Bitchypoo

Today, my uterus is gloating because had things gone as planned, it would be GONE. Instead, it’s here to make my life annoying and bloaty and crampy for another threeish weeks.

Gloat on, my friend. I’LL WIN IN THE END, even if I have to evict you myself with a rusty fork and a cat to mop my brow while I’m operating!

 

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A few months ago, I was running low on multi-vitamins, so I did a casual look around the internet to see where I could find them the cheapest. I buy Bariatric Wellness multi-vitamins (and calcium) because they’re chewable and thus (one assumes) easy to absorb. Also, I take two big-ass glucosamine/ choindroitin pills every morning, and the chewable multi-vitamins coat my mouth so that I can get the glucosamine pills down without gagging on the taste.

Anyway, either they were cheapest the Bariatric Advantage main site, or I decided to just get them there because I could get calcium and iron at the same time. In any case, I placed the order and eventually it arrived.

Then a week after it arrived, I was going somewhere and checked my cell phone (I rarely check my cell phone unless I’m bored or on my way out the door – thus the reason, if you text me, I tend not to get back to you for hours) and saw that I had a message. It was Bob from Bariatric Advantage who was just calling to make sure I’d gotten my order and OH, did I know that I could sign up for recurring shipping so that when Bariatric Advantage’s records had determined that it was time for me to be running low, rather than me having to do all that pesky logging onto the computer and placing the order, they’d just SEND me what I needed and charge my card? Was I aware of this super-fabulous option? WAS I? Bob wanted to let me know that he was there for me whenever I needed, I could just give him a call and sign up for the recurring bullshit AT ANY TIME.

I rolled my eyes and erased the message.

I got, basically, the same message a few weeks later, rolled my eyes, thanked god that I hadn’t given them my home phone number (the cell phone is much easier to ignore, given that I only hear it ringing if I happen to be right there on top of it), and erased the message.

Then there was, basically, radio silence from Bariatric Advantage until last week. Apparently a red flag went up in the Bariatric Advantage database and an alarm signal was generated throughout the building and people went running to and fro screaming that “OH MY GOD ROBYN AND3RSON IS OUT OF MULTI-VITAMINS, SHE MUST BE, IT IS TIME, WE MUST BE SURE THAT SHE IS TAKING HER VITAMINS!”, because I got another call from Bob.

Eye roll, delete.

Two days later, another call.

Eye roll, delete.

And then they decided to get serious and hit me where I live. Those fuckers sent me an email.

DearRobyn:

Thank you for choosing Bariatric Advantage for your all your micronutrient needs. We are following up in regards to the order that was placed on 9/28/2009.

We at Bariatric advantage want to ensure you are staying compliant with your doctor’s orders. If, you are ready to place a new order please contact us at (blah blah blah).

Oh hello, WHAT THE FUCK? You want to “ensure” that I am staying “compliant” with my doctor’s orders? I’m so sorry, am I 10 years old? Do I need you fucking assholes to come along and watch over me and make sure I chew my chewable vitamin every day?

No, thank you, I’m 42 years old and I have somehow managed to figure out the terribly complicated vitamin regimen my doctor has put me on. I know that many of we post-gastric bypass surgery patients are drooling goddamn idiots and somehow “Two multi-vitamins every day” is beyond us, and THANK GOD we have you to prod us into staying COMPLIANT. Could you maybe send someone over to slap me upside the head if I forget to swallow after I chew my multi-vitamin, because I AM SO STUPID I need you to tell me how to live my life correctly.

You may certainly go fuck yourself, Bariatric Advantage, because I do not need you standing over me making sure I’m “compliant*” because oh, right, YOU HAVE MY BEST INTERESTS AT HEART. My best interests which are, you know, attached directly to your profit margin.

ALSO, maybe spend a little less time harassing people who have purchased from you once and WILL NEVER PURCHASE FROM YOU EVER AGAIN, and maybe proofread your goddamn form emails.

So I’m dumping Bariatric Advantage. Other post-WLS patients, I know you’re out there – what NON Bariatric Advantage supplements do you recommend?

*LOATHE LOATHE LOATHE the word “compliant” when used in that way because it implies (to me) that you are a stupid, troublesome patient and also that MY DOCTOR IS THE BOSS OF ME AND HE IS NOT. I also CANNOT STAND “denies”, as in when your doctor says “Do you have a headache?” and you say “No” because, well, you do not have a headache and then your doctor writes “Pt. denies headache” AS IF YOU ARE HIDING SOMETHING.

 

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How AWESOME are you guys? Answer: SUPER AWESOME! Misty, the sweet kitten who needs surgery for her megacolon is a mere $135 away from being fully funded!

You guys are absolutely awesome – thank you to everyone who has donated, and to everyone who’s spreading the word. I’m sure if Misty could, she’d hunt every one of you down and snorgle you ’til you begged for mercy.

You can read more about Misty here.

 

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“Who, ME?”

Keeping an eye on Fred.

THAT ain’t a look o’ love!

Once these guys are calm enough around us, I’m going to break out the brush and see how they like being brushed. They could certainly use some brushing!

