The women I love, oh how they hurt me

Oh the ladies of my life.

Today we met up with Boo's friends from her preschool class at a bounce warehouse place here in town. It's a big room filled with bouncie castles and slides. It's about 8 bucks a person for unlimited bounce time and it's FUN. The workout alone is worth the admission price.

I was so psyched to spend time with my oldest girl. I pictured us holding hands and bouncing and giggling and sliding and having the best time. Just like we did the last time we went. About this time last year. Her friends were there that time, but Boo wanted to stick with me.

Today Boo and I were the first ones in the place. We threw off our shoes and ran for the biggest slide and slid down a billion times. We bounced, we laughed, we had fun. For ten minutes. Then her friends walked in and I didn't see her again for three hours.

Oh, I SAW her. I made sure I knew where she was at all times. But did she want anything to do with me? Noooooo! "Boo, come on! Let's go bounce! Come on everyone, let's go bounce. Let's race down the slides. It will be FUN!" Her friends were into that idea and would grab my hand and go YAYYY! Boo would roll her eyes, grab the hand of her friend back, and take off in the opposite direction.

The knife that went through my heart! Ouch!! How badly does that hurt??! No one told me it happened this soon. Why didn't they warn me? She's four. I thought there was a lot more time before mommy wasn't wanted.




After bouncing, we headed home. My mother was watching the babies so Boo and I could have our alone time. Now I know if I want alone time with Boo, make a date ALONE WITH BOO!! Lesson learned, thank you.

I asked my mother when we'd be seeing her on Easter Sunday. We always get together to dye eggs and watch Boo find eggs and then have lunch and family time. My mother informed me she wouldn't be participating in Easter this year. She and the boyfriend are having lunch, then a quiet afternoon. They are not interested in spending time with the girls on Easter.

Again with the knife into the heart!

My mother is pulling away from our family. It's a reality that has been hard to face, but must be faced. She cannot balance the boyfriend and being a grandmother. I don't know if it's his deal or her deal or both of their deals. She is my mother and will always be my mother even when she breaks my heart, which she does on a regular basis but she's her and I'm me and life goes on and I'll have a great Easter with my girls and Matt. The end.

And this is me. Always longing for family. Always longing for love. Always longing for validation. Anyone surprised I want to be a performer?

Home Sweet Hell- Behind the Dishwasher

Thanks for answering my questions about why you read mommy blogs and your family's involvement with your children. I got your emails and all your comments and I'm sorry I haven't responded properly. This virus.. oh this virus! I'm not really coherent yet. You've given me a lot to think about and we'll talk more when I can think again.

I could put the ick in graphic by describing what's been exploding out of various body parts of my family the past week, but I like you.

Instead, I wish to you entertain you with ickiness of another kind.

The following post was written before the Oh No, I Don't Think So virus hit our home. So named because just when you think you're feeling better, the virus taunts, "Oh no, I don't think so" and laughs as you race to the bathroom.

Kind of funny that this post is about yucky odors. So erase thoughts of my sick family as you read what I wrote last week....



I know you come here for glamorous tales of my rich and fabulous life in the fast lane. Today's post will not disappoint.

Wooooo weee the smell that's been in this house! I can only describe it as wet basement meets moldy green beans meets frog-egg covered pond in the heat of august. Hungry?

The smell hovered between the kitchen and the back bathroom, which share a wall. Two areas where you don't want bad smells. Cuz then people come over and think the nasty food you're cooking is giving you serious intestinal distress. That's why you'll always find a scented candle burning when you visit. I want the world to think my family smells of lilacs and cinnamon buns.

Since we don't have a basement, cuz we're the only idiots in Missouri who would buy a home without a basement, I went into a complete panic, thinking the pipes under the foundation had sprung a leak. You know, in an area of the house only accessible by a jack hammer and a lot of tears.

Situations like that only happen to people who hate their houses. The dollars fly right out the window when you realize you were an idiot for buying the wrong house. Oh yay, I'm sinking another 5 grand into a house I can't stand! Girl, please. Let's just light a match and walk away. No one will ever know...

Matt pulled out some cabinets and the dishwasher and to much relief, discovered we had an easy to access leak that required the expert of a plumber to fix. But. BUT. Guess what was in the water that had accumulated behind the dishwasher?

The larvae of sewer flies.

Oh yes, sewer flies made our leak their wakka wakka wow love shack. Globular masses of teeny white eggs, glistening and shimmering with life that is born from the depths of stanky, nasty ass water and problems that cost hundreds of dollars to fix.

And me without a spoon.

The plumber that arrived to fix the leak(S!) looked a lot like my husband. So much, in fact, that little Avie kept walking up to hand him members of her prized Little People collection. Avie. The one who's completely terrified of human beings.

Juna's newest words are naked and mailman and Avie's unusually friendly with the plumber.

Now if Miss Boo starts calling the UPS guy daddy, Matt is going to get very very worried.

Ultimate Baby Shower Gift

I have come up with the ultimate baby shower gift for the first time mom.

Take a big box. Fill it with sheets, numerous sheets. And towels,tons of towels. Get as many large plastic bowls as there are members of the family. Add some Lysol, add some fabric and carpet strain remover, and viola!

A puke patrol kit.
A deluxe upchuck box.
A throw up thwarter.

Otherwise known as the best damn shower gift she'll ever receive.

And you know what? She won't appreciate it. Oh no. The dear expectant mom will take one look at that box and go, "Um... I'm sorry? I just don't... understand???" And her non-mommy friends will turn and shoot snooty little daggers at you while thinking, "That's SO not an appropriate shower gift. There's not one fluffy bunny in the box!"

And you, the experienced mother will lovingly pat the expectant mom's shoulder and quietly exit, knowing one day she too will understand that even tho motherhood is amazing and wonderful and all that blah blah blah that should go without saying, it's more about the puke patrol, less about the fluffy bunnies.

There is no doubt that one day in the future, you will get a phone call from her, and in an exhausted and stunned voice she will say, "Last night was so awful. The green beans. The noodles. They didn't stop. They just kept COMING! And the milk? No one warned me about the milk."

And you will slap your forehead and say, "Face mask or nose plugs! Damn! Forgot those!"

Then your friend, now an official member of The Parenting Club, will say in an appreciative voice, "I didn't understand your shower gift. Now I do. Thank you, oh wise experienced one. Thank you."

Oh yes, my friends. You aren't really a part of the Parenting Club until you have upchucked Yogos spilling down your nightgown at 2am in all their artificially colored glory. You're not a Real Mom until you're sitting on the toilet with a big plastic bowl on your lap, praying for mercy while your sig other is in the other room, yelling, "They're all doing it at once! It's like the Exorcist in here!"

But there's no time for your own toilet issues, Buttercup. Buck up, as you trudge down to the basement or into the closet to fetch your own Puke Patrol Kit, wisely packed after the "I'm still finding bits of regurgitated animal cookies in my hair incident of 03." Don't be surprised if you pause to hug the box with relief as you gently clean up freaked out babies and children, change sheets, soothe children some more, cover children's cribs or beds with sheets and towels from your kit, then hand them a puke bowl of their own. It's probably best to get the stains out of the carpet or furniture right away. And don't forget that Lysol spray kills germs and odors.

Then, with your own puke bucket in hand, it's time to do laundry before the next wave hits. The first of numerous loads of laundry in the hours to come. Since these things always happen at 2am, it's ok to lean against the washer for support. Just remember to close the washer door so you don't throw up into the wash machine as it's filling with water. Because you need one more issue right now.

Your life for the next 3 to 4 days? Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.

And pray you and your sig other (if applicable) are at least one or two days behind each other in the misery, so at least one parent is of sound mind and body. And if both of you go down in flames with the children? May your higher power be with you, my friend.

THAT is motherhood. THAT is fatherhood. THAT is parenthood. And during times like THAT, the ultimate shower gift of all the things you need in one box when everyone's puking their guts out sure beats a fluffy stuffed bunny.

