of today’s uploaded pictures are
hither.
* * *
Previously
2005: So, that’s why I won’t be updating this week.
2004: No entry.
2003: And for the rest of the drive I would occasionally call him “Fo’-Thray”.
2002: Surely they can hear the thunder of Tubby approaching from miles away – you’d think they’d hide somewhere he can’t go, like under the shed or on the other side of the fence.
2001: That’s me, an expert at reading between the lines!
2000: It gives her a rakish air.]]>