 

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“Just hanging out on the dining room table, reading my Jack Reacher book. You got a problem with that?”

 

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Previously
2009: Eric Stoltz makes a REALLY good creepy serial killer.
2008: We were in bed asleep by 10:00, because we are such the party people.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: Yeah, it doesn’t take a whole lot to make us laugh, I guess.
2004: Now isn’t there anything we can do to force Joey Buttafuoco back into obscurity?
2003: So if you meet me in person and expect a “Mighty fucking fine to meet you, fuckface!”, you’ll likely be disappointed.
2002: Wrong on that one, Brigitte. Trust me.
2001: No entry.
2000: No entry.

Yesterday I got through the last round of my medical appointments (hopefully for the YEAR), and I’m glad to have them over with. I left the house at 9:45 for my 10:30 appointment with the hematologist armed with my Kindle, my iPod, and a big-ass bottle of water. I got there right on time, was called back for my vitals half an hour later, sat in another waiting room for another hour, and then in the exam room for another half hour. I had my Kindle, I had my water, I had my phone for texting, and I just kicked back and relaxed while I waited.

Man, that place has some TRAFFIC going through it. They must have funneled upwards of 30 people in and out while I sat in the waiting room (my hematologist and his partners are also oncologists). At the two hour mark, the nurse came in and discussed my lab results with me.

Boring story short, my numbers are fine, my B12 is a bit low, I need to up my B12 (which I take sublingually), and if it’s still low next time we’ll discuss getting me taught to give myself B12 injections. Back in 3 months for more labs (but don’t need to bother with the office visit), and back another 3 months after that for more labs and then an office visit.

I left the office with enough time to run to McDonald’s and get a cheeseburger, which I ate in the parking lot of my weight loss surgeon’s office building. I regretted the cheeseburger almost immediately because it was overseasoned and super salty and just blech. Also, I kept burping up onion, which is ever so lovely.

(Aside: when I worked at McDonald’s back when the world began, those onions on the burgers were called “recons” because they were reconstituted onions. I wonder if they still have to reconstitute pans of them at a time?)

I sat in the parking lot and listened to Keith and the Girl on my iPod while I cleaned out my purse, and then I put the iPod away and read on my Kindle until 15 minutes before my appointment. I thought that perhaps if I showed up a little early, maybe they’d take me a little early. And even if they didn’t, I could sit in one of the huge, comfy chairs in the waiting room and watch some bad soap opera acting.

The soap opera acting was SO bad that I ended up sitting and reading until I tuned into the conversation going on over at the reception window. At first I thought the patient was having an issue with having to pay her copay, but after some intense listening on my part, I discovered that she owed the office some money for not showing up for previous appointments, and they wouldn’t allow her to keep her scheduled appointment unless she either paid or made arrangements to pay.

I was called back to be weighed and have my blood pressure taken, and then somehow I got into a conversation with the nurse wherein I told her that I was on antibiotics and feeling just fine, but concerned that I’d develop a yeast infection from them, so I was gagging down a cup of yogurt every day. (I have come to the conclusion that yogurt is a taste I just don’t care for, no matter the brand, no matter the flavor, just ugh. Though the Greek stuff is not bad, it’s not something I would ever CRAVE, either.)

And she told me that you can use vinegar to get rid of a yeast infection, both as a douche and to apply externally. Who knew? But I’ll still gag down the yogurt a day to prevent it from occurring in the first place, thanks.

I was so geared up to deal with the surgeon being his usual jackass self that when he came in and was perfectly nice and perfectly brief and the hell out of there, that I was thrown for a loop.

THAT DAMN MAN LOVES TO KEEP ME OFF-BALANCE.

(Seriously, can you believe it’s been 4 years (the end of this month) since I had weight loss surgery??)

When I walked out of the building, it was 2:20, so I went over to TJ Maxx, browsed for a while, and then headed into Huntsville to meet Fred for a super-early dinner. I’d been craving Olive Garden since before my birthday, and I figured that it’s a rare occasion when Fred and I are both in the right area at the right time of day, so I was going to drag him there for dinner whether he liked it or not.

I was almost at Olive Garden when my cell phone rang. It was my plastic surgeon’s office, reminding me that I had an appointment today at 3:15.

“I do?” I said in surprise. She said that I did, I figured it was some sort of follow up appointment for my lower body lift, and I told her I’d be there, and hung up.

When I got to Olive Garden, Fred was waiting, and I told him about the call I’d just gotten. I’d actually thought about it after I hung up, and now would be an odd time for a follow up appointment on the lower body lift. I had that done in May of 2008, so it wouldn’t be a two year follow up, and in any case, I pretty distinctly remembered him telling me I didn’t need to come back unless I had any problems.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Call them back and ask.”

We went inside and were seated, and after we placed our orders, I took my cell phone back outside and called them back.

“I don’t mean to be stupid,” I said after I told them who I was. “But can you tell me what my appointment is for?”

She looked and then said “Juvederm.” Oh no. No, no, no. Nothing injected into my face, thank you.

“I didn’t make that appointment,” I told her. “I need to cancel it.”