But if it makes you feel any better, go ahead and get her puke bowls with dancing duckies on the side. Sure to be appreciated when her head's stuck in one for three days straight.

Word To Your Mutha- The Winner

Nine people entered my contest.

Nine.

I am such a D List blogger.

I might actually even be E List.

Oh, but I wear it well, my E List Blogger status. I'm the little blogger that could. The Midwestern mother with a heart of gold. Just trying to make her dreams come true to make a better life for her family.

Cue the inspirational music?

I embrace my E List status! So much so, that I'm not an E List blogger. I'm an E! List blogger.

Hey, it worked for E! Entertainment. That little exclamation mark. It says so much. And in a loud speaking voice.

I wonder if the people who work at E! ever get tired of that exclamation point? John Assistant is typing out an email, "Hey, this is John from E. DAMMIT! Backspace backspace. John from E! Stupid exclamation point."

Do they ever, in a rebellious moment, leave the ! off the E? And if caught, do they get reprimanded by the boss? John Assistant's boss is standing behind his chair as John types an email. The boss taps the screen and says, "John... the exclamation point..." Instead of an office swear jar, do they have an office exclamation point jar? "I'm sorry John, but I noticed on your letter to Ryan Seacrest that you left the ! off your E. That's $5 for the exclamation point jar."

John Assistant hates his job.

I have a new goal in life. To one day make it to the E! offices, roam the halls, and ask various staff members how they feel about that exclamation point. From the receptionist to Ryan Seacrest. Maybe.. even Mankini.

This is the crap we E! List bloggers think about.

Ahhh but we E! Listers try harder to earn your love. We give away prizes. Does your famous A List blogger do that? Oh noooooooo. They just entertain you with insightful views of the world, told with impeccable writing ability.

We E! Listers give away dorky Richard Nixon souvenirs. Starting right now!


I tried to do the drawing before Matt came home today. I wrote down the NINE entries on pieces of paper, taking time to massage my hand from the writer's cramp. Then I added each name to Miss Boo's pirate hat. I handed the hat to Juna and asked her to draw a name.

She did this instead.

Yeah, let's wait for Matt. And with the magic of blogging, it's now bedtime, Juna. May I please have the pirate hat for our drawing?
Juna wants to take out the pieces of paper and eat them. Avie wanders in carrying a broom. I don't know why, either.

Avie draws the first name.

And hands it to me, rockin that Chris Farley/Ralph Wiggum hair.

And the winner is....

Avie draws another winner before Juna puts back on the pirate hat.

In case tut-tut cannot fulfill her duties as a Word To Your Mutha contest winner, Lauren is our runner up.

A nice exercise in karma, considering tut-tut came to my blog after viewing one of my shows on another blog. And she stuck around. tut-tut, email me with your contact info and your prize will be in the mail.

Let's keep the prize a secret so tut-tut gets a surprise when she gets her mail. It's Richard Nixony goodness, tut tut.

Thanks to everyone who entered. All.. nine... of you. Thanks for passing along the word of my show. We're almost to 600 views in less than two weeks.

Bizarre fantasies about an entertainment cable channel, pics of cute babies, and a prize giveaway. Can your A List blogger do that?

Not if they want to remain on the A List. Thank you and goodnight!

Joanna may do that, but I doubt she wants it advertised

Come for the Richard Nixon Birthday party for a four year old video? Go here. or to the post below.

I was a child in the 70s and on Valentine's Day, we'd give those mass produced paper valentines out to all the kids in the class. You know the ones that came 10 to a perforated sheet? Perhaps a Disney character or two. Pooh Bear rubbing his plump tummy while saying, "I love you, Hunny!"

I remember racing home from school and pouring over those little valentines, marveling at the colors and designs and the supposed sentimentality behind each one.

Fast forward 30 years to Valentine's 2008. I'm the room mother at my daughter's preschool, helping to hand out the valentine's day cards. Only in today's world, like all things in today's world, simple is no longer valued. Oh no. Those perforated little cards are tucked into cellophane bags dotted with sparkling hearts. The bags are filled with candy, the candy is hidden underneath stickers, and the bags are topped with light up twirly Sponge Bob pens for the boys, Hannah Montanna (sigh...) for the girls.

I stood there, helping the kids hand out big bags of goodies, having such a Charlie Brown moment. For I had hand made each valentine for Miss Boo's classmates. Carefully selecting the perfect sparkling red construction paper. Cutting them into tiny little squares. Fraying the edges to give them a crafty appearance. And, of course, hand writing personal messages to each child in the class.

When it was time to pass out Miss Boo's valentines, she became instantly embarrassed. "How come we didn't attach suckers to our valentines? Where are the the suckers, Mommy?"

Right here, honey. The sucker is your mother. She should have known everything has been cranked up a billion notches since she was a kid. And yet... it simply didn't register AGAIN. The kids were handing bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolates to teachers as I stood there, empty handed and feeling completely foolish. Something for the teachers... how could I have forgotten THAT?

When we got home, I dumped out Boo's valentine bag on the floor so we could look at each valentine card, just like I did as a kid. Boo rolled her eyes and kicked at them with her toes. "I don't care about THOSE, I just want the candy!" She raced away with a massive heart shaped sucker in her hand while the babies tossed the paper valentines into the air and babbled with joy. Avie, Juna, and I read each valentine, oohing and ahhing over the colors, designs, and sappy phrases.

I put the last paper valentine back into Boo's bag when I noticed a forgotten one that had been kicked to the side by Boo's toe. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was also a hand made card. Red card stock was carefully lined with pink paper. The front was covered in a puffy googley tiger that said, "You're puuuur-fect, Valentine!"

It was from her teacher. Her teacher had also gone the route of the simple home made card. Inside the card she had pasted a special valentine's quote she had printed up on the computer. It's a quote made famous by author Joanna Fuchs.

"Whenever I may go
You're in my thoughts and in my heart.
Wherever I may go:
On Valentine's Day
I'll like to say
I care more than you know."

And the quote was attributed to,
"-Joanna Fucks"

After doing take after double take, and after taking the card into brighter light to make sure my newly lasered eyeballs weren't playing tricks on me, I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

You see? Simple IS better.

Happy Valentine's Day, my friends.

Enough about me, how's my hair?

I was asked to write seven things about myself that the readers of my blog probably don't know.

Oh, there's a lot you people don't know.

And I intend to keep it that way.

Heh.

I never pass up the chance to talk about my favorite subject, so here's seven things about moi.

1. When I was a kid, the first time I ever had to give a speech to the class, I was really nervous. My mother's advice wasn't the typical picture your audience naked. No. Instead she said, "Picture your audience as tiny little cabbages." It worked. So anytime I am speaking in front of an audience, I am speaking to rows and rows of baby cabbages. And when you're telling me a story and it runs long, I picture you as a tiny little cabbage. Mon petite chou.

2. Speaking of stories that go on too long... When I lived in Los Angeles, I met a porn star at a party. In fact, I think that's a standard rule for parties in Los Angeles. One porn star for every 10 guests. We actually lived next door to a porn star. Or was that the prostitute and the male porn star lived downstairs? Next to the old lady who would pick up her nightgown and flash people who walked past her sliding glass door? I don't know why Hollywood can't come up with good story lines because that's a hit show right there. The quote I used in the title of this post came from this one particular porn star I met at a party. She was going on and on about something and noticed her story was running long. She stopped herself mid sentence, tilted her head to the side, and said, "Enough about me! How's my hair?" I don't know if that's her original line or what, but I thought it was brilliant. Then again, I was drunk.

3. I am related to an Academy Award nominated actress. She and my mother look alike. I have the same nose. We all have that upturned nose. Mine has a large freckle that everyone assumes is dirt. Like I've been taking nose dives into the dusty plains of America? I haven't met this lady, who is my second cousin, but my mother spent Thanksgiving with her and surprise, in walked Shirley Maclaine. My mother and Ms. Maclaine did not get along. I asked if she pictured her as a tiny little cabbage. My mother said, "Tiny little something alright..." Perhaps it was an off day for both my mother and Ms. Maclaine. Do two divas and a roasted turkey equal disaster? My stage name is this famous person's last name. Not because of her, because it's also my mother's last name. And it flows real nicely with Mae. Not that I actually NEED a stage name, but I have one handy just in case.

