Actual comment by Ben:

(rubs my belly): “Wow! You look like you have another baby in there!”

Aunt Becky: *sighs*

The Daver: “Aww, you poor thing.”

Aunt Becky: *sighs*

Actual conversation with Pashmina, my former blogging buddy (who recently reminded me of a very seldom thought about fact about the two of us but has nothing whatsoever to do with this story or post):

Aunt Becky: “I don’t take laxatives but my ass is gonna try Alli when I quit nursing”

Pashmina: “DON’T DO IT”

Aunt Becky: “???”

Pashmina: “Seriously. Do. Not. Do. It”

Aunt Becky: “???”

(you can see I have a way with words)

Pashmina: “First, the point of Alli is that it traps fat and makes you shit like crazy when you eat something with too much fat in it.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ll deal with some anal leakage.”

Pashmina: “second: Alli takes a LONG ASS TIME to get out of your system
you stop taking it and you’ll still be shitting buckets for a month”

Pashmina: “Third: it prevents nutrients from being absorbed by the bowel
so you’ll lose weight. And muscle tone. And valuable nutrients”

Aunt Becky: “Man that shit is tough. But it beats a tapeworm.”

Pashmina: “Now that I’d rather have.”

Aunt Becky: “Why don’t you get one?”

Pashmina: “I don’t know how, but I wouldn’t mind.”

Aunt Becky: “I think you could order one off the internet. Lemmie see.”

Pashmina: “I VERY SERIOUSLY DOUBT THAT.”

Aunt Becky: “Dunno, I’m looking it up.”

Aunt Becky: “Got it. http://wormtherapy.com/”

Pashmina: “OH COME ON.”

(time passes)

Pashmina: “Good, GOD. $1200 for a tapeworm?”

Aunt Becky: “dude. WILD.”

———
Meatloaf wrote “I Will Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” about–I shit you not–donuts.

What wouldn’t YOU do? What’s one thing you’d NEVER do?

Also: I freaking LOVE the Internet. Tapeworms, who knew?

For the first 8 months of his life or so, Auggie used every opportunity possible (which is a hell of a lot when you have a 7 year old who languidly opens doors and wanders through them) to bolt from the sanctity of my home to my neighborhood. I cannot tell you how many times my fat pregnant ass had to huff and puff down the street after him in a futile exercise of Showing My Neighbors That I Cared. It embarrassed me to have The Dog That Runs and shamed me further that there was very little I could do about it. He was too fucking fast for me, that little asshole.

(note: these are the days when I dreamed of taxidermy-ing him into The Perfect Dog)

Eventually, we’d get him back in the house only to repeat the cycle ad infintum, ad nauseum.

Fortunately for us, we live in a really nice neighborhood and no one really gave us hell for it. It wasn’t as though we could do a whole lot about it (save for patch our back fence, where he’d happily escape) and we did what we could. It’s a Shiba Inu thing, The Internet told me, which made me feel loads better and the only reason that ickle shit head isn’t gone, doggie, gone.

One of the last times that he bolted, this happened. I hate to be an ass, but go back and read it and come back here.

Do-dee-do-doh-do-dee-do.

(hums the Jeoprady song)

Oh wait, what’s that? A cute sibling picture while I wait? Don’t mind if I do.

Man, you’re a fast reader. I was gonna put more pictures here, but okay, moving on.

That was last October and for some inexplicable reason, Auggie stopped bolting. I’d say it was the Fear of God that I put in him, but anyone who knows me knows that’s a load of crap. The only person in this house afraid of me is Ben, and that’s because I’ve convinced him I’m psychic.

(also: how awesome is that?)

What I left out in that post was how ridiculously upset that made me. I don’t mind people being pissed at me for doing shit on purpose, but damn, I was trying to FIX the fact that Ben had let Auggie out. So not my fault. But I came home and cried my head off (see, I do have emotions other than, I Want A Fucking Cheeseburger and I Want A Fucking Nap).

So, a couple of weeks ago after school, Amelia happily napping in her swing (so glad I bought a crib for her not to sleep in), Alex happily destroying the hell out of my house, Ben brought over my Crusty Neighbor’s granddaughter. She’s been here before and she’s a huge brat, but this was before The Curious Incident With The Dog In The Daytime.

Honestly, this little girl was so unpleasant last summer that I really would rather her not come over–she’s also several years younger than Ben–because I don’t care to have to discipline someone else’s kid so that she can have the afternoon off. Plus, her grandmother was a huge bitch to me, and while I’m not pinning her voodoo doll likeness with straight pins, I’m not exactly baking her batches of cookies.

I sent them back outside that day because Amelia was sleeping and I didn’t want them to wake her.

