In my brief period of working on The Floor(s) as a nurse, in addition to learning a zillion and one weird acronyms for such things as Follow-Up (F/U) and Shortness of Breath (SOB), I learned the term “Frequent Flyer.” Having only been vaguely aware of this term in regards to “miles” and “airfare” because I was a “poor college kid” and “didn’t travel much,” I was baffled when they referred to a patient as this during report (shift change).

Terrified of the seasoned nurses–you would be too-it took me awhile to muster up the courage to ask what the hell they’d been talking about. When I did, it was explained that Frequent Flyers were patients who were in and out of the hospital frequently.

Get it?

While I thought that a Punch Card Patient (buy 9 visits, get one free!!) was a bit funnier, it reminded me only of a kid I met in college. I’ll call him Ryan because that was his name.

Ryan was from a family of 4 boys–the original Sausage Factory–and these kids were, well, I guess the kindest way to put it is “accident prone,” but that gives you a nice mental picture of someone slipping benignly on ice in an “awe shucks, guys” kind of way. This was not Ryan’s family. As he explained it, these were the luckiest group of unlucky people on the planet. During a family ski vacation, one of his brother’s rolled his ski over another one of his brother’s hands at the top of a slope.

The result? A neatly severed finger, seeping blood into the white snow.

After fixing up said finger in the OR, his family was paid a nice visit from Children and Family Services. It seems as though the quickest way to get them on your ass (besides becoming a foster parent) is to install a revolving door through the ER. Shove through that 4 kids with rotating weird injuries, like broken ribs, missing fingers, busted heads, at semi-regular intervals and SMACK! BOOM! there you have it: you must be abusing your kids.

I can’t say with absolute authority that Ryan’s parents were NOT abusing their kids, but the laughter and general jollity he had about the situation led me to believe that no, this family was just luckily unlucky.

Because it is so often not my children that are involved with this, I’m fairly certain DCFS won’t be beating a path to my house to see how I caused cellulitis (Alex), respiratory issues (Ben) or an encephalocele (Amelia). This is obviously a stroke of genuine good luck, even with the steadily increasing severity of issues.

Between The Daver and I, we seemed to have amassed a stunning amount of stupid crap happening to us. Stuff that winds us up in the ER with various injuries.

(Bonus! Aside time! Sadly, of these probably 12-14 ER visits over the past 3 or so years, I have gotten my fist-full of exactly 11 Vicodin. Ever. Those 11 pills were easily the best part of my 27th birthday, and given to me at just the moment when July 14 waves goodbye to July 15, probably my best birthday present yet. Except the Cabbage Patch Doll that I got when I turned 4. But this is neither here nor there)

No, the list is boring and full of low-fat vanilla misfortunes. Nothing serious to warrant flowers, admissions (mostly) or even more than a simple, “Hey, I had to go the damn hospital last night. I hate hospitals” out of either of us. Corneal abrasion here, shoulder out of joint there, miscarriage here, Crohn’s issues there. No big deal. Stuff that could almost wait until the following day, when our regular doctor is open, except not so much.

If Ryan’s family was the luckiest set of unlucky people I know, my family would be the low-fat, low-sugar variety of that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m neither wishing things were worse or tempting fate here–I’ve had my share of Real Issues lately–but sometimes, you gotta take a step back from it all and have a good fucking laugh.

At least, that’s what I told myself when Dave gave himself what Twitter calls “Bagel Finger” this morning. Just as you’d imagine, he was recklessly cutting a bagel (obviously while saving a kitten from a burning building AND defending The Honor of his wife) when he miscalculated the amount of pressure he was exerting with his massive arms of steel (his guns, as I like to call them. Which, if you knew Dave, would make you laugh). Or he didn’t realize how sharp the knife was.

Either way, the morning slipped into afternoon with a bloody bagel and a busted finger.

As I drove him to the ER, the same ER we just took Alex to for his cellulitis not long ago (for the record, I am way too lazy to look up when this happened. But sources inside my head tell me it was “pretty recently”), I just had to laugh. Not meanly, no, I felt genuinely sorry for Dave, but just because this was becoming absurd.