We discussed it for a few minutes, decided that maybe the name had been entered incorrectly (or hell, maybe there’s another Robyn Anders0n who goes there, who knows?), she apologized, I told her it was okay, and we hung up.

Our food came really quickly, we ate, got our leftovers boxed up, and were headed home by 4.

(The best thing about eating out: leftovers for lunch the next day! In this case, I’ve got my leftovers for lunch today, and Fred’s for tomorrow!)

I always hate being away from home for so long, and am certain every time that I’ll find the house in smoking ruins, the dogs out running wild, and the chickens running around like idiots (which they do pretty much all the time, so that would be nothing new). But the house was in one piece, the cats were ready for their snack, and the litter boxes were ready for scooping!

I have no appointments for the rest of the week, so I’m going to take advantage and (1) do some damn housecleaning and (2) start watching the new season of Weeds, which just came out on DVD!

 

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Speaking of TV, we watched the first 2 hours of the new season of 24 on Sunday (well, the first hour on Sunday, the second on Monday), and have you guys seen this? Because Katee Sackhoff is on the show (Battlestar Gallactica fans will remember her as Starbuck), and let me tell you what – that girl has been BOTOXED to within an inch of her life. Her face literally DOES NOT MOVE as she tries valiantly to emote. At one point I burst out laughing because she was trying SO VERY HARD to frown, and her eyebrows did not so much as twitch.

Young Hollywood, please STOP THIS SHIT. It’s horrifying.

 

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Are you, at this exact second, saying to yourself, “Self, I wonder if it is at all possible to make Pioneer Woman’s friend Pam Anderson’s Best Baked Beans Ever, only instead of making and eating them right away, can them? Is that possible? Do you think, Self? Could it BE?”

I’m here to tell you that yes indeedy, it is not only possible but I have done it my very own self!

Back around the 4th of July, I made the Baked Beans, and they were indeed fabulous. With just the two of us here eating them, it took forever to get ’em gone, but we managed for we are nothing if not gluttons.

We immediately began discussing the possibility of making and then canning them, and I got excited at the idea and went out and got more canned pork ‘n beans (I had everything else on hand). Then of course those pork ‘n beans sat in the pantry until one of them fell on my foot for the 15th time, and then I decided to get my ass in gear and get them the hell out of there and use them the hell up.

I followed the recipe (except for the part where she puts green pepper in, because green peppers are an abomination upon the world until I need them for making jalapeno jelly) up to the point where you put everything in the oven. At that point, I heated the beans up ’til they came to a boil, put them in pint jars with a few pieces of bacon already at the bottom, and pressure cooked them at 10 pounds of pressure for (I think) 75 minutes (follow the canning time for baked beans, found in the wonderful Ball Blue Book of Canning, or whatever the hell it’s called). I ended up with 4 or 5 (I don’t remember and am too lazy to go the 10 feet to the canning cabinet) pints, and one half-pint.

Over the weekend, we popped open the half-pint, and I tell you what: two thumbs up!

Of course, the issue is that we don’t really eat baked beans all that often, but when we want them, there they’ll be!

 

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This tiny sweet girl:

is Misty. (Resembles Steely Dan more than a little, doesn’t she!) Misty has a condition known as megacolon (you can read more about the condition here) and she needs surgery to correct the condition. Unfortunately, her owner cannot afford the surgery, and another local animal charity, No Greater Love, has stepped in to help him raise the funds for surgery.

You can read more about Misty here.

Even if you can only afford to give a few dollars, it all adds up in the end. Every little bit helps!

 

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I tell you, it’s two steps forward, one step back with these kittens. One time you go in, and they take very little encouraging to climb into your lap, and other times they seem to revert almost back to where they were when we got them. It’s frustrating, but I know we’ve got time and there’s no rush.

It’s especially frustrating when they lay on the floor across the room and roll around on their backs and you wish like hell you could pick them up and squeeze ’em. They’re so freakin’ cute and they KNOW it!

This morning, I walked into the room and sat down, and Fagen was in my lap in seconds. It took Steely Dan a few more minutes to climb into my lap, but he eventually did. I sat there for twenty minutes with them just rolling around in my lap, purring like mad. Now, watch – next time I go in there, they’ll look at me like they’ve never seen me before in their lives.

I think they just like to mess with me.

“WHAT? What is this you tell me? There are scritches going on and I am not being scritched?!”

“O Lord, why have you forsaken me?!”

“I shall wander the cat tree in search of scritches even if it takes me 40 years!”

“Mission accomplished!”

“Now you may rub mah belleh!” (Please note, those are Fred’s hairy knees, not mine!)

 

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Happy, snoozin’ Newt. Don’t be fooled by the sweet face. Yesterday morning I walked out onto the side steps, and SOMEONE had eaten and then vomited up parts to some sort of small rodent right there on the top step. I had to kick a RODENT LIVER AND SOME OTHER ORGAN off the steps so I didn’t have to keep looking at it as I went by.