But that brings me to my question, and it’s an honest one: should I overlook my own feelings on the matter so that Ben can play with his friend inside my house? I certainly don’t mind if they play together, but I’d prefer not to have to be the one in charge of her.

Tell me honestly what you think. What would you do, Internet?

You guys are too nice. You need to make me work a HELL of a lot harder for your votes. Come on, make me post about something. Ask me to write about something you’ve been up nights wondering about. I’ve now moved above the grocery blog which is rad, but I’m going to lose to Dooce. Doesn’t everyone?

Because I was raised by a couple of stinking hippies, I was singing “We Shall Overcome” and “Blowin’ In The Wind” while I toddled around in my cloth diaper, occasionally being stuck by a rogue pin. I was forced to listen to both Pink Floyd and Peter, Paul and Mary by my mother, who would frequently play a record over and over ad nauseum until my ears bled. I still tremble at the thought of having to listen one more fucking time to “If I Had A Hammer.”

It probably wasn’t until after I was in college before I realized that I could listen to music and like it just because it made me feel good. Not because it had a deeper meaning or because it meant something or because it protested something. Just because it made me happy or made me want to get on the table and dance my (white girl) ass off.

In that vein, I happily dragged my husband out to get the new Britney record on the day it was released. While he wondered if his testicles had been put into a jar on a shelf in our garage somewhere, I (pathetically) bopped out to some funky fresh jams. It beat the hell out of the emo shit Dave normally plays, or as I like to call it “Suicide Rock.”

Shockingly, though, I don’t only listen to bubble gum pop. On my I’m Feeling Acutely Sorry For Myself Days (oh, like YOU don’t have those days too), I like nothing more than listening to Leonard Cohen.

I remember ages ago watching a Saturday Night Live episode with my dad late one night (perhaps on a SATURDAY NIGHT? Get it?!?) and they did a sketch on a Leonard Cohen Fan Convention. I hadn’t been introduced properly to Mr. Cohen at that point, but I do remember that everyone was wearing mournful black clothing (berets even, perhaps, if my mind serves me) and many of them committed suicide while they listened to his music.

It’s only funny if you know his music. Because it’s true.

While I’m not a big Take To My Blog To Piss And Moan kind of person, these past couple of months have been excruciatingly rough for me. I’ve honestly hit the point where I’m wondering, Hey, is this LIFE? Is life really just one stupid fucking crisis after another? Because yeah.

So, what does a person at her wits end do?

a) Consider joining a nunnery

b) Sell herself to the gypsies.

c) Pay the gypsies to take her away

d) Listen to depressing ass music.

While the other three options are great choices, I chose number d. Because I like sex and I hate moving.

And my poor daughter has now grown up on a steady diet of Leonard Cohen, which cannot possibly be good for her development. I should probably switch to Pantera if I want her not to grow up to be an emo chick, right? So now, whenever I put on some “Hallelujah,” Amelia smiles her ever-loving head off.

Guess that’s better than contemplating suicide.

See! Look! She’s trying to decide how best to get upstairs and get some black eyeliner and the new Cure album (is there a new Cure album?).

Thanks be to the Powers of the Pathology Lab, I got a call bright and bleary this morning from my OB. I’m only Mildly Abnormal. Which, you know, isn’t QUITE true, but fair enough. The bleeding problem is still, apparently, A Big Ass Problem, so I will be following up with her again in 6 weeks.

(note to self: do NOT google “severe bleeding disorders.”*)

Maybe it’s actually lupus? (that may have been funny only to me.)

*too late. ACK!

—————–

Aunt Becky: “Here.” (shoves a piece of paper toward The Daver)

The Daver: “What’s this?” (looks down at the paper)

AB: “The number I was promising you.” Looks around as though the air might provide her with the words she’s forgotten. It’s clear from the vapid expression on her face and the drool on the side of her mouth that she’s tired, high or both. “The…um….DOCTOR.”

TD: “Huh?”

AB: “The…UROLOGIST. About your old snip-snip.” (makes cutting gesture with fingers)

TD: “I can’t quite…make out…the…what does this say?” (he squints theatrically)

AB (leans over TD’s shoulder and notes that the numbers are both well formed and completely legible) “The number is….” (rattles off phone number)

TD: “But what is the doctors NAME?” (squints theatrically again)

AB: (exasperated) “I don’t know, Chantell, Chanelle? Does it matter?”

TD: (cryptically) “It matters VERY much…” (walks away)

AB: (sighs) “…guess I should look into that IUD…”

——————-

What’s mildly abnormal about YOU today, Internet?