I laughed, not unkindly, again as we walked out of the ER a scant hour later, Dave’s splinted finger jauntily reattached with some glue, catching the light with it’s shininess.

No, I laughed because no one would fucking believe it.

One of the weirder phobias I have–aside of my fear of tomatoes touching my food–is that I’m terrified of fish. I don’t mean that if I see an aquarium, I’m going to break out into a cold sweat and start crying, no, even I’m not THAT insane.

But since I can remember, my parents have been taking us to tropical places–I know, poor baby, right?–and along with tropical places = snorkeling.

When I was 4 or 5, my parents bravely took us to Mexico and in a stunning fit of idiocy on their part, they left my brother and I to swim alone while they leisurely relaxed in a cliff-type thing above us. Out of sight, out of mind, I think, was the idea. Having three kids of my own, I understand the urge. But I’m still unsure what the fuck they were thinking to leave a 14 year old in charge of a 4 year old in the ocean.

Because my brother promptly ditched me to go and strut his lack of muscles in front of a couple of bikini clad babes.

I could swim, though, so I just waded into the water.

What happened next has been replayed over and over in my mind for the next 24 years.

The fish, accustomed to friendly humans who might feed them delicious treaties, swarmed me. Since I wasn’t underwater myself, I couldn’t see their beautiful swirling colorful fins. Instead, I saw a bunch of black THINGS just swarm me.

I screamed so loudly that pretty much everyone at the beach–including my lazy parents– came running. Maybe they thought I’d been half eaten by a Jaws-like shark, or perhaps I caught sight of a fat hairy dude in a Speedo. Who knows.

All that I do know is that for years after this, I had to force myself to go into the ocean, shaking and terrified, every time we went on vacation. The fear would subside the moment I was under the crystal blue water, but up until that point, I’d be silently shaking in my swimsuit.

Our last family vacation happened in 2000. My brother–recovering from a nasty divorce and full-on taking every bad feeling out on me–was 30, I was 20. My parents made the grave error of leaving us alone to share a room where we fought like it was 1999.

This is likely WHY this was our last vacation as a family.

One of the days that we were there in Cozumel, we went to some renowned beach to get some snorkeling done and generally laze about the beach. By this age, I can assure you, I wasn’t upset that my parents didn’t watch me swim. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to get the fcuk away from everyone else and have some relative solitude in the waves.

I’m a decent swimmer, so once I got past the rocks and coral at the mouth of the beach–where, of course, in my normal good gracefulness, I fell and cut the shit out of my foot–I got pretty far away from the lip of the beach where I could get in and out of the water. This beach wasn’t really full of sand, you see. It was more the coral and other stuff that will cut a bitch (like me) up.

But I relished the soft whooshing of the ocean in my ears as I snorkeled about, following a family of yellow and blue fish around and trying to forget the hysterics of the morning. My brother had called me a worthless piece of shit for the 437th time that hour and I crumpled into a pile of tears outside of our villa. The 5,000 feral cats who’d been following me about swarmed me as I cried. It was strangely comforting.

It was wonderful to feel so free. There’s something so comforting about the soft lull of the waves, the ability to be a voyeur into another world, and after my initial fear, I am always reluctant to get out of the water.

Out of nowhere, as I was admiring a particularly delightful looking puffer fish, my body caught fire. I was electrified, my body searing in pain and I began to hyperventilate.

I popped my head above water to see if I’d run into some electrified fence (I was in pain and terrified. I know how dumb that sounds now), nothing. I forced my face down under the water to see what I’d obviously run into. If it were a school of jelly fish, then I’d do well to make sure to swim AWAY from it rather than into the swarm. Still, I could see nothing.

I swam choppily back toward shore, hyperventilating and panicking, now noticing just how fucking far away I was from the beach. I looked down at my arms and legs and saw with horror that I was now a mess of criss-crossed red welts, from my legs to my arms and my chest.