4. I am 100 percent convinced I will one day win the lottery. I don't actually play the lottery. There's an obvious flaw in my logic.

5. I won't see a movie in a theater because whenever I do, the strangers seated near me will either fart repeatedly or have a bad case of the garlic burps. It's happened so often I wonder if it's a sign I should stay away from movie theaters. I made the exception for Chronicles of Narnia, because, well, duh, and some how found a way to get an entire row of seats to ourselves. Unfortunately I got a bad case of the coughs and hacked my way through the entire film. Thus, being that annoying girl who hacked her way through Chronicles of Narnia. That's why we subscribe to Netflix.

6. I just realized none of these stories are original to the blog world, as I have been blogging since 99 as different versions of myself. Don't question the creative. Just nod and smile and pretend to understand. There are no stories you haven't heard that I want you to hear left to tell. This means I must venture out into the world and have some exciting new adventures. Thanks to my internet show, that just might happen. I've already had experiences because of that show that I haven't been able to talk about yet. I have a feeling there's many more to come. And that's all I have to say about that. For now. But you know me. Once I can, I will take you with me down the rabbit hole with me like never before, Alice.

7. Coming soon.

What A Drag

This blog post was inspired by a story I told tonight.

I've never shared this story with you.

I've never shared this story with anyone. Because it used to be embarrassing. But honey, I'm a blogger. What is embarrassing at this point? Seriously. What's a little humiliation amongst hundreds of strangers?

This happened yars and yars ago, back during my club days. Not the thin and gorgeous club days. The Chub Club days. The days when I squeezed my poundage into bursting at the seams clothing and hoped I could keep it sucked in long enough for the beer buzz to kick in.

My friends and I had gone to a gay bar because we wanted to get hit on by gorgeous men who had no interest in us. I can't explain it any further than that. You either get it, or you don't. And in this case, we didn't, because we didn't want it and neither did they. Sometimes a girl just needs that kind of a night to feel appreciated in this world.

I was leaning oh so fashionably against the bar when a drunk man stumbled onto me and then started apologizing profusely. "Oh sweetie, I'm sooooo soooo sorry! Did I hurt you? Did I knock your drink over? I'll buy you a new one. What are you drinking?" Then he stopped and did a double take. "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! You are beautiful. YOU are gorgeous! SO SO gorgeous!!!"

He motioned for his lady friend to come closer. "Come here. Come look at her. Isn't she GORGEOUS?" His lady friend gave a bitchy toss to her skinny little head and shrugged. "I guess."

"NO!" He stomped his foot. Then both feet. "Honey! You are fierce! You. Are. FIERCE!"

Skinny Lady Friend began moving him away. He turned backwards to yell at me as she drug him away, "You stay strong now! You stay beautiful! Always stay beautiful!!!"

I turned proudly to my friends who were also leaning fashionably against the bar next to me and looked terribly amused. "Look!" I said pointing to the duo as they exited. "Did you see that? Did you see him tell me how beautiful I was? He was GUSHING over how beautiful he thought I was!"

My friend looked bored. "Yeah. That's because he thinks you're a drag queen."

"He also said I was- What?"

"Yeah. He thinks you're a man dressed as a woman."

"No. No! No he does not. He knows I'm a woman."

"No. No! No he does not. He thinks you're a man. A drag queen."


And with that, more friends came in to join us and the subject drunkenly changed to boots or purses or drugs or whatever it is 20 something year old straight women talk about in gay bars.

The subject of that drunken gay man thinking I was a drag queen was never brought up again. Until now. ACK! Why am I telling you this story?

Because it's always made me wonder. Did he really think I was a drag queen?

You know what? At least he thought I was a beautiful drag queen!

And that's my some gay drunk guy thought I was a drag queen story.

Top that, Mommy Bloggers!

I see

Yesterday, my 27 years of wearing glasses and contact lenses came to an end. I had Lasik vision correction. Yesterday, I couldn't see the largest E on the very top of the eye chart. Today I can see the tiniest letters on the chart! Want to hear how it went? Of course you do. You like hearing gory details and I like giving them.

I arrived at the vision center at 930am. I was taken into a testing room to have my eyes re-tested, just to double check the numbers. Before I even leaned in to stare at yet another red dot, I was given a Valium and some water.

Nurse: Here's your Volume.
Me: (twitch)
Nurse: You should start feeling the Volume in 20 minutes.
Me: (twitch twitch twitch)
Nurse: Have you ever taken Volume before?
Me: Please stop calling it Volume before I have a seizure.

Ok, I'm too nice to say something like that. But come on, lady. You give people Valium all day long for a living. You can't say it correctly? And you're not even southern, so there's no excuse.

And she wasn't the only one. I was escorted to the Zen Room, which is a darkened room with a fountain where patients are supposed to zen out and let the VALIUM take effect before surgery. One dude was sound asleep and snoring. Another dude leaned in and asked, "Can you feel the volume yet?"

No, but I don't understand how I am supposed to zen out to the VOLUME of "Born To Be Wild" playing on the stereo. That's not very zen. And I said so. Everyone in the room laughed except for Snoring Dude, who kept on snoring.

One by one, everyone left for their surgeries. I was left with a guy named Bob who owns a car dealership in Illinois. Bob was hilarious. He kept asking where the shot girl was with extra shots of Valium. I agreed. It had zero effect on me. And on Bob. We were both jittering out of our seats.

Then it was my turn. I said goodbye to Bob and the zen room, which was currently playing The Locomotion. I was taken into another exam room where a friendly man in scrubs put numbing eye drops into my eyes and opened up a sterile package containing a pen. He explained how the doctor was going to make marks on my eyes. "But don't worry, you won't feel a thing."

The doctor was going to write on my eyes? Bad oldies music or not, I wanted back into that zen room. But it wasn't bad. The doc came in, shined a bright light in my eye, made his marks, and repeated it on the second eye. It felt like someone was placing a contact lens in my eyes, no biggie at all. And with the bright light, I couldn't see the pen coming at me.

Then it was show time. I was taken into the operating suite that had a big machine and a long chair, almost like a dental chair that fully reclined. I laid back on the chair and was given two small squeezie soccer balls. Then the lights dimmed. The doctor sat behind me and said he'd talk me through the entire procedure.

First he taped open my eye, securing both sets of lashes with tape so they would not fry under the laser. More numbing drops were placed in my eyes. A large piece of machinery moved over my face. I was told to look at the little orange light. It looked like a circle of white light with an orange dot in the middle. That's all I could see, that's all I was aware of in the room was that circle and dot.

Then an instrument was placed on my eye to hold it open and more numbing drops were applied. Still no pain. He said I would feel the need to blink, but wouldn't actually blink. Then he said all I needed to do was focus on the orange dot. And then it all began.

I was aware of a suctioning sensation on my eyeball, then pain. Actually the pain was pretty intense. It got to the point where I was about to say something, then it immediately stopped. Then I was told the dot would go away and everything would go dark. And it did. And here's where it gets confusing. I'm not sure if the popping noise of the laser happened next or not? I was really focused within and even tho it happened in both eyes, when I go to that place in my brain to soothe scary and traumatic thoughts, I tend to forget details of the actual "trauma."

I can tell you when the popping of the lasers began, I smelled my eye burning. Oh yes, you can smell it! It doesn't last long and at this point there was no pain. I was then told the orange dot would come back into focus and it did. Then he said he would pour a cooling wash in my eye. It felt great. Then he said I would see the image of a sponge sweeping over my eye. I did. It did not hurt. I couldn't feel it at all, actually.

There was some measuring and some numbers called out and the next thing I knew, he was removing the lid tape and placing a protective shield over my eye. Then it was time for the left eye.