 

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Previously
2008: I tend to assume if someone wants to know something specific, they’ll ask.
2008: No entry.
2007: No entry.
2006: I think I took my first steps toward being an adult yesterday.
2005: Who the fuck knew?
2004: A Kitchenaid mixer!
2003: “My ass. Please let him go for my ass, and not my throat or my eyes, I’ve got plenty of ass to spare.”
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: Double ear infection, thankyouverymuch.

Behold, I liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!!!!!

When I got up Thursday morning, I thought I felt tired because I hadn’t slept well the night before (damn cats), and when I was sitting in front of my computer I thought I was cold because I hadn’t put socks on as soon as I got dressed (which I always do because otherwise? I end up cold!). Before I left for my hair appointment, I was practically sitting on top of the space heater I keep by my desk during the winter, and still wasn’t warm.

On my way to the appointment, I stopped in Madison to pick up a lab slip from my doctor’s office so I could have blood drawn to have my thyroid levels checked –

Oh! That’s another reason I thought perhaps I was tired, because over the previous almost-week, I’d had my blood drawn for blood tests three times (for pre-op testing, my yearly appointment with my wls surgeon, and my three-month appointment with the hematologist). None of them took much blood, but when I realized I would be stopping for my fourth bloodletting in less than a week, I wondered if it might be making me tired.

I told the lab tech who took my blood on Thursday that I’d had blood taken three times before, and she said it wasn’t a problem.

I went to my hair appointment, and the entire time I was having my hair cut, I was FREEZING.

I left the hair appointment and ran over to Kohl’s where I bought a purse (THE PERFECT ONE, I am sure.) and a knit hat because did I mention I was FREEZING?

The entire time I wandered through Kohl’s, I swear it felt like I was walking through quicksand, and I was like “Those stupid cats! Climbing all over me and fighting with each other all night long and making me sleep poorly! I’m going to just start kicking them out of the room!”

Duh.

I headed for Huntsville for my eye appointment, and I stopped in the parking lot of Target because I had half an hour to kill, and there was nothing on earth I wanted to do LESS than wander through Target for half an hour, and then a big light bulb went on over my stupid head.

I called Fred. “I think I’m getting sick. I’m getting SICK. GODDAMN I AM GETTING SICK.” Then I whined about how I had half an hour to kill before my appointment, and I hadn’t brought a book with me (STUPID) and I didn’t want to walk through Target and Iiiiiiiiiiiiiii didn’t feeeeeeeeeeel good. And then after my eye appointment I had to wait around for anoooother hooour to wait for my new glasses.

(I figured, it had been three years since my last eye checkup, so surely I’d need new glasses.)

Fred suggested that I go settle my ass in the waiting room of the optometrist’s office and maybe they’d take me early. I figured, if nothing else they’d have magazines for me to read, so I did as he suggested.

Their magazine selection was small and old, but I leafed through an Entertainment Weekly from last year (now, who’s this “Jon Gosselin” fellow, again?) and they did end up taking me about five minutes early. As it turns out, my eyes are in a holding pattern. They have gotten neither better nor worse in three years, and I don’t need reading glasses yet. The optometrist told me that I didn’t really need to get new glasses, the old ones were fine, but SOMEONE mocked my eyeglasses when last I visited (okay, they ARE kind of small. Shaddup.) and so I felt I should get some new ones.

I glanced at the glasses on display, but I truly could not stand the idea of waiting around for an hour or having to come back on Friday to get my finished glasses, so I said fuck it (quietly, to myself), and left.

Then I stopped by Petsmart to pick up a few things, and got home as fast as I could.

I should add that this entire time, I had the heat on full blast, and it must have been 95 degrees in that car, but I was FREEZING.

When I got home, I added up the symptoms – headache, chills, spaciness, achy lungs, all-over general achiness, and to me that added up to the flu. I took my temperature and the thermometer reported that I had a fever of 100.5 (which is more of a fever than it might sound like – my normal temperature tends to run around 97.9). I took a Tylenol, went out to gather eggs and say hi to the dogs, came inside, ate lunch, and spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch dozing on and off.

I considered calling my doctor’s office to see if I could get in that afternoon, but I was still (stupidly) hoping that it was just a fluke, that I’d wake up in the morning feeling fine. I do occasionally have days where I feel a little flu-ish one day and then fine the next. But those days never come with a fever.

I slept shittily that night and woke up not sure whether I felt better or not, ’til I got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom. I showered, got dressed, waited for my doctor’s office to open.

I got an appointment for late morning with the nurse practitioner, then snoozed on the couch ’til it was time to go.

Once there, after I had my vitals taken (hint: one way to get the nurse’s attention is to tell her your temperature’s been at 105 when you mean to say 100.5) I got to go through the flu test. Have you had the flu test? Oh, it is DELIGHTFUL. They take a six-foot long q-tip and cram it up your nostril, spearing it through your brain until they hit the underside of the top of your skull, and then they twirrrrrrrrrrrrl it around while slowly counting to five.

“One,” the nurse said.

“Two,” the nurse said.

And then you know how in movies they slow down someone’s voice until it gets all draggy, and each word is dragged on and on and on until it ceases to have any meaning?

“Threeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” the nurse said.

“Fouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuur,” the nurse said.

Then I think she took a call and maybe sent a few text messages.

“Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive,” the nurse said.

She paused.

“Did I skip four? I did, didn’t I? Just kidding!” And she yanked that fucker out.

She told me it’d be a few minutes to get the results, and I leafed through a copy of Time magazine about the Man of the Year for 2009, and I’m pretty sure it was some financial guy (yes, a quick check of Google informs me that it was Ben Bernanke, Chairman of the Federal Reserve), but I swear to you, during the ten minutes I read the profile of him, the one and only thing I retained for longer than zero seconds was that he had $85 in his wallet. It’s like everything else was written in Greek, and not only because it was financial stuff. Even the stuff about his family went over my head.

The nurse came back in to tell me that the flu test was negative (dashing my dreams of coming home to quip via Facebook and Twitter that I suspected my uterus had been out nights kissing pigs in hopes of giving me the H1N1 and making me postpone surgery), and that she needed to take blood for a CBC to see what was going on. I uncovered my right arm – the arm I’d had blood taken from for the thyroid level check the day before – and only then realized that it was all bruised up LIKE I WAS A BIG OLD DRUG-SHOOTING JUNKIE.

(Okay, truthfully, I don’t know how this works. Do junkies shoot up in a vein? They do, right? I seem to recall movies involving them tying off and being unable to find a vein.)

I told her I’d had blood taken the day before (sounding like A GUILTY JUNKIE I AM SURE), and she asked where and I told her (in the lab next door), and she wondered if they could piggyback a CBC on the thyroid test, and I stared blankly at her, and she decided to just go ahead and take the blood since they wanted to get the test done before the lab guys left for lunch. She took my blood, and I tell you what, it didn’t hurt in the slightest, but I immediately started seeing little black dots and felt incredibly nauseous. I had to lay down ’til it went away. The black dots went away, but the nausea remained to keep me company.

End result: they thought it was a virus, but my white blood cell count was on the high end of normal and if it was a virus my white blood cells would have been low, not high, so they thought it was a bacterial infection, gave me antibiotics and an anti-nausea medication, told me to come back if I wasn’t feeling better, and off I went.

I dropped off my prescription, found out there was a long wait, and called Fred and asked him to pick it up for me on his way home.

Then I went home and slept the afternoon away.

Friday was definitely the worst day, with the nausea that wouldn’t go away and the fucking CHILLS, god how I loathe the chills (well, also I hate the nausea). I had my electric throw wrapped around me from chin to foot, on high, all afternoon long.

And, hmmm. Look at that, we’re coming up on 1700 words about poor, poor me and my horrific four-day illness. WOE IS ME.

Let’s just say, I’m feeling MUCH better.

I did call the gynecologist’s office on Friday to tell them what was going on, and they opted to reschedule the hysterectomy. Then we had a ten minute round of figuring out what day and time we could do it, and so now I’m not going for surgery ’til February 10th.

FINE, YOU STUPID UTERUS, YOU GOT YOUR WAY. HAPPY NOW???

I can feel my stupid uterus in there, gearing up to make my next three weeks a bloody living hell.

I SHALL PREVAIL IN THE END, HOWEVER, HAVE NO DOUBT.

 

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On Friday, Pink and Keebler were adopted – TOGETHER!

That leaves Hydrox, cooling his heels in the adoption center. I was worried that he’d be lonely (I’m sure I’ve mentioned that despite his size, he was always the biggest baby of the bunch), but they put him in with another lonely only, so they have each other for company. I’m going to swing by Petsmart while I’m out today and see how he’s doing. I suspect he’ll be just fine.

 

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Steely Dan and Fagen are coming around a little more every day. One day, I went in to hang out with them, and Steely Dan jumped up on the cat tree and looked expectantly at me, clearly waiting for me to pick him up. Another day, Fagen (the more scaredy-cat of the two) actually climbed up into my lap when Steely Dan was NOT already there. Usually, he waits until I’m holding Steely Dan, because it makes him feel safe to have his brother right there.

Fred discovered the most amazing thing. If we take Miz Poo into the foster room with us, the boys completely lose their fear of us. They’re so excited at seeing her, that they’ll let us reach down and pet them, without flinching away. They purr and rub up against her, and she mostly puts up with it though she’ll smack at them if they get TOO much up in her face. We don’t take her in with us every time (don’t want to have to depend on her to get the boys to come to us), but every once in a while it’s nice to take her in there. She’s not interested in the kittens, but she knows if she goes in, she can sit in our laps and be petted, and she’s ALL about that, so it works out well!

“Who, US? We weren’t doing anything, honest!”

“DO I want to come up for some pettin’?”

“I guess so. Don’t get used to it, though, lady. I might bolt at the slightest provocation.”

 

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Newt, in the kitchen. Probably waiting for Jake or Elwood to wander by. He loooooves to hold them down and bite their necks!

