Last night I was on Amazon browsing around (I check the Kindle store just about every day to see if there’s anything new I can download for free BECAUSE I AM FRUGAL (ha ha HA)) and I came across Pioneer Woman’s book, and I went to see if it was available in the Kindle version mostly because I was just curious.
It’s not, in case you were wondering.
“That’s kind of odd,” I said out loud to Fred. “Pioneer Woman’s book isn’t available in the Kindle version.”
“Huh,” he said. There was a silence. “Does she have a Kindle?”
I turned and stared at him. “I don’t KNOW,” I said. He was already laughing. “Does PAULA DEEN have a Kindle? How would I know? What kind of fucked-up question is THAT?”
Apparently when I’d said that it was odd that it’s not available in the Kindle version, he’d gotten the impression I thought it was odd because she’s a big fan of the Kindle or something. I only thought it was odd because I thought ALL books are available in the Kindle version these days.
I guess not.
So, my gynecologist called me on Monday to let me know she’d gotten the copies of the lab results from my hematologist, the ones she requested after my appointment with her last week. As it turns out, the lab results don’t show any reason for my NEVER-ENDING GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING SPOTTING.
I’m pretty sure that that’s a no-shitter, right there. I could have TOLD her she wasn’t going to find anything in the lab tests to explain the bleeding that never ends, yes it goes on and ON my friends. So she told me my lab tests were normal.
And I thought to myself “Well, no shit, Sherlock.”
Then she went on to say “So did you want to just wait for a while and see what happens, or….?”
I got a little snappish. “I’m on my third day of heavy spotting, so I think I’d like to DO SOMETHING.”
“Would you like to come into the office and discuss your options?” she offered.
“God YES,” I said. “Please, can we drag this fucking shit on and on as long as humanly possible? Maybe we could discuss my goddamn EVER-BLEEDING UTERUS for the next year and a half before we do anything, you think? Oh, I know, let’s just see if, after a year and a half of spotting that wasn’t stopped by pumping useless hormones into my body in the form of birth control pills, let’s just see if maybe my uterus will stop for a moment and think ‘You know, I’m tired of this bleeding shit. Maybe I’ll just stop for a while!’, because that has worked SO VERY WELL thus far! Uterii are known for being ultra-reasonable, after all. Maybe I should take my uterus to a uterus therapist and it can discuss its childhood trauma! HOW ABOUT YOU CHECK THE RECORDS WHERE YOU WROTE DOWN THAT I AM SICK AND TIRED OF THIS FUCKING SHIT AND READY TO GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD.”
Or maybe I just sighed and said “Okay.”
She put me on the phone with her secretary or receptionist or some stranger passing by, who the fuck knows WHO she passed the phone to, and I made an appointment for “after the holidays” of course, I’m only shocked the secretary/ receptionist/ random stranger didn’t suggest waiting until March, just for shits and giggles. So I have an appointment very early on the 30th.
If at this appointment that nurse tries to get me to pee in a jar YET AGAIN, I will refuse. Did I mention that, that when I went in for my ultrasound last week, the nurse was all “go pee in a jar!” and when I came out the other nurse was all “Oh, you didn’t need to do that for an ULTRASOUND”, as if I should have known?
The gynecologist will come in and say “So, what would you like to do?”, I guarantee it, and I will say “Is a hysterectomy out of the question at this point?” and if she says it is, I will say “Then let’s schedule an endometrial ablation and CAN WE FUCKING GET MOVING ON THIS?!”
Dear Uterus:
I am tired of your shit. Hit the road, Jack.
Sincerely,
Me.
Last night Fred and I were getting ready for bed, and I said “We should have a baby.”
He said “I had a vasectomy.”
I said “No shit. We could just get it reversed!”
He said “Can you imagine how much that would cost?”
I said “If I were pregnant, THE GODDAMN BLEEDING WOULD STOP FOR 9 MONTHS.”
He said “And then you’d give birth, and the bleeding would start again.”
I said “Then we just get pregnant again, DUH.”
He said “Wow, you’d really be emotional and annoyed with me all the time if you were pregnant!” He paused. “‘Emotional’ isn’t really the word I want. What word is it that I’m thinking of….”
“Volatile?” I suggested.
He laughed and said that that was a good descriptive word.
Ultimately, we decided not to have a baby. I know you’re shocked (and no, I wasn’t serious about it.)
Speaking of, I recently ran across the entry I wrote in 1999 wherein I said that the night before, Fred and I had decided I’d go off the pill “in March” and begin trying to have a baby.
Hahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
I reminded him of that, and then said “Just think! We could have a NINE YEAR OLD right now!”
We both shuddered and thanked our lucky stars that we do not.
Which is not to insult YOUR nine year-old, I’m sure s/he is a brilliant and charming child who everyone gazes upon with great affection. In fact, nine is about the age when they start to really get interesting, if I recall correctly, but man. I am really, really glad that I don’t have a nine year old.
(Now watch. Who wants to bet I come up pregnant in the next week? I’m warning you, uterus: DON’T TEST ME. I have a rusty fork and I know how to use it!)
Yesterday afternoon I had the occasion to say to Fred, “There appears to be an eyeball on the floor*.”
And immediately I was reminded of when I was young – maybe 7 or 8 – and we lived in Guam. My father went deep-sea fishing with a bunch of other guys, and they caught a lot of big fish, and brought them home to clean them in someone’s driveway (or so I recall), and my sister was for some reason struck with the desire to have an eyeball from one of the fish.
I can’t tell you what kind of fish these were, but they were BIG, that’s all I know.
So after Debbie said about 100 times that she wanted a fish eyeball, one of the guys dug the eyeball out of one of the fish and flipped it at her, and she ran off screaming.
I guess she didn’t want that fish eyeball as much as she thought!
*Not a REAL eyeball, freak. What goes ON in your house, anyway? It was a googly eye from a cat toy.
This is the little bathroom off the computer room. Every single kitten adores hanging out in there (in part, I suspect, because it’s very warm in there most of the time), and Veruca and Violet especially love to go in there, push the trash basket over, and play in an on it. Needless to say, I don’t use it for trash.
“Lady, it has not escaped my notice that when you’re around, chickens fall from the sky. I’ve got my eye on you.”
One thing about the Wonkas, I don’t think I’ve mentioned, is that they all have very long tails to go along with their very big ears. I should measure their overall length and then the length of their tails and then measure all the other cats in the house the same way so I can back up my long-tail assertion with cold, hard facts.
Tell me she can’t flap those things and fly away.
“What big ears you have, Veruca!”
“The better to ignore you with, my dear.”
Gussy McFlooferton, at your service.
Is that not the smuggest little face? Like “I KNOW Miz Poo hates kittens, ask me if I care.”
A spray o’ Cookie whiskers.
Sheriff Mama (aka “Kara”) keeps an eye out in case someone needs a butt-kicking.
Previously
2008: It is NOT raining!
2007: I would never condone entering a grocery store and opening fire with a machine gun, but I certainly understand the impulse.
2006: I think that we all know that it’s more likely that Sugarbutt will whisk Miz Poo into a perky waltz about the living room before I actually get off my dead ass and sand down the trim so that I don’t have to look at the drippy bits.
2005: No entry.
2004: He yawned his ears right off his head.
2003: “Well,” he said, all smug and certain of his facts. “If you didn’t have DIARRHEA, then it was NOT the flu! It’s just a cold!”
2002: But is Christmas shopping ever really done?
2001: The usual excitement
2000: Grandma’s other concerns were whether the fire was going out (it wasn’t) and how much Fred and Becky were eating.
1999: When did Toronto become part of the United States, again?