This is when my heart really began to pound and I was regretting not asking for another Valium. The left eye went just like the right, including the same amount of shocking pain to the point where I wanted to yell ow, then it abruptly stopped. Then the same thing as the right. But it did seem the left eye took longer. There were more numbers called out, more measurements being done.

It took about 2 mins for the right eye and maybe 3-4 for the left. A shield was placed over the left eye, I sat up, the lights went on, and I was told to look at the clock. I could just make it out, but the shields over my eyes and the tape securing the shields made it a bit blurry.

Then I was taken to Matt, and we were given a bottle of wine and post op instructions, and sent home. I walked outside with Matt and could see everything, including our license plate in the distance. But I still shut my eyes and let Matt guide me to the car. I kept them shut the whole way home.

My eyes didn't hurt, but they did feel gritty, sandy, and at times like a tiny piece of glass was floating around in them. Nothing extreme, mostly annoying, but totally understandable under the circumstances. Easy to accept, let's put it that way. There was no need for painkillers.

We got home, and I tried to eat some lunch, but really felt like laying down. I ended up napping about an hour and when I woke up, the cut glass in my eyes feeling was gone. My eyes felt swollen and uncomfortable, but not painful. I spent the rest of the evening on the couch, listening to TV. No TV, no reading, no computer.

Sleeping with the bug eyed shields over my eyes was not a problem, but I did wake up with my eyes glued shut from the drops they had used. I removed my shields and hopped into the shower and was amazed that I could read the labels on the shampoo bottles.

Actually I was freaked out by the experience. After 27 years of having such poor vision, it just felt so weird to be able to see so clearly. I was also worried about protecting my eyes and anxious to get to my post op appointment.

I was able to drive myself, just marveling at the clarity of my vision. Road signs! Tree branches! Cracks in the road! I could see EVERYTHING!

I am currently at 20/20 vision and will improve slightly over that. That was the promised vision amount, since my vision was pretty poor to begin with. My reading vision is perfect and I am not having any distortion. I am getting some slight haloing around bright light, but nothing extreme. It currently feels like I have worn my contacts way too long. Slightly sore eyes, but no pain and no cloudiness.

I have a series of drops to use several times daily for a week. About 20 mins after use, I get a bitter taste in the back of my throat.

I see the doctor in one week for a follow up visit. Until then I am to enjoy my vision, but not the actual look of my eyes. No eye makeup allowed! The drops tend to crust up a bit around the lids, ack. I'm not very pretty right now.

I do believe I felt more pain than others usually do during the procedure because I have extremely deep corneas. Just a guess and I forgot to ask the doctor that question this morning.

I am just so shocked that this is real, that I can see without glasses or contacts. I've been waiting for this for a very long time. This was made possible courtesy of a few voice over accounts that came in at just the right time. I went to a doctor who is one of the best and his prices reflect that! I should have it paid off as soon as my voice checks arrive, which is a relief and makes it even sweeter.

Any questions for me?

Boo's first sleepover

You remember Britney from the charity birthday party show? WHAT? You haven't watched a single episode of my show? Don't you know I'm the next big mommy superstah? Inside my head? Where offers to work on TV come pouring in on a daily basis! Ahhh it's so nice inside my head.

Britney's daughter Hannah is Boo's best friend. Well today I was interviewing Britney (AGAIN, ARRRGG says Britney) for an upcoming show. Yes, I am repeating show guests. Because! I have no other options here, people. I'm a middle aged Midwestern housewife who has a video show on the internet. Of course my friends have to keep re-appearing on my shows. Who else is going to be on them?

We were in the middle of the interview when her toddler Eli began to struggle to breathe. Britney called the DR and was told to head to the ER. And I raced after her saying, "But my show! You didn't finish your interview! What about my show!!!"

Yeah, that happened in my head, too. It's a bit wacky in there.

They brought Hannah to our place. Hannah was totally freaked out, and not sure of spending the night away from her family. Matt and I tried to make it fun for her, and soon the girls were doing their Mulan kicks while wearing princess dresses and causing their usual mayhem. Oh but first Matt and I had to do Mulan kicks to get the party started. Matt and I did Mulan kicks. That alone should be an upcoming episode.

Boo and Hannah were about to watch a movie when Hannah turned to her and said, "Did you see Oprah last week? She had on a tapeworm and a ringworm! It came out of someone's butt! It was in their poop! Isn't that cool?"

Boo waved her hand dismissively in the air and replied, "I don't watch Oprah."

Then later at bedtime Hannah handed "Mr. Matt" her book and said, "My book first, cuz I'm the guest!"

Boo rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, "Yes, Hannah, we know, we KNOW!"

Hannah's reply? "Oh my goodness, for heaven's sake!"

Update- Hannah's brother has a nasty virus. Britney being Britney - even when the DR said it wasn't RSV, she still asked Eli to be tested because of his exposure to Avalon and the preemie risk of RSV complications up until age 2. The doctor agreed, Eli was negative, and I am thankful for a friend who was so thoughtful. After all she has done to help us in our numerous emergencies, it was so nice to return the favor and help her this time!

But let me tell you something. After having two four year olds and two one year olds in the house- I am tired. Wow, I am tired!

Another day, another palindrome birthday

Boo: Mommy, what's wrong?
Me: I'm sad about my birthday.
Boo: Why, Mommy?
Me: It means I'm getting older which means I'm getting more wrinkles.
Boo: (touches my face) It's true, Mommy. You do have wrinkles.
Me: I don't want wrinkles.
Boo: But Mommy, that's what happens when you're a grownup. That's part of being a grownup. It can't be helped. I still love you.
Me: Thanks, Boo
Boo: Happy Birthday, Mommy. Happy Birthday, Wrinkle Mommy!

Yes, it's that time of year again. Time for me to age another year.

I no longer lie and say I am younger than my actual age.

I lie and say I am older.

"WOW! You look amazing for a woman of 51 years!"

Why yes. Yes I do.

1 month, then I'm late

December 7th as I type this.

One month until my birthday. My ouch ouch ouch hurts to type this...Thirty... ow ow ow Seventh... birthday. Ack.

As a kid, December 7th was AWESOME. I'd wake up singing, "One month til my birth-day, one month til my birth-day. Cha cha cha, cha cha cha! One month til my birth-day!"

As a 36 year old, this morning's song in my head was more like, "One month til my birthday? Crap. One month til my birthday. Sigh. One month til my birthday. Wake me when it's over."

Didn't help that this morning I woke up from a dream where my breasts had deflated and were hanging to my knees. You know, like how they animate little old ladies? Those big ol sandbags for boobies, wibblin and wobblin to the floor?

I woke up and grabbed my chest but didn't get the reassurance I was hoping for.

37? That's LATE 30s.

I've been desperately holding on to mid-30s. "I'm in my MID-30s." As if that made me sound younger. Mid 30s, please! Not LATE 30s. MID 30s.

I picture a large 37 hiding behind a 35 and the 35 pushing it forward. "Uh uh. No no no. You're 37. You're supposed to be in the LATE 30s section."

I picture an awful lot of odd things in my mind. Animated saggy breasts. Numbers that can talk. Senility IS a sign of old age, dontcha know.

Yeah yeah yeah. 37 isn't OLD. Talk to the age spotted hand. I've got a canyon running between my eyebrows and two sand pits hanging under my eyes. Speaking of hanging, let's not even go back to the breast issue.

It's not so much the fading looks. Or inching ever so closely to fuh fuh fuh fuh ... spit it out... Forty. It's the fact that it's going so quickly, this life. I was just celebrating 36, albeit a bit begrudgingly. I blinked and here I am. Again.

Aging gracefully in a youth obsessed society. Slowing down the aging process in a fast paced world. Stop me before I become a Oil of Olay commercial.

I realized the other day I've been on the internet for almost 13 years. Blogging for 7. Never was my age more apparent than when a newbie to the online world, ten years my junior, blew off my concerns over internet forum safety and privacy. I was half incensed, half embarrassed. Incensed because someone with my online experience, and there have been many straaaaaange ones, knows what's she talking about. Listen to me. Learn from me. Embarrassed because of course someone youthful would have a devil-may-care attitude. What am I saying? Someone youthful would never use the expression devil-may-care!