 

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Previously
2009: Fred is, as I have mentioned before, an overexplainer.
2008: No entry.
2007: “Oh!” he said, with a big smile. “You’re pregnant!”
2006: A SHELL ON A STICK.
2005: Every movie and every show we watch, he’s in there deconstructing it.
2004: Memes.
2003: A day in the life of Spot J. And3rson.
2002: No entry.
2001: Blech.
2000: I now officially have too damn many books to read.

Pretty sure I have the flu. Headache, aches, chills, fever. I woke up feeling like crap yesterday, but it wasn’t ’til early afternoon that I realized this probably wasn’t just a matter of being cold and sleeping poorly the night before. Duh.

I have a doctor appointment later this morning. In a perfect world, she’ll put me on TamiFlu and I’ll be over it by Monday and can go ahead with surgery on Wednesday. Not holding my breath, though.

I’ll be back when I feel better.

“Flu, my floofy tail. She’s just lollygagging! Get in here and give me my pettins, woman!”

Yesterday, I had to leave the house at the crack of dawn, practically, to make it to my 8:00 appointment with the nutritionist. I’m coming up on four years since I had weight loss surgery and so it’s time to make the rounds of meeting with the nutritionist and having blood drawn and meeting with the surgeon.

It’s a round of appointments that I loathe – not because the nutritionist isn’t perfectly pleasant, but because it’s so goddamn boring and pointless and I have never learned anything that I didn’t already know, even at the very first appointment.

I got my imaginary degree as a nutritionist from, well, years of weighing over 300 pounds (don’t even try to fucking tell me that any fat woman doesn’t know more about nutrition – and I’m not talking FAD nutrition, okay? I’m not talking the fucking “Blood Type Diet”, for instance – than your average doctor) and from my stint at Google University.

I loathe my appointment with my surgeon because there’s a definite lack of personality on his part, a long wait no matter what time my appointment, and some resentment on my part. Last year when I spoke of eating fewer processed carbs, he scoffed and said “So you’re going to eat more UNPROCESSED carbs?” and I am SO VERY easily flustered when I’m under the gun that I always lose my words, so I just sputtered and don’t even remember what I said. If I had a time machine, I’d go back to that exact moment and say “I guess they didn’t teach you at Self-Important Douchebag Surgeon school that fruits and vegetables are carbs, huh? BOY I GUESS IT’S A GOOD GODDAMN THING YOU’RE NOT A NUTRITIONIST, YOU DOUCHEBAG.” I hope when he pulls that shit at home, his wife KICKS HIS ASS ALL OVER THE PLACE.

So, not a fan.

The only reasons I don’t blow off the appointments with the nutritionist and the surgeon are because (1) the nutritionist has this handy-dandy machine that supposedly tests your body fat and muscle distribution, and I like looking at the printout. Of course, this year I’ve fucking lost muscle since last year, and the test tells me that I need to lose 25 pounds, and may I just say my ASS do I need to lose 25 pounds given that I am very happy with where I’m at at the moment, thanks stupid machine WHO IS NOT THE BOSS OF ME. I also have some doubts as to just how accurate the machine is, but like I said, I like to look at the printout. (Note to myself: start lifting weights LIKE YOU SAID YOU WERE GONNA LAST YEAR.) and because (2) I feel a responsibility to help provide long-term numbers as a member of the weight loss surgery community (gag), and I assume that there’s some magical central location that collects the information of surgical weight loss patients and collates them and then sends them out to media outlets so that on a slow news day the media can be all ” (Cue scary music) WEIGHT LOSS SURGERY! DOES IT WORK, LONG-TERM?! MORE AFTER THESE MESSAGES! (Cue Burger King commercial, cue Wendy’s commercial, cue Hardee’s commercial, cue scary music, cue pictures of fat people from the neck down.)”

I live to serve, is what I’m saying.

The appointment with the nutritionist went fine (he’s a very nice guy) and then I stopped at the surgeon’s office (which is just down the hall) to ask for lab orders because I have to have lab work done before I see the surgeon so he can poke at the numbers and APPARENTLY completely miss the fact that my iron levels are completely whacked (which they MUST have been last year, surely they weren’t perfectly fine in January and then I desperately needed an iron infusion in… whenever the hell they did the iron infusion. September? Yes, September, ’cause that’s the day I got the Wonkas!) given that along with NOT being a nutritionist, he’s apparently also NOT a hematologist PLEASE GOD GIVE ME THE BALLS TO BRING THAT UP AT MY APPOINTMENT.

Do not depend on your surgeon to do anything but cut, is what I’m saying, people. But try to find one with personality. If there is such a thing.

Anyway. Where the hell was I going with this? Oh, right, asked for the lab orders, and they looked up my appointment, which was for the 28th, and noticed that I was the only one on the schedule. Which I’m assuming means he won’t be there that day (or maybe that I’m so super-snowflake special that after dealing with my fabulousness he has to go home and lay down for the rest of the day), so rescheduled for the 19th, got my lab orders, had my blood drawn, and headed for home.

I stopped at Sam’s because I used up the very last bucket of cat litter for the new fosters on Saturday, and I never EVER run out of litter, and being out of litter makes me nervous, because I know it’s just asking for trouble.