Finally, after what had to be at least two hours (read: 3 minutes), I grabbed hold of a ladder and hoisted myself shakily up to the beach. I sat at the edge of the cliff-type, surveying the damage and trying to catch my breath, crying heavily. I was breathing so shallowly that I was starting to white out, and using the last bit of my common senseI crawled back away from the edge, lest I fall to my watery death below. This time, I really could have used a chaperone.

I passed out for I don’t know how long, and when I woke up, the welts had turned to bleeding blisters and I had uncontrollable goose bumps without being cold and a good case of the shakes. I was now officially fucked up.

Eventually, my mother found me and helped me back to a towel and gave me a medicinal pina-colada. The rest of the vacation–including the following day which was a snorkeling boat cruise sort of thing–was uneventful by comparison. If that horse bucks you and all that good boo-yang, right?

—————

What’s attacked YOU, Internet whom I love beyond compare?

About 5 years ago now, I had been taking antibiotics for something or other I’d picked up during my clinical rotations and got the subsequent yeast infection.

So after school one Friday, I trundled off to the pharmacy and absentmindedly grabbed the cheapest Monistat cream–hey, I was a poor college student–I could find and headed back home, eager for some relief.

I’d had a case of the yeasties before, but never one that was quite so…irritating. If you haven’t had one, be grateful. It’s itchy and uncomfortable and gross all in one big pile. And there’s no good way to itch oneself in public without drawing major attention to it and I’ve never had the luxury of staying home to lay around with a fan blowing on my naked crotch.

This may have been the only time I’ve ever prayed for camel toe.

I’ve never been so happy to go home and shove something gross up my vagina before. After I’d inserted the first of seven pre-filled applicators, I noticed a little tube of what I can only describe here as ‘œClit Cream.’ I’d never used it before, but man, it sounded pretty good. I would have happily slathered horseradish down there if I had any idea it would relieve my pain.

I sat back, lubed myself up, and laid down for a nap. I fucking heart naps.

Several hours later, I was abruptly awakened to an even MORE uncomfortable feeling; it felt as though my entire crotch was on fire. I rushed to the bathroom, quickly applied more ‘œClit Cream,’ figuring this was a particularly nasty bug, and took a look at my privates. (not something I ever relish doing, TRUST ME)

Even taking a crap post 4th degree tear (thank you, enormous baby head) has not made me scream so loudly. My mother came running. I kept screaming. My delicate girly bits had swollen to the size of a fucking grapefruit.

It was Friday at about 4:30 PM. My doctor’s office was about to close.

I hobbled my broken crotch down the stairs, crying out from the pain as I made my way to the phone. I couldn’t imagine going to the ER or Urgent Care for a broken vagina and I wasn’t about to use any more over the counter shit.

I got Pinhead, RN who was ready to leave for the day and most unhappy that I was asking for a prescription for Diflucan.

An approximate recounting of the conversation:

Me: “I have a yeast infection. I need a prescription for Diflucan.”

Her: “Take a hot bath.”

Me: “I need a prescription for Diflucan. My crotch is busted.”

Her: “Eat some yogurt.”

Me: “I need a prescription for Diflucan. I’m in pain.”

Her: “Get some over the counter Monistat.”

Me: “I had an allergic reaction to that. My crotch is now the size of an inter-tube. I am not putting any more stuff up there. Now I NEED a prescription for Diflucan.”

You would have thought I was asking for a Dilauded drip.

Since it was Friday, Ben and I were heading out to our apartment in Oak Park (ed note: this was the norm back then), so I had the nurse call the coveted prescription in to the Osco out there. I was also instructed to get a vinegar douching kit and some hemorrhoid pads. Can we talk about sexy shopping lists or WHAT?

Ben and I got bundled up to combat the January cold. To provide some relief, I shoved a plastic baggie full of ice in my pants. At the time, my car was a manual transmission vehicle, and during the first 5 minutes of our hour long trek the bag busted a leak.

I was now sitting in a pool of cold ice water, in January, with an aching burning crotch. Every time I had to shift–which was about every 3 seconds–more water spilled out onto my pants. I have never been more done with a day.