These days, you can't swing a cat without hitting a blogger. Again with the old fashioned expressions? Now that I'm LATE 30s, I find those expressions quite comforting. No longer do I feel the need to use the latest slang. In fact, I find the latest slang a bit uninspired. Come on, kids. You'll never out-awesome my generation's over-use of awesome. We still do it to this day. You'll do it, too. Dude.

So here I am, soon to enter my late 30s. I've got a house that I dislike a great deal in a slow buyer's market and a figure I can't seem to tame down to a reasonable size. My only hobby is writing in a blog that can't get beyond a few readers a day, a career that has sputtered to a halt due to my lack of time to nurture it along, and an idea for a mommy show that will never amount to anything more than "that one show I once did on the internet when I was in my MID 30s and still dared to dream."

On the up side I've got a husband who seems to love me in spite of ... being me.... Three amazing little girls who fascinate and delight me daily. Three cats and none being used to club unsuspecting bloggers, despite my fondness for the dated expression above.

I'm to the point where I can look back on my 20s without wincing, high school was too long ago to even give a second thought, and the pains of my childhood don't hurt as badly. I am funnier, wiser, and wittier than I've ever been. You don't get that at 21, my friends. This isn't brazen cockiness of youth speaking. This is the self assured satisfaction of the experienced.

Maybe LATE 30s won't be so bad after all.

Ooph! Orectomy!

Just saw the doc.

Tumor sounds scarier than cyst. Is it the same? It isn't, right? Or is it the same? I don't know. I kept saying cyst and Doc kept correcting me with tumor. Whatever. It was benign, it's gone, la la la.

The removal of an ovary is called an oophorectomy. What a fun word.

Doc and I were at the desk right before you exit the back of the office and he was filling out a prescription for me. Here's how the conversation went. Note there were numerous nurses and some pharmacy reps standing there.

Me: Oh! I forgot to ask. I'm off all restrictions now, right?
Him: WHAT? No! You've got five more weeks.
Me: WHAT?
Him: Yeah! You just had major surgery!
Me: Five weeks!
Him: I told you that.
Me: I wasn't listening! You mean I can't lift anything for five weeks?
Him: Nothing over 20 pounds.
Me: But one baby is 22 pounds. How am I going to pull this off?
Him: Unless you want to end up back in the hospital- no lifting.
Me: And what about, you know... *winks* You know.
Him: Sex? You just had major surgery!!
Me: I know but I'm bored!
Him: Five more weeks!
Me: You're not making it a very Merry Christmas at my house.
Him: Five weeks.

Then I stopped at Target and thought I was going to DIE. I was fine all the way to Pharmacy. Left Pharmacy for Children's Clothing and wondered how I'd make it back to Pharmacy for my prescription. That was stupid of me.

Then I got into line that was six people deep, Merry Freakin Christmas, and leaned over my cart in attempts to hold myself up, wondering how I was going to handle this, for real. Five weeks, no lifting Juna. How would I get Juna into her crib? How would I get Juna into her high chair? How would I get both babies into the car to pick up Boo from her activities?

The answer is I can't and I won't. I have to get extremely clever. Mattresses and seats will go on the floor. A friend will be paid to fetch the child as needed.

This is life when you only have one family member and that family member has a job and all your friends have kids.

I am SOOOOOOO ready for this crazy year to end. This is my third instance of needing help this year for an extended period of time. Post birth and Av in the NICU in Jaunary. Two weeks in China in June. And now six weeks for surgery.

NOTHING can go wrong next year with me. Seriously. Everyone is fried, tapped out, and I'm sick of needing help. I don't do well with needing help.

Counting the days until January 8th...

Good Morning!

WHY do I always get woken up early from the sexy dreams? If I'm being chased by a psycho killer, the dream goes on and on and on. If I'm dreaming I'm doing things... I can't tell you what I was doing. But they were good. And HELLO! Five minutes into the most amazing dream I've had in ages and there's commotion in the house and I'm up. Damn I'm up.

Getting out of bed post abdominal surgery? I have much sympathy for beached whales. I flip, I flop, I grunt, I get nowhere. When I do manage to hobble to the bathroom, I don't like to find it already occupied. Then I have to hobble to the back of the house and down a step. I don't like finding THAT one occupied, too. Especially when I pass my husband in the hall. There's only one other person able to use a bathroom in this house. Why are both occupied?

There was a water main break in my mother's 'hood this morning. She arrived early for the day and brought her Paramour with her. Her Paramour, whom is quite fond of the extreme right wingie dingie news programs and watches them non-stop when here. I'm a middle of the road kind of person. Extremes of any kind exhaust me. I also dislike waking up to politics. I dislike waking up. I'm not a morning person.

I wandered into the TV room to find him watching a scene where beautiful and obviously augmented blonde was walking a bloated Eurotrash dude around a multi million dollar estate. Blondie was barely wearing what looked to be a miniature black cocktail dress. La La's pushed together, hiked up, and threatening to break free from the barely there fabric. Cue the wakka wakka wow p*rno music? What the hell is my mother's boyfriend watching?

Cut to bloated Eurotrash Dude saying, "Yes. I come to America to buy property. America dollar eez so weak. I get much for my money. I buy in South Beach only because women are so beautiful."

Snort. The only reason that dude gets any is because he's rich. Take away his money and that blonde wouldn't even casually glance in his direction. So who was that blonde anyway? His girlfriend? Mistress?

His real estate agent.

I've been living in the Midwest too long. Of course she sells multi million dollar real estate in South Beach. Bet she's super successful, too. Who would a rich dude rather do business with? A bikini model or some skinny sweaty dude with a shoulder twitch?

Imagine you and your family go to look at a four bedroom, two bath home in a nice middle class neighborhood. You show up and your Realtor is wearing leopard print hot pants with a bikini top. "This area has a great school district!" Leans over, spills out of her bikini. "And the back yard deck would be great for entertaining your church group!"

That wouldn't go over so well here in the Midwest.

Then the story about American real estate and the weak dollar ended. Cut to the anchors in the studio. Male and female, not seated behind an anchor desk, but perched on high back chairs. Male anchor dressed head to toe in conservative suit. Female anchor in micro mini, low cut tight shirt, thigh high black boots, with long red hair skimming her ample chest.

No wonder men love these news channels!

Wow, a lot has changed in morning news since I had kids. While I've been watching Backyardigans, morning female anchors have gone from attractive to downright sexy. Yes I HAVE been in the Midwest too long. I want my morning anchors covered. I want them to look like serious news anchors. I don't want her to look like she's running out to attend her friend's bachelorette party.

My mother's beau then turns to me and says, "If you looked like her, you'd have no problems getting a job in television."

I'd raise the Terror Alert:Bitch to the next level, but I'm not sure it can get much higher.

Someday you will ache like I ache

I've reached Terror Level: Bitch.

OH I hate this oh how I haaaate this.

You would think I'd get off on being the diva in need. Lounging on the couch, fanning my face while affecting a Paula Deen voice and drawling, "Sugar, be a dear and get Mama a Perc-OH-set."

It's too much like this time last year with the pregnancy bed rest with day and night on the couch, and nothing but the teevee to keep me sane. Here we are again, after one crazy ass year and I'm shattered. I know it hasn't even been a week but I've HAD IT.

It's fabulous to lay around all day with nothing to do. IF YOU FEEL GOOD! If you aren't feeling surgical staples digging into your belly. I'm ready to rip these suckas out. HOW do I still hurt? Surgery schmurgery, blah blah blah. Recovery from a laparotomy is sloooow. And I'm not the most patient woman in the world.

There are three people keeping this house together. My Mother, who is 75 years old and gets exhausted just from walking up our driveway, so imagine what two babies do to her. My friend Britney who is making sure the three year old is taken care of. And the Husband, oh the dear husband. Between three shrieking me me me me's and one bitchy angry wife, he's ready to leave home.