I bought 10 40-pound buckets of litter, which means that I lifted 400 pounds of litter three times – from the shelf to the cart, cart to the car, car to the garage. Can I count that as weight lifting? (I was CAREFUL, I used my legs, don’t lecture!)

And then I made and canned quart jars of spaghetti meat sauce.

It was a full day, let me tell you.

Today, I have my pre-op appointment with my gynecologist (hysterectomy next week, don’t tell Fred I told you!), tomorrow I have an appointment at the hematologist’s office to have more lab work done, Thursday a hair appointment and eye appointment. Next Tuesday, appointment with the hematologist’s nurse, and then the appointment with my weight loss surgeon.

It’s a busy week and a half, let me tell you. I’m going to need surgery just to force me to recover from all this running around.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Oh, speaking of surgery and running around and lifting, the other night Fred and I were laying in bed talking, and I was making plans for meals to make ahead that Fred could just pop in the oven, since I won’t be lifting for a little while after surgery.

(I will have an incision in my abdomen – the scar tissue from my c-section/ lower body lift requires the hysterectomy be done that way rather than laparascopically or vaginally.)

I said something about him needing to get groceries occasionally, since I couldn’t be lifting stuff, and he said “Well, nothing we get for groceries is that heavy. You can’t lift a bag of salad?”

“I’m sure I can lift a bag of salad,” I said. “The problem will be lifting a grocery bag that has salad and apples and milk and whatever else in it.”

“Oh,” Fred p’shawed. “They have baggers who will be happy to carry your bags out to the car!”

“And how am I supposed to get them into the house?”

“I’ll come out and get them and bring them into the house,” he said.

“You,” I said. “Are an asshole. I’m recovering from surgery and you’re LOUNGING YOUR FUCKING ASS AT HOME because you hate to get groceries?! You wouldn’t come WITH me to lift stuff?”

He had no defense – though he did say that rather than accompany me, he’d just go get groceries himself so I wouldn’t slow him down.

Fucker.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I’m late in saying this, by the way, but thanks you guys for your birthday wishes! (And I know even those of you who didn’t say anything were well aware of it, it being a national holiday and all. I hope you celebrated appropriately.)

We didn’t really do much to mark the occasion, since Fred was gone part of the day and I was breaking my own heart by dropping off the Cookies (then healing my own heart by picking up the new guys and hearing that two Cookies had already been adopted!) and getting the new fosters settled and doing laundry and such.

Fred kept asking me (in the days leading up to my birthday) what I wanted, and I couldn’t really think of anything specific, so I finally told him that as long as he promised we could go shopping for a new console for the TV (THIS WEEKEND, FRED. I am not kidding!), I’d consider that gift enough. We went out to eat – I’ve been craving Olive Garden for a while, but since both of us had been into Huntsville and back again, neither of us wanted to make the drive, so we settled for a new diner in Closeville that I do believe is going to become our new favorite place to eat (on the rare occasion we actually eat out, that is).

We came home, had cake, and watched movies.

Not a bad birthday, all in all.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Steely Dan and Fagen are making progress, slowly. Well, slowly in my opinion, since there’s nothing I’d like more than to walk into the room and have them run over and climb into my lap. So far, I’ve gotten to the point where when I walk into the room and they’re in their bed, they’ll stay there (well, sometimes Fagen will run into the closet and hide, but he comes back out after a few minutes). I sit in the chair (on the opposite side of the room) for a few minutes, then slowly get down on the floor on my stomach and kind of slither across the floor. They let me pet them, and we play with a straw (me holding it out, them batting at it), and that’s about as far as I’ve gotten. I don’t want to rush them.

Fred, on the other hand, goes into the room, picks one of them up, and settles in the chair. They purr and let him hold them (usually it’s Steely Dan), and eventually jump down and run away. Well, until last night that’s how it was going for him. Last night, Fred walked into the room, picked up Steely Dan and sat down in the chair and petted him. Then Fagen dithered for several minutes before jumping up in the chair with Fred to be petted.

Hmph.

He’s always better with the skittish ones, because he’s more patient than I am. And more willing to pick them up. I’d rather they come to me (like I said, I don’t want to rush them), and will bribe them (hellooooo, baby food!), and both ways work; just apparently his way works better with these two.

Ah well. I’m not jealous. (Much.)

Steely Dan looks a lot like Mister Boogers here.

Fagen looks especially like Mr. Fancypants in this picture.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Lots and lots of finches around here lately.

Miz Poo, Joe Bob, and Sugarbutt, enthralled with the birds who are SO close and yet so far away. (Please to be ignoring the mess in that corner of the room. I’m in the process of organizing. Story of my life.)

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Previously
2009: My mother and Nance are all about feeding the addiction, obviously.
2008: No entry.
2007: I don’t know what it is about Lowe’s that makes me so gassy.
2006: Right now, Fred’s thanking his lucky stars that I don’t have this much Christmas stuff, because it would drive him NUTS.
2005: (YES, GODDAMNIT! I HAVE CONFIRMED THAT YOU CAN, IN FACT, BEGIN WRITING THE FUCKING CHECK BEFORE YOU ACTUALLY HEAR WHAT THE TOTAL IS, YOU IN-MY-WAY MOTHERFUCKER!)
2004: I need to go crack open a beer, watch the game, scratch my balls, and think about what this means.
2003: No entry.
2002: No entry.
2001: “Yeah, so you‘ll be the one with the big head blocking everyone else’s view.”
2000: No, I’m not on any drugs, why do you ask?