The icing on the cake was that I had Benner with me. I had to look for The Worst Shopping List of All Time while trying:

a) not to noticeably drip water down my leg so that it looked like I had totally had an accident and

b) wrangle a 2 and a half year old child while

c) alone.

Ben jaunted happily up and down the aisles, playing the bongos on a couple of packs of Depends while I slowly realized what being pecked to death by a chicken would be like.

By the time I got back to our apartment, I had given up on being upset about the whole thing and decided to see the intrinsic humor in the whole situation.

After locking myself in the bathroom for awhile to take care of my crotchal region (imagine me gesturing wildly. It’d be funnier) I rummaged through our kitchen to find a Sharpee.

Rather than try and be all discrete and shit, I festooned the container of Tucks with the phrase, ‘œASS PADS!!!’ which I left out for all to see, proudly displayed on top of our toilet tank. If your privates are swollen and aching, they might as well be PROUD privates, right? More importantly, I wanted to see what other people would do if face-to-face with such a container. The reactions could have been Pure Comedy Gold.

The only people who managed to see it, though, were my super-conservative in-laws, who probably never had seen such vulgarity until The Daver brought me home. Is it any wonder they don’t adore me?

Don’t answer that.

Okay, bitches, your turn.

Now, if you know anyone who is a nurse or trying to make YOU become a nurse, one of the things you’ll hear a lot of is this: “But nursing has so many opportunities.” And it’s true.

IF (and there’s always an IF or a BUTT–hehe–isn’t there?) you have sucked it up and completed your floor rotation for a couple of years. Which I had not done. And I was not about to do, because I’d have ended up in Happy Horse-Shit Sanitarium drooling and twitching. Having an autistic kid had tried my sanity enough and it just wasn’t going to happen for me.

So, when staring down the nose at paying two mortgages, my (significantly less) fat butt kicked into gear. I interviewed for such positions as a 3-11PM on an Ortho/Neuro floor where the average patient ration was something like 6-7. That’s a fucking ton of people who can’t walk needing you to help them do, well, anything.

Then there was the Sunshine Nursing Home. I walked in, interviewed, noticed that the small vestibule between the outside and inside smelled like piss and was told by a very sad looking RN that if I wanted this job (gestures around sadly) to just call her back. Yeah. No. Thanks. Not thinking that suicide is in the cards for me.

My last beacon of hope (before I went to the dark side of case management) was through a temp agency. While I wasn’t thrilled about being given an hours notice of potential work for a night, they paid really fucking well, and I didn’t have to go on a gazillion interviews and explain yet again why I’d taken a break between graduation and that point in time (a couple of months). Tedious, is thy name.

But something that they had for me that didn’t require huge amounts of floor training was at a prison. A Juvenile Prison. I’d be filling in for a staff nurse who was going to be out for brain surgery. Weekends, hours were great, and it was about 20 minutes from my house.

Fucking sweet.

I drove to my parents house, anxious to share the news and pick up my son, and was greeted with a whole lot of, “you’re kidding, right?” and “please tell me you’re kidding.” The Daver was okay with it but no one else could believe that not only was I about to go work in jail, but that I was thrilled about it.

I reported for duty on the ass-crack of my first morning and was immediately given a huge ass key chain. See, now you make fun of janitors for having a fucking pocket full of keys, but I thought it was rad. I was given a brief orientation by the head RN and left to my own devices after being warned not to let the kids lock me in the med room.

Okay, that mental picture is making me laugh. O! Vicodin you wily bastard!

This, this I could do, I told myself as I wheeled the cart of meds around passing out drugs and making sure the kids swallowed them. Apparently they’d been having problems with kids hoarding NSAIDS.

(no one said teenagers were smart all of the time)

It was a fucking great gig: I never had to put any of the kids in the time-out room, and despite the head RN worrying about my pasty ass the kids and I got along pretty well. No one locked me in the med room. Not even once.

I *loved* it. I’m a rare breed who happens to love teenagers–even the fucked up asshole ones–and despite the fact that I appeared to be a pushover, they learned pretty quickly that I was a force to be reckoned with. Plus, how cool is it to work in a prison? Seriously now.