I have to work Tuesday. Granted I work from home by sitting at a desk and reading out loud. But right now it hurts to delete a program from my Tivo. Reading a commercial with Much Enthusiasm is going to flatten me. Look, if I don't do it, someone with a younger and sweeter voice will do it for me. My line of work can be highly competitive and I will not let the former Senor Cystie blow my cash flow.

I see the doctor to have the staples removed on Thursday. I'm hoping he lifts all restrictions and I can drive and lift babies and be a normal human being again.

This house can't survive much more at Terror Level: Bitch.

Ow

It's been four days since surgery and can I just say, "Ow?" I'd rather say some other choice words, but you get the drift. OW sums it up nicely.

I'm not into painkillers at home. I don't like that fuzzy headed feeling. Being high in the hospital is one thing. High at home with three kids and an exhausted (and sick with a sinus infection) husband? I can't lay on the couch all stoned and singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow but have it end up being Rainbow Connection, and ask anyone who will listen if if they think I could get Kermit the Frog to sing on my show. Not that I'm saying that actually happened or anything...

It's Advil for me. Advil is not cutting it. I hurt. Oh gawwwwwd I hurt.

I do what I always do when I hurt. I laugh at my pain. Example: I think this hurts so badly because I have a fat n floppy lower belly. And when I stand up, the fat propels my belly forward and tugs painfully at the staples. Then there's the black and blue mark to the far right of the staples causing much pain. Oh, maybe right about where the ovary once resided, just thought of that. I think I was told in my drug haze that the cyst had seeped through the ovary and adhered to belly fat. Dr Mac had to scrape out extra belly fat to remove the ovary. Sounds like a nice bonus, but the right side of my belly is smaller than the left. I have poofy fatty belly on the left, a weepy incision held together by bright silver staples in the center, then a much smaller pouch of fatty belly on the right.

You want me, don't you.

There's nothing to do but watch Bridal Television. If you could hear me say that sentence, it would be said with one eyebrow raised, then a two eye roll.

I got married in 1998. Bridal Television consisted of A Wedding Story. Crews followed a couple the days leading up to their wedding. Did you know Matt and I were considered for that show? Oh yeah. Banyan Productions produced the show at the time and chose us as finalists. We appealed to them because it was a destination wedding at a ski resort. Oh and duh- because Matt and I are just way too adorable. Obviously not adorable enough. Banyan went with a wedding in that area, only the chosen wedding was held outdoors, down by the river. Not in a van or anything. Just down by the river with the sun sparkling off the bride's tiara and the mountains providing the perfect backdrop.

Actually it's funny because Banyan Productions produces all kinds of TV for ladies and you know what kind of show I do on the other blog, riiiiiiight. Oh Banyan. You didn't choose me last time. Choose me this time? We could make beautiful mommy tv together. You don't know I exist, but call me??

The lovers, the dreamers and meeeeeeeeee!!!

So Bridal Television. The days of A Wedding Story are looong over, my friends. Now Bridal Television is allll about, "How much can we spend on this wedding?" Middle class families spending 50, 70, 100 grand plus on a wedding? Are THEY high? I'm wondering if any old skoolers out there are reading this who didn't even come close to spending that amount on their wedding. Like me. And I had a resort destination wedding. But those were the days before these wedding shows influenced millions of young brides and helped catapult the wedding industry into a multi billion dollar one. Aaaand helped jack up the price of the "average" wedding.

It's the most important day of your life and you only do it once (mmm hmmm good luck with that) and you have to do it right. Sure, if you have that kind of budget. But I see these average families who literally go deeply into debt for a wedding. I think of what that average middle American couple could do with 70 grand. And it's all gone in one day. But that's what it costs! And it's my special day! Soooo, I guess it's not a wedding if you don't pay 10 grand for the centerpieces? Me? I'd rather get clever with the budget and save the rest for a massive down payment on a home. Then again I'm ten years into a marriage with three kids and in my late 30s. Consider the source.

We could not go into debt for our wedding and neither could our parents. Period. And I still got a beautiful wedding, reception, and an after party in Aspen freakin Colorado. It's amazing what one can pull off with a bit of creativity and whoooole lotta charm.

Hey, for those who do go insane with the wedding spending, and really can't afford to, and then televise the madness? Thank you! I'm in pain, I'm bored, the kids are screaming, I can't help Matt, and I need to feel sorry for someone other than myself. And just like that, I went from OW to Me-OW!

Seriously, 8 grand for a VEIL??? When the parents had to get a second mortgage on their home for that veil?? Am I the only one befuddled by this?

Me VS Senor Cystie. Senor Cystie Won

I was told I needed to sit up today for about an hour, so this is my sitting up time. I'm still shaky and out of it, so I hope this makes sense!

Oh Senor Cystie. Because of you, I have one less ovary.

Want to hear how it went? I will spare no gory details.

I am writing this with about a four inch vertical incision from pubic bone up to belly button. It's not as long as my vertical C Section scar, but in the exact same place. Doc just cut through the old scar tissue to avoid making my lower belly into a map of surgery scars. It hurts like you cannot even imagine. Unless you've had a similar incision. Then you know the feelings of staples holding together your belly and muscles crying out in pain underneath.

The day began at 8am. I checked into surgery and was given a pager, ala popular restaurant style. It buzzed each I was needed. I was also given a number and a color coded page to give to Matt. As surgery progressed, he could look at a screen, find my number, look at the color of the number, and know how I was progressing in surgery. Sort of like flight information.

The first buzz meant registration. Hand over insurance card, ask if you have a living will, etc. Yeah, they ask you those awful questions. This time I answered yes, I do have a will. I felt so grown up! The second buzz meant give the pager to the husband and head into pre-op. Pre-op is a large room filled with curtained off beds. There is an area with loungey chairs where blood is taken to test blood type and platelet count. Then women of child bearing age head to the bathroom for a urine sample to test for pregnancy. Then you are escorted to your own private curtained off area, told to strip down and put booties on your feet and a cap on your head and a gown on your body. I always look at the people in their beds and wonder what they're in for. I also enjoy eavesdropping on their conditions, especially after they are given the happy drug. You wouldn't believe the dirty jokes when people are given the happy drug!

At that point, it was only 830am, so I had a lot of time to just sit there until surgery. I chatted with my nurses, all fascinated to hear the two babies two months apart tale. You think I talk a lot under normal conditions? Pumped on adrenaline, and I can't stop. I've said before I'm actually funnier when freaked out. I had a one woman show going on behind curtain #8.

When it's IV time, it's almost show time. You first get an injection of a numbing medication, which stings and burns, then the IV catheter is inserted. At that point, things go quickly. Anesthesiology drops by often with numerous questions. The big one being nausea and talk about how to control nausea post-op. I was given a patch behind my ear to control nausea and told not to rub it, then touch my eyes or my eyes would dilate. Then my husband was paged so he could come in to say goodbye. He didn't get to say much because that's when Dr Mac's resident arrived to discuss what was going to happen, the Anesthesiologist came back, the nurse came in, and so did Dr. Mac.

Dr. Mac said there was a big chance I would lose the ovary entirely. And if he found Cancer, it was all going and was I ok with that? I told him not to bother saving my fertility just save my life. A Pathologist would be there to evaluate Senor Cystie and tell him which way to proceed. There was talk back and forth about the operating room being ready, then Matt was told to say goodbye. I had to hold back tears. I usually cry when I say bye to Matt before surgery but this time I was just anxious to get in there and get the yucky out of my belly. That's what Boo calls it. "Mommy has a yucky in her tummy."

The Anesthesiologist then told me she was putting something in my IV to relax me. Ooooh baby! The happy drug! That's the only bright side to surgery. You get good and high! It's the best you've probably ever felt in your life. You are happy, you feel giddy, you don't care what is happening to you. You can barely focus your eyes or think anything other than trying to control the laughter bubbling up in your chest as you are rolled down the hall into the OR. Or you concentrate really hard on not saying something inappropriate. I think if you have partied a time or two in your life, you know how to control those things.