I found this sort of guide to wifery from the 50’s online a couple of years ago, and supposedly it’s called The Good Wife’s Guide. Is this legit Aunt Becky, you ask me, a disapproving tone in your otherwise flawless voice? And I will tell you with absolute certainty that it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s Comedy Gold.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Planning it out in advance is saying ‘Pick up some Chinese food tonight on your way home from work’ at 3pm. Trust me when I tell you that I am concerned about my needs far more than his.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when Dave walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘shit! Do I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘did I accidently microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!’

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Dude. I’m always a little gay.

*waggles eyebrows suggestively*

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

What the fcuk is a dust cloth? And I’ll happily make an effort to pick up the clutter the day that Dave does not have a roving sock colony following him around like a wee family.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to relax by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction.

Unless it involved Prada purses.

Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

If there is noise in the home, it means I am home.

I am noisy.

I am loud.

I speak at extremely deafening decibels.

And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be pleased that I’m not pawning them off on him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

My desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

Yeah. Right.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

If I waited until Dave stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘the sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘I want to have a threesome with a midget,’ I’d never be heard.

Dave and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says “Floor” to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘œthe cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf more important than “Our bedroom smells like cheese” or “cherry flavored pez is a wonderfood.” Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

Who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

If he stays out all night, trust me, my complaining will be the last thing he’s concerned about. More pressing needs might be “How do I get my testicles back from the sewer system?” or “Where else can I let my roving sock colony live? OH LOOK, SOCKS, MADE A BABY! It’s TWINS!”

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kids, the dogs, buying me dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

My voice is like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time.

And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, Internet, The Daver is Master of the Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it without laughing.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, “I think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement*!!” Color me boring but I don’t think ‘Whatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

Dude, exactly “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

*hahahaha

Mother’s Day despite having “mother” in the name (which I am) and “day” in the name (which, come on, it’s on a DAY–because what isn’t?) has always been sort of a sore holiday for me. I’ve moaned and pissed about how annoying it is to have to be the one in charge of making sure every other mother is happy while I am quietly forgotten about. I know, right?

Get back up on that cross, Aunt Becky. You need another nail pounded in.

The problem begins with and ends with one person, a person who I have pledged to love, honor and obey repay until The Deal Is Done. That person is, of course: The Daver, my one and only (therefore best) husband. Daver is a sweet guy, I swear he is, but he’s the least thoughtful person on the planet. He’s never, ever bought me a gift for a holiday without me loudly complaining and it always hurts my feelings.

This year for Christmas I’d elaborately bought stuff for everyone’s stocking–shopping weeks in advance for everything–and on Christmas Eve Eve (it’s a custody thang) when I huffed upstairs to grab the bags of stuff neatly sorted into brown paper bags and Sharpie’d with the recipients name, we began to fill the stockings.

The last one to be filled was mine. Which had…wait for it, wait for it….

Nothing.

A handful of candy that was leftover from the other stockings. And nothing else.

Being pregnant, hormonal, and generally feeling sorry for myself, this made me burst into tears. I cried for much longer than was really necessary, but hey, I was pregnant, hormonal and feeling sorry for myself.

(I don’t need to tell you that he’d bought me exactly nothing at all for Christmas at that point. Nor was he planning to. Until he saw that he might be murdered while he slept if he did not.)

This is the case for every holiday. It’s a cycle. You’d think I’d wise up (or he would) and just not expect him to remember or celebrate, but every holiday that passes (including the Day After Bastille Day. Also known as the Day The World Was Lovingly Gifted Aunt Becky. Also known as my birthday.) without any acknowledgement makes me upset.

Mother’s Day last year was no different. I realized while we were at the mall getting shoes for a very, very crabby Alex that this was the extent of the plans for the day: shoe shopping for a toddler. What compounded my emotions was the 2nd miscarriage in a row I was suffering through, so I promptly cried like a fucking pansy. When he tried to make it better by taking me out to lunch with my wee beasties, we had to take our meals to go after we waited an hour+ to get my salad and his chicken.

I got home and was hysterical. It was probably one of the lower points of the hormonal roller coaster (the lowest being the hospital visit to confirm miscarriage #2) and I promptly did one of the stupider things I could have done: I begged Dave to take me to go get a kitten.

He did. And instead of a kitten, we got Auggie. An adorable bundle of fluff ball. A Shiba Inu and Chihuahua mix.

The absolute worst impulse buy EVER.

I’m not much of a dog person, truth be told, and was pretty content with Cash, our end table of a dog. He sleeps, lumbers around to eat, then goes back to the couch and sleeps some more. It’s really my ideal life and I’m more than a little jealous.

No, no Internet, I promise you, he’s not dead. He just looks that way.