The lady I was covering for recovered much more quickly than she’d anticipated (mayhap like a certain DAUGHTER of mine who kick the ass of brain surgery. Hells yes!) and I was summarily left jobless again.

The rest of the story is even more boring and tedious, but a quick recap: ended up in case management/hospice and worked on extending benefits for those at the end of their life.

(Do I know how to pick uplifting jobs or WHAT?)

But shit, if I could go back to work at the jail again, I’d do it in a heartbeat. If for no other reason than that I could legitimately whistle Folsom Prison Blues while I worked.

After my Ben was born while I was still in college, I had to reexamine the whole, “I’m gonna be a doctor” dream that I’d been nursing for as long as I could walk and talk (to be fair, however, I should point out that it wasn’t bloody likely that I was going to get into med school anyway.). So I had a choice: teaching or nursing. The only two professions I was likely to make any scratch at upon graduation.

(okay, hindsight being what it is, I should have broadened my horizons somewhat. I hear there’s a huge need for Underwater Basket Weavers these days.)

I settled on nursing, knowing that I *probably* wasn’t going to like it. My family wasn’t entirely supportive of my choice, and to be completely honest, I really didn’t know what nurses did. Besides get HUM-VEE’s as a sign-on bonus at hospitals.

I’ll give you a second to laugh.

..
..
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Okay, done?

But the moment that I walked into my first nursing class, I knew I’d made a mistake. I was NEVER going to like it. I spent the first day (no seriously) learning how to properly wipe a patient’s ass. Important, yes, but did we REALLY need the power points?

I’d already done a year of pre-reqs and I knew that if I brought my sorry butt back to my parents (where Ben and I lived) and begged to change majors, it would be another tick mark in the Becky Sucks A Lot category. Which was already steadily outpacing the Becky Might Not Suck Quite So Much category.

So I sucked it up, thinking that I could do anything for awhile. I’d just go back to school when Ben was older for something I really wanted (I knew then that Medical School was out, but microbiology was in. Kind of like skinny jeans except not). I’d get by. Whatever.

I graduated 2 years later, my BSN neatly in my back pocket and still completely aware that I hated the profession I was about to enter into. So what? Plenty of people went to their 9-5 hating every second of it, right?

About 2 months before my wedding (which, as any bride knows, is when things start to go apeshit), I made the gravest of errors. I’d gone in to interview for an ICU position at a local hospital, and I let the HR person talk me from the ICU position (the only position I swore I would do in a hospital) to a Cardiac Floor.

Floor nurses, I should add, lest anyone think I hate NURSES which I do not, deserve a special place in heaven. Really, they do. Hospitals are run by them and they’re notoriously used an abused by pretty much every single staff member. It’s hard work. And it’s NOT the sort of job one can fake it ’til they make it.

Any job that comes with a Do This The Right Way So You Don’t Get Your Ass Sued Off disclaimer is a job that you need to LOVE. Otherwise, in this litigious-happy society, do you really want to bet your own house that you gave the patient the right meds?

I didn’t last 6 ever-loving weeks on the floor I later learned was a Bad Floor. Bad management trickled down into a bunch of unhappy employees who constantly undercut each other. No wonder HR wanted me there: they had a ton of vacant positions.

After 6 weeks, at the not-so-delicate urging of my soon-to-be husband The Daver, we decided that I was going to stay home with Ben for once. Which I did, nearly at the cost of my own sanity, for a couple of months until we moved back to St. Charles and the prospect of dueling mortgages left me once again looking for work.

And then I found my perfect job…

Part II will air tomorrow. I know, I know, I’m an asshole for the cliffhangers, I’m sorry.

So, The Internet, have you ever had a job that you absolutely hated? I don’t mean “disliked” or even “really disliked” I mean HATED so much it that thinking about having to go into work left you sick to your stomach.

Without further preamble, I present the back of my daughter’s head:

Fracking huuuge, isn’t it? But shit, it looks good and hopefully she won’t get female pattern baldness. Or if she does, she can wear some kicky wigs.