This time, she ran light on the happy drug. I wasn't pleased. I wanted to be good and stoned, darn it. But hey, I can give a more clear headed report about what happens once you get in the room. Usually it's all lights and pretty colors! You are told to roll onto the operating table from the gurney. You can look around and see the OR and the big lights and cabinets. You might even see the surgical table and the instruments. There are numerous people in masks and everyone seems to be talking to you at once. Some nurses like to chit chat and ask about your home life. When that happens, I laugh and tell them I'm too stoned to remember I even have a family. This time, I could clearly answer questions.

Then your arms are strapped down to the table, a mask comes at your face, you are told to breathe in deeply and soon you will take a nice nap.... I remember thinking, wow, that mask is pink! What a pretty pink mask. Did I get a pink mask because I'm a girl?

Darkness. It's so fast with general anesthesia. No drifting away slowly. One moment your la la laing in your head and the next you are OUT. No panic, no falling into darkness. Just... darkness.

I woke up, knowing I was in Recovery but couldn't focus my eyes. The eyelids are too heavy and the vision is blurry at that point. I heard a nurse talking about a blood transfusion and full hysterectomy. I tried to speak, but after a breathing tube has been put in your throat, and it is when you have general anesthesia, you're a bit hoarse for a few days. I managed to eek out, "Me? I lost blood?" The nurse said, "Oh no, honey, that wasn't you. They just took out your right ovary and right tube. You're doing great."

I closed my eyes and have no clue how long I was out. When I opened them, I saw a clock that said 145pm and I was still in Recovery. Surgery had begun at 10am. No clue how long I was in recovery but at that point, I knew clearly that I HUUUUUURT. It felt like labor pains. I still couldn't see or talk well, but managed to say, "Pain. Hurt. Help." The nurse told me to press a button she had placed in my hand to deliver pain meds. I did, it didn't work. I heard her say, "We need to get this girl something stronger. I hate to see her in pain." She came back with morphine, I think? Felt like morphine. Not that I have a lot of experience with drugs, but I have been in the hospital a time or two. Yep, morphine. One quick injection into the IV and I was out again.

Then I remembered something very familiar. When Avalon was in the NICU, she was hooked up to breathing monitors. Preemies often forget to breathe. When that happens, the alarm has a shrill ring and the nurses know to watch the baby. The baby usually begins to breathe on their own. If they don't, the nurse can pat the baby and the baby will come to and start breathing again. I was in morphine land when I heard a beep. I instantly thought my alarm was going off and it was time to wake up for the day. No... I was hitting the alarm clock and it was still ringing. Wait a minute... I know that sound! I must be back in the NICU! I kept trying to reach for Avalon to shake her little body so she could breathe. Why wasn't Avalon breathing? Oh well, someone will help her. I'm just too tired to save Avalon. Beep beep beep! The nurse said, "Honey, take a breath. ... come on... breathe for me. BIG breath." ANd I thought, "Yeah Avalon, breathe for us! Huh? Oh? She meant ME! I took a deep breath and the alarm stopped beeping. She said, "Ok, remember you need to breathe, ok? Don't stop breathing on me again!" Breathe breathe breathe... morphine la la la la ... hope I don't die in the Recovery Room. Must stay awake and breathe breathe breathe... stay awake, ZZZZZ.

The next thing I knew I was looking at at Matt's face looking over me. I thought I was dead and saying goodbye to him. I saw people behind him in the waiting room. Was I dead or not? I refuse to have a death experience with strangers watching me from the waiting room. So typical, I have to die on display! I instantly began to cry. "That's normal after anesthesia," the nurses told him. "We're going to take her to her room now." Oh, I'm not dead. YAY I kept breathing! I fell back asleep, then woke up in a room. Opened eyes, more sobbing. Another nurse said, "Honey, it's ok, it's normal to cry after surgery. Are you in pain?" I tried to say I wanted more morphine, but was given that IV pump trigger. I hit it and ahhhh much better. It worked that time.

I'm not sure what happened after that. I talked to Matt a bit. I dope dialed some friends. It's just like drunk dialing, especially since friends don't expect to hear from you. I don't even know how my cell phone got in my hand. Matt I guess. I wonder what I said??

I was in a shared room. I told you that would happen! Worst of all, I was sharing with an old lady who couldn't control her bowels. I named her The Smellderly because she could really stink up the room. Sharing a room is the worst. She was in bad shape and when nurses when come to check on me, they had to quickly do something to help her. Luckily she just slept during the afternoon so I slept too. Until about 9pm, when every relative in the world began calling her. I kept hitting my pain meds, hoping I could just dope myself into sleep. It worked.

An hour later, I woke up thinking I needed to change a diaper. I remember thinking I smelled poop, Juna must be dirty. I paged a nurse to help me get up to change my baby. When you're that drugged, you can kind of process thoughts, but not too coherently. The nurse came in and her eyes got wide and she whispered, "OH MY GOD. " She told me it wasn't my baby and go back to sleep. She gave me some anti nausea medicine and quickly cleaned up The Smellderly who had pooped all over the bed. WHich meant all the lights came on and there was a lot of commotion. No more sleep for me. Hit the pain pump, nothing. You cannot sleep through The Smellderly.

That happened all night. It was a bad night. Between her pooping and her IV pump alarm going off every ten minutes with a shrill beep that could not be stopped without a nurses help, I did not sleep. Thank goodness I was so high that it didn't seem real.

The next morning I put off drugging myself so I could beg one of the friendly young nurses to please move me to a private room oh please oh please. She agreed no one should have to endure that stench, and in a few moments, I had a brand new room assignment but the room wouldn't be ready for five hours Five hours of The Smellderly. And Smellderly would not call the nurses to empty her bed pan. She'd leave them to stench up the room. I ended up pressing the buzzer each time I smelled her poop. WHY was that woman put in a shared room? She needed her own room from the start and she'd already been there one week.

I was taken off the morphine and told to get out of bed and walk the halls. Wander I did. Matt had come to visit and he and I traveled all around the halls so I could escape The Smellderly and her stench. Did my red Disney Crocs cause a sensation or not! Nurses appreciate Crocs and they really liked the Mickey head holes. That is one setting where red Disney Crocs are appropriate attire. I was told to try to pee and poop and as soon as I could, we could discuss me going home. Pee and poop? I could do this! But the bathroom? They dumped her dirty bed pans in the bathroom trash can. The bathroom reeked over The Smellderly. I was supposed to sit in there and concentrate on my own business??? Oh, and have you ever sat on a toilet after abdominal surgery? Wow, paaaaaaainful.

Soon my room was ready!! I settled happily into my own room and watched as much TV as loud as I wanted without the covers over my nose to block out the stench of rotting intestines. I had dinner, which I could eat because I wasn't gagging from Smellderly. I refused pain meds in favor of strong Ibuprofin. I had enough of that stoned feeling. A control freak like me can only take so much. I managed to sleep through the night, which isn't saying much in the hospital. Vitals are taken every few hours. The nurses would say hi, I'd hand over my arm, then go back to sleep. So unlike me. I usually get so freaked out in hospitals I don't sleep for days. I was loving being alone in that room, I just relaxed and passed out.

Your nurses can make or break the experience. I had a lot of nursing students when I was with Smellderly. They were so frazzled by her and the demands of the floor that they kept forgetting to tend to me. I had to give reminders for meds or food. Once the older nurses came on staff, everything changed. They kept on strict schedules and everything ran smoothly. And once I got into a private room, no one ever forgot any of my needs. That's the key-private room means better treatment. More than one person in a room and things can get off track and confusing. Especially when the room is stanky.

I had the best nurse on night two. She was from the Phillipines and would come in and say, "Hiya Mama Mia. Time for your medicines little mommy. " She was hilarious! I always get the best nurses on the nights I don't need their help. Most of them come by to say hello and chat for a bit and tell me their stories. It's nice to have that company.