But Auggie was cute and cuddly and I was hormonal and sad and I just couldn’t bear the thought of going home without something that cute to snuggle with. A stupid fucking reason to get a dog, but whatever, we were stuck with him.

I have threatened I don’t even know how many times to take him to the shelter, put him up on Craig’s List, donate him to test products on*, let him loose on the highway, let him loose in my parents neighborhood after removing his sparkly heart name tag. I’ve screamed at him, fantasized about punting him across the room, imagined running him over with my car and tried desperately to pawn him off on everyone I know.

(no one will take him. I wonder why…)

Puppies suck. Hard. I knew it before and trust me, I know it even better now.

He turned 1 in March and he’s still alive, still here humping Cash’s face, still sprinting to Cash’s butt when he takes a dump because he likes to eat shit right off the tap (SEE!! Internet, now I don’t sound so cruel!), still ripping up tissues and eating cat turds out of the box (side note: awesome. One less job for me**) as a tasty, Cat Box Crunchy.

Is he eating poo? I JUST DON’T KNOW.

Only I don’t quite…hate him anymore. I almost…like him! He’s calmed down quite a bit, he no longer pisses on the carpets, and while he eats shit, I like to consider it organic of the highest degree (apparently there isn’t anything you can do about this habit besides put him in a home with no other animals). Auggie is obviously advanced, you see. Plus…

Meet his best friend:

And his other best friend:

And anyone who loves my kids that much can’t be all bad. We have reached peace, Augs and I. I can say that I (mostly) like having him around. Honestly. And I’m not just saying that because I heard somewhere that if you repeated something over and over you’d eventually believe it.

Much.

All right my pretties, spill. I want to hear about the worst impulse buy you’ve ever made.

*You haven’t lived until you’ve cleaned up dog vomit before breakfast. That’s composed of dog shit. I tell you, awesome stuff. And yes, it did make me throw up too. Oh happy day!

**Sadly, while this sounds like an ideal situation, I cannot condone my dog cleaning the cat box with his mouth. Much.

Come out! Come out! Wherever you are!

I know you’re out there, my wonderful lurkers, I can seeeeee you.

Okay, I can’t REALLY see you, altho convincing my son that I am psychic is a stroke of pure genius. Honestly, you should do it.

So here’s where I beg of you, my lurkers and lovingest of the loving followers, to help a sister out. My Home Girl Emily (who has probably never been addressed as a Home Girl or Home Slice by anyone but me) nominated me awhile back for some awards.

I checked today after forgetting about it for ages, and I see that I’ve got about 28 votes. 28 is a lovely number. I am 28 years old right now. Soon to be 29. But I know for a fact that I have more readers than that.

So I propose a tit(s) for a tat (hehe TITS): If you go over to this site and vote for me:

(I was nominated twice, because THAT is how cool Em is)

Registering takes about 20 seconds and is not at all annoying.

Come back and leave me a comment telling me that you did. Then ask me a question you want me to answer–no topic off limit–or a special request of something you’d like me to do for YOU. (I cannot cook) I’ll vote for you if you want me to, I’ll write a post about a topic of your choosing, I’ll even do something embarrassing and humiliating and tell the internet all about it if that is what you want.

Thank you, Internet, for being there for me when I needed you to be. Have you lost weight? You’re wasting away in front of me. But your ass looks fantastic in those jeans.

I puffy heart ALL of you.

Alex asks, “Please vote for my mother. She’ll love you forever and somehow make you Rice Krispy Treat Cuppy-Cakes.”

Last week after sprinting jauntily to the mailbox to see if I’d finally won that bazillion dollars I keep hearing about (a Nigerian Prince TOLD ME SO), when I found a pile of junk mail. After sorting through it, I realized that I had one piece that was not junk. From the county. Dreading anything I ever get from the county (on principal, not because they send me Nasty-Grams. DOWN WITH THE MAN!!), I tore into it.

It was a referral for Amelia to Early Interventions.

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen this paper (the name of the child was different, of course) and for some reason it smacked me blind. It’s SO not the end of the world to have a kid that needs some therapy. Shit, she’s in decent shape, by comparison (and by comparison, I mean NOT DEAD. Because this kills a lot of kids), and I really need to get the fcuk over myself.

I guess I’d just been in denial the whole time. Like going through the day to day motions with all that goes on in my Circus of a House, without thinking, honestly THINKING about what a diagnosis of encephalocele really means. I am, apparently, the only one who thinks this way because I called The Daver at work that day in a mild panic:

(ring ring)

“Hello?”

“OHMYGOD DAVER, OHMYGOD.”