What’s that? You DIDN’T ask for an obligatory cute baby pic? Well, too bad.

This is the reason we can’t have nice things. I was being all good and stuff and ordering diapers online like an intelligent person would, right? Except I shouldn’t be allowed credit cards in my sleepless state because look at the size I bought FOR AMELIA. Who weighs MAYBE 9.5 pounds.

That’s right, I bought the size BETWEEN 1 and 2 rather than the size between Newborn and 1. They’re dwarfing her delicate butt.

All you can do is laugh, right? Because diapers, they don’t spoil.

NO MORE CANKLES, BITCHES!

That’s right! Since about a week postpartum, my feet have returned to their pre-pregnancy size and my cankles have been banish-ed! Hooray for no cankles!

Anything else you want me to answer?

….may I introduce to you, my sweet Internet friends, my new daughter, Amelia Grace.

With her daddy…

With her youngest body guard…

And lastly, with her now neurotic and freaking the fuck out mother. Who could probably use some vodka right about now.

We’re home now and doing fantastically, save for the PANIC! that I seem to have coursing through my veins. What, me hormonal? Tomorrow, we’ll call the neurosurgeon (am not planning upon getting used to that phrase) and arrange an appointment to see when she’ll be having surgery to remove the hernia.

While he seemed unconcerned, this wasn’t HIS daughter’s head he was talking about, so you’ll have to excuse me now while I go drool over a bottle of Valium while stroking it lovingly. Thank you all so very much for your kind words and prayers. If anything has helped me, it is that.

*Defying all laws of time and space, the last month of pregnancy is significantly longer than the previous 8.

*All of the issues (nausea, sleepiness, vomiting, utter bat-shit craziness) that plagued you during trimester 1 will rear their ugly head yet again. Only it’s less charming this time.

*(especially if it’s your first baby) You’ll imagine each and every twinge to be the Start Of Labor and probably end up in L/D more times than you’d think only to be told that you’re not even contracting.

*After you have this baby, you’ll agree that nothing feels like labor except for…well, labor.

*Ending up in L/D and being sent home will make you feel more embarrassed than you’d imagine would be a logical reaction.

*Speaking of “logical,” you’re not. And you haven’t been for a long time. You won’t know how nuts you are until after the wee one comes and you realize that you no longer have any urge to clean the toliet with a toothbrush.

*Leaking pee will become a new and disgusting way of life. And you’ll occasionally think it’s your bag of waters breaking. It’s probably not. But, take it from me, get that fucker checked out.

*If you’re like me, the hospital bag you pack will go largely untouched, so don’t freak out. They’ll usually give you free ickle bottles of shampoo and the lot. Use these and then THROW THEM AWAY. Sure, you’re in L/D or Mother/Baby, but it’s still a hospital. And hospitals = germies.

*You will finally tire of talking about this baby because all that you can think about is how ready you are for this to be over.

*The fears of labor will quickly be replaced by the fears of never having this damn baby.

*Having wee feet kicking your internal organs and trying desperately to seperate your ribs from your spinal cord is just as charming (and painful) as you imagine it will be.

*Did I mention how off the rocker you are? Because you TOTALLY are.

*Once you hit 37 weeks, people will check in on you daily with one annoying question: have you had that baby yet? You may very well want to smack them.

*People will start snickering when you walk into a room. Presumably because you now look like Grimace. Or a Weeble.

*You will start to moan and groan every time you have to change positions. And you will be acutely aware of how dumb you sound and how feeble you now are.

*Try as best as you can to rest and revel in the attention people are paying to you right now. Because once that baby gets here, swollen and stitched up vagina and all, no one will give a flying crap about you. Just the baby.

*Your breasts are going to develop a mind (and body!) of their own. They will be equally as painful now as they were back in old trimester 1.

What am I missing, party people?

Several years ago, when Dave and I still lived in a Oak (No) Park (ing), I was making a trek back from St. Charles, when Dave called my cell phone. When I answered, he asked if I needed anything from the local CVS–mecca well before there was my delightful Target within spitting distance–as he was there picking up Twizzlers.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I need some Slim-Fast. The strawberry shit, not the chocolate stuff. It’s delicious AND refreshing.”