The next morning I was told I could go home right after breakfast. I felt great! I got to shower and get ready. Matt got me and brought me home about 9am. Juna instantly rejected me and wouldn't come near me. Avie just smiled and waved and kept playing. Boo was at school but I was told she had been crying for me. It's awful to come home feeling so out of control. I cannot pick them up or care for them for a week. That's when the pain hit. I took some medicine and slept all afternoon.

The cyst had grown so large within the ovary, it had taken over the ovary and made it useless. It was pretty much all cyst at that point. My right ovary hasn't functioned in quite some time. I was told my cycles will still be normal, but might hit menopause two years earlier than usual.

I am to do nothing for one week. Between Matt and my mom, we should be covered. I feel like hell, but should feel normal in two weeks time. Juna will warm up to me again, Boo will adjust nicely and Avie is always Avie. Nothing phases her.

My hour is up and I am going to lay down and watch QVC. Goodbye until I can sit up for longer periods of time. Thanks for the well wishes, too! Much appreciated!

Surgery

Tomorrow I shall have surgery to remove an ovarian cyst. Thanks, PCOS. Thanks so much for yet another stupid complication.

See you on the other side. Of surgery. Not THE other side. I don't plan on checking out just yet!

City Moms

There's a lot of hooplah over suburban moms and housewives right now. The money, the dysfunction, the craziness.

Let me tell you something. City moms and housewives are just as crazy. I'm one of them and if that isn't enough proof for you, I don't know what would be.

Let me give you a peek into my day as an example.

Today was my Lasik consultation. I might shop the bargains for fashion but I won't shop the bargains for an eye surgeon. The doc I chose is accomplished and expensive. If we can swing another financed payment, Merry Christmas to me. If not, I'll just have to audition my little heart out until I gather enough dough to pay for the pleasure of eyesight without assistance.

Oh, let me just say that as I was driving home under overcast skies, with the wind whipping the red and orange leaves every which way, The Cure's "Lovesong" was playing on the radio. How perfect is that song for that setting? I had a moment in my Mom Mobile. It made me wonder what other moms listen to in their Mom Mobiles when the kids aren't around? I often laugh to myself because here I am, the mommiest of the mommies in the mommiest of vehicles and I'm blasting N.W.A and LOVING IT!

I get home to find a message on the machine from another City Mom. She's one of my working mom friends, so I don't see her as often as I'd like. Picture a stylish and professional blonde married to an accomplished husband living in a city home that always gives me house envy.

Now picture her leaving a message on my machine, asking if she could come over to my house... and vacuum.

Yes, you read that correctly. She wanted to come over and vacuum.

Yeah, like I'd turn that down!

She came over and brought her expensive and amazing twin side by side jogging stroller for me to borrow as well. Did you know some moms judge other moms by their stroller? Oh yeah, my stroller's been given the once over too many times to fathom. Now I'll give that crowd something to judge. The reason I'm in love is because it's soooo smooth and turns on a dime. It's the BMW of jogging strollers. You've seen me, of course I don't jog. I do walk and this stroller will be oh so comfortable to push on my walks.

My friend brings in the stroller and her brand new Dyson. She says, "I told my hair stylist today that I was so worried I offended you by asking to come vacuum. It's a sickness how much I love using this thing."

"Offended? I was overjoyed. Have at it!"

I made dinner while Matt played with the kids while my friend vacuumed the house. She told me I didn't have to help or shadow her, just sit down and eat. She was happy vacuuming.

TWO HOURS LATER, we said goodbye.

Two hours later! That woman moved furniture. She cleaned under beds. She vacuumed baseboards. And emptied tankful after tankful, filled with gray fuzz.

At one point she moved the ottoman, saw a pile of those new multi colored fruity Cheerios, and said, "YES! Orgasm time!"

I was embarrassed at first that my grime was exposed. After an hour, I just relaxed and figured hey, she was getting her jollies and I was getting clean carpeting.

I kid, but I was actually extremely appreciative. With surgery next week, I won't be able to vacuum, so she was really doing me a favor. The stroller, the vacuuming, and the laughs we shared made for a memorable evening.

There may not be white picket fences and four car garages, but we City Moms are just as nutty as our suburban counterparts.

It's more fun that way.

Happy Thanksgiving, you turkeys. I'll be back next week to bid you adieu before my surgery hiatus.

Juna milestone

She dances to the sound of the garbage disposal.

She squeals with delight when I open the freezer and carries frozen dinners around in her little hands while saying, "Brrrrr."

She tries to do somersaults when her big sister does them.

She kicks a soccer ball back and forth across the room.

She twirls around like a ballerina when she hears classical music.

When I say, "love," she will find her baby sister and hug her, then grin and giggle.

When her baby sister wakes up, she will run screaming with delight into the nursery to see her.

She is both terrified and fascinated with her big sister, and will copy her every move, including coloring with crayons.

She is now completely weaned and it took three weeks, even tho her baby sister still gets bottles. She is so proud to get a sippie cup and carries it everywhere she goes.

She understands most everything we say to her but can only say, "All gone."

She has been with us for 5 months and is now 13 months old.

Oh Juna. You're starting to look like a toddler. I love watching you grow, but am also sad that my little baby is becoming a such a big girl.

More ME ME ME

I got my hair cut. I got my hair cut. Whee whee whee I got my hair cut. Wait, I haven't fully annoyed you yet. One more time! I got my hair cut!

The last time I had my hair cut was in China. My bob had grown out into a blob. All round and shapeless. Like me!

I watched the footage I shot this weekend and felt my blob haircut was looking pretty blerg. Thankfully I had a hair appointment scheduled for today. I was flying blind with a new stylist. A relative of Drrrrrrty Gale, my buddy who earned that nickname last night in my dream. I feel dirty today. Drrrrrty Gale kept turning into Ryan Stiles. We were someplace Disney. It was so wrong. I'm so sorry Gale.

Drrrrty Gale was on my mind because he said to call him should I get lost en route to the stylist. The stylist is located in The West County. I never leave The City. The West County is out of my zone. Drrrty was quite wise to offer directional guidance because, of course, I got lost.

I was in the parking lot of Burlington Coat Factory, somewhere on Manchester Road. I was sweaty and confused and not just because it's 70 degrees in Mid November in St. Louis. Seriously, I have red tomatoes on the vine with roses in full bloom. Why did that sound as Drrrrty as Gale's nickname?

I made my frantic call to Drrrrrty:

Me: I'm lost. I'm in the Burlington Coat Factory parking lot.
Drrttty: Ok, look up. Do you see a road?
Me: Yes. Is that Manchester Road?
Drrttty: Yes. Do you see a building in front of you?
Me: Yes.
Drrttty: Do you see an "M" on the building.
Me: Yes.
Drrrrty: Does it say Metro Design Studio?
Me: Yes.
Drrrty: -------
Me: Oh. OH! I'm here! I'm not lost at all! I'm actually parked right in front of the salon! Thanks, Drrrrty Gale!!

The salon itself was like nothing I've experienced before. It was private room after tiny private room. No front desk or lobby. Just a bunch of rooms that could be closed off with curtains drawn. For all the celebrity clients we get in St. Louis? You can that kind of private luxury in The West County. The anti social freak in me totally dug it. I pretended I was special.

Miss J spent an hour and a half working on my hair. It's the most I've ever paid for a hair cut and looks it. She took five pounds off my face. I would have paid double just for that. But to get a sleek cut at the same time? Sweeet. I'd say you could check it in the next few episodes of the show, but you'll see the grown out blobby blergy haircut instead.

Then I did what any A Lister does after a hair cut. I ate at White Castle. I'm classy like that.

This entry was typed while Yo Gabba Gabba played in the background for the very first time in this house And for the last time. Juna took one look at those funky monsters and ran screaming from the room. I have to admit that I rewound Nathaniel's dance about ten times.

You rock, Nathaniel.

And so does my hair. Thanks, Drrrrty. I'd show it to you in person, but I'll never be able to look you in the eyes again.