“Uh…what?” (he knows better than to really worry when I call in a panic)

“Amelia….got her referral to Early Intervention,” I waited to hear him freak out.

“….” Typing sounds in the background.

“…and?”

I sighed deeply before we hung up. Apparently, I am the only one who is bothered by this. Figures.

I need to put on my big girl panties and just call for the appointments and evaluations, I know I do. Well, okay, I’ll tell YOU Internet, but let’s keep it between us, okay? I actually DID call. And then I promptly hung up when someone answered. Maturity has never been my strong suit, you know?

So I will do what I always do! Distract you with pictures! Because what else can I do? AND WHO DOESN’T LIKE PICTURES?

The Devil doesn’t. I swear.

I know that I post more pictures of my younger kids and while that would make it appear that I am favoring them, I assure you that it’s not.

This, this picture is Ben, In Real Life. Always in motion.

And this is my second born, Alex:

Playing with bath crayons. Outside the bath. Because he is that kind of kid. (what the fuck ever that means)

Daver was sick a couple of weeks ago with the flu–influenza I mean–and slept pretty much 24 by 7 for a week. While I am normally annoyed by him and his irritating and incredibly dramatical Man Colds, my cold, mean heart felt sorry for him.

MAYBE IT WAS THE SWINE FLU!! OH EM GEE!! (note the 2 exclamation points which should illustrate just HOW emphatically emotional I was being) Actually, I think it might have been.

And lastly, Amelia says, “You moron. It wasn’t the fucking swine flu.”

I spent the morning paying someone to take chunks out of my cervix, which, trust me, is even less fun that it sounds. I didn’t mention it here, not because I didn’t want to whine and pout and stomp my feet, but because, dammit, I heard the weather this year and it didn’t call for a shit storm.

Plus, with all the medical shit that’s been going on I feel like I might have Munchausen’s, or, at the very least, an ugly flair for the dramatical. And nothing annoys me personally more than someone who is constantly convinced that they are dying of a rare form of syphilis and expects that everyone else wring their hands along side them.

(and no, I’m not talking about you.)

But I went for my Uncle Pappy at the same time as my 6 (8) week post-partum check up and low and behold, I had another bout of abnormal cells on the old cervix. I had my first experience with the abnormalities of my cervix while about 6 weeks pregnant (and bleeding!) with Amelia and (thank you God) decided not to pursue the biopsy at that time. Because yeah, even if they found that I needed to have my cervix shaved, would I really do it while pregnant?

(it’s supposed to be rhetorical but in case you wanted an answer, here it is: No fucking way)

So after waiting on bated breath last week to find out that, no, my mother does NOT have breast cancer, I waited rather impatiently to find out my own cancer status.

While I wasn’t really thrilled by the whole notion of having my cervix manipulated and doused with vinegar, I tried to think of the bright things:

1) I don’t have a real use for it anymore

2) Perhaps I will be told that my cervix is the most beautiful the doctor has ever seen and I can gloat about it (like I did after my colonscopy. Side note: Daver wouldn’t allow me to put pictures of my colon in our Christmas cards that year. Ass)

3) I happen to have a wicked love affair with vinegar

4) I can spend the rest of the day moaning and lying about the house while I make The Daver do things for me (say it with me now: Yeah, RIGHT)

5) It will make the Vicodin I want desperately to pop actually serve a purpose other than getting Really Fucking Stoned.

Still, though, I was nervous. What was it going to feel like? Like birth without an epidural (a special shout-out to the lack of epidural-y goodness I had with Amelia! Hooray!)? Like a bikini wax? Like having to go to the DMV? I just didn’t know. And not knowing shit makes Aunt Becky pissed off. Almost as pissed off as people who talk about themselves in the third person.

So I dragged The Daver with me after guilting him about having to go alone, something that proves to be a Very Fucking Good Idea, indeed.

And what can I really say about the procedure itself? It started off totally bearable, the vinegar stung like a mother-fucker, and the biopsy itself was not so terrible. Honestly.

But (we’ve established that there’s always a Butt, right? Otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you this story)…

I noticed that I could feel myself, well, gushing blood. The nurse and the doctor scurried around, changing the pads underneath me, putting plastic bags on the floor, and going through packages of 4×4’s like it was going out of style.

Apparently, I have a bleeding problem. So much so that after the pathology gets back, my OB wants me to see an Internal Medicine doctor. She has (and I quote) “Never seen someone bleed so much” and should I require follow-up (F/U) care in the form of removal of bits of my cervix, I will have to go to a surgery center.

I’m less upset about this and more amused, because at this point, sometimes you realize that being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Whomever “they” are.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make some tinfoil hats…

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.