“If you say so,” my husband said. “I think it tastes like donkey ass. But whatever, where is it?”

“It’s over by the dietary stuff, against the south wall,” I informed him. “I thought YOU were all directionally superior to me!”

“Dude, not here. The layout to this place makes zero sense,” he snipped, annoyed that I was mocking his directional sense for the eighty five hundredth time that month, after he’d gotten lost in Wisconsin, WHERE HE CAME FROM.

“Okay, so do you want the 200 calorie or the 300 calorie stuff?” He asked me, standing in front of the dietary aids.

“Wha…?” I asked him while lighting a cigarette. “SlimFast comes in one variety and it’s all about 200 calories.”

“Well, all they have here is generic in your high falutin’ STRAWBERRY flavor,” he replied. “Do you still want it?”

Knowing that drinking the generic stuff was far better than being tempted by the bacon and eggs he and Ben would be having for breakfast the following morning, I reluctantly agreed to have him grab the 200 calorie stuff.

About a half an hour later, I pulled into our shared garage, about 4,000 years away from our actual building and about 20 minutes after that, I was finally up the twenty billion stairs, and standing in our teeny-tiny kitchen.

Where I noticed, sitting jauntily on the counter, was a case of Ensure. Generic, Strawberry flavored, ENSURE. Which, were I a geriatric with digestive issues trying to pack on the pounds, would probably be a delicious and high calorie snacky-poo. But, since I was a 23 year old with digestive issues trying to REMOVE the pounds, I wasn’t so thrilled.

“Dave…” I trilled into the house, “Honey?”

He walked into the kitchen to give me a hug hello.

“Baby…” I asked him hesitantly, wondering if he were punishing me for singing Rod Stewart at the top of my lungs when he was in a bad mood the previous night. “Baby, are you mad at me?”

“No,” he replied, genuinely confused, “why?”

“Because you bought ENSURE. Not SlimFast. Are you trying to fatten me up? Or are you just trying to give my guts a low-residue treat?”

“WHAT?” He asked, now looking more closely at the box of cans. “I totally thought this was SlimFast!”

“No baby, that isn’t even close to SlimFast. This shit is for people who have no colon left. And maybe in 30 years, I’ll need it myself, but for now? Not so much.”

———–

That same box of ENSURE sat on my kitchen counter, then moved into my fridge, until months later, we sold our condo. We’d forgotten to return it, because it was far more a pain in the ass than it was worth, and neither of us knew a soul that might have a use for it.

Today, however, the box long gone, and my Maybe Crohn’s flaring up mightily, I’m thinking that perhaps suddenly I really COULD use it. Which is perhaps the LAST situation I ever thought that I might be in. Especially a mere 5 years later.

Goes to show you never can fucking tell.

I stood hunched over the sink for what had to have been close to twenty minutes, while I celebrated my entry into the homestretch of my pregnancy. In that sink, I created a horror scene that would rival any low budget slasher movie, and I was sort of sad that Halloween had passed.

You see, an oft ignored side effect of pregnancy is that you can still get your period. Only it comes out your nose. And since I’ve been getting chronic bloody noses since I was a wee lass, I get them especially bad.

It’s finally stopped, as even I’m not a die hard enough blogger to type a post out while hemorrhaging out my nostrils, mainly because I might ruin the computer with my spattering blood.

Oh yes, it was that bad.

Well, couple the now-stuffy nose with the “I just lost a fucking ton of blood volume and woozy” and add in the fact that I’m suddenly very short of breath–and thereby panting–as my lungs are being compressed by my fetus due to my lack of torso, and you have the ultimate recipe for Hotness.

I’m sitting here on the couch, reclining slightly, slack jawed and panting, obviously a fucking ton of bricks short of a load, and I can’t help but laugh that at one point, my husband saw fit to knock me up. Hehe. Poor guy didn’t know the depths of Ultimate Hotness he’d see his lovely wife turn into.

And by Ultimate Hotness, I mean Slothy and Mouth Breathing.