Things my husband has recently done to make me laugh.

(That is, he didn’t do them with the intention of making me laugh, but they did.)

1. We were watching. Um. What the fuck was the name of that movie? Oh, right – Extract. We were watching Extract, and there comes a point when the guy who’s causing a kerfuffle at the extract company is sitting in his living room with his uncle or cousin or someone. They’re watching TV and Uncle Cousin is drinking directly out of a 2-liter Pepsi bottle. I think this is to show you just how white trash they are, that they can’t be bothered to drink out of cups, just carry the 2-liter bottle to the living room and guzzle it down while watching trashy TV.

“Hmm,” I thought to myself. “Sometimes Fred drinks directly out of 2-liter bottles of Diet Pepsi.” I considered this for a moment, and then turned to look at Fred, sitting across the room on his couch.

Drinking out of a mostly-empty 2-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi.

Oh, if I’d only had my camera.

(He would like you to know, I’m sure, that he only does that when there’s just a little left in the bottle and he doesn’t want to dirty another cup.)

PS: My opinion on Extract: Meh. Skip it and rent Office Space.

2. We give the cats their Snackin’! Time! every evening when it’s starting to get dark – these days around 4:30, 4:45. This means that if we go anywhere near the kitchen after about 3:00, the kittens excitedly decide it’s Snackin’! Time! and gather in the kitchen. Sugarbutt gets his Snackin’! Time! on the counter near the sink (I SCRUB THE COUNTER AFTER SNACKIN’! TIME! IS OVER, DON’T JUDGE ME.), and so if he decides it’s that time, he jumps up on the counter and rubs against whoever’s standing there.

On Friday, Fred and I were both in the kitchen doing something not Snackin’! Time! related, I don’t recall what, and Sugarbutt was all purrpurrpurr ohmygodiloveyouwhenyougivemefood purrpurrpurr and he was in Fred’s way, and out of frustration, Fred said “Would you GET your motherfuckers out of the way!” and I was instantly unreasonably irate* because I assumed he was talking to me, and my “motherfuckers” were the cats, and I was all “HEY! I didn’t call them in here!” and then I realized he wasn’t talking to me, he was talking to Sugarbutt.

I’m guessing that the “your motherfuckers” were Sugarbutt’s legs and he was requesting that Sugarbutt move them.

Even just typing this now, I am GUFFAWING. Sometimes things just hit your funnybone, you know?

*”Instantly unreasonably irate” should be my tagline.

3. Saturday morning when I got home from the adoption center, Fred had already left to attend a wake. I walked into the kitchen to put a pot of water on to boil (with it being so cold, the chickens’ waterers tend to freeze, requiring that we go out regularly and kick them to break the ice. Friday, I decided that it would be smarter to add hot water to the waterers to melt the ice and keep new ice from forming too quickly. It works like a charm. By next winter we should have electricity run out to the back forty so that the waterers will have electric heaters to prevent the water from icing over), and I hit a slick spot on the floor and slid a bit. I turned to see what the hell I’d slipped on, and couldn’t see anything. After I put the pot of water on to boil, I walked to the other end of the counter, and slid on another slick spot. I did a general “What the fuck?”, still didn’t see anything, and then forgot about it.

Later, after he got home, Fred walked into the kitchen and slid on the first slick spot.

“I slid on that earlier, too,” I said. “I don’t see anything, but maybe I dropped a little bit of oil or something.”

Fred laughed and confessed that when he was getting ready for the wake, he saw that his shoes were all dusty, and so he brought them into the kitchen and sprayed PLEDGE on them, and he didn’t think about holding the shoes over the sink or trash can, just held ’em out over the floor and sprayed ’em with Pledge. Some got on the floor, and voila – slick spots.

Yesterday morning he skated across the slick spot on one foot, looking much like Gumby.

“I wiped at it really well with my sock this morning,” he said earnestly. “I can’t believe it’s still so slick!”

I looked at him.

“I mean, I wiped a LOT!”

“You wiped your sock back and forth against the slick spot,” I said. “And you expected that this would take care of the slick spot and make it not slick.”

“Right.”

“All you did was POLISH the floor,” I told him. “To make it unslick you need to spray cleaner on it and wipe THAT.”

“Oh.”

This morning? Floor still slick.

4. This isn’t recent, in fact it’s been ongoing for yeaaaaaaars, but it always makes me roll my eyes at him. Several years ago, we were sitting down to dinner. Fred had made dinner, and it included baked potatoes. As I began eating dinner, I noticed that my potato smelled pretty dirty.

“Did you wash the potatoes?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said.

“With the scrubby?” I said.

“Well, no. I ran water over it and rubbed it with my hand.” He held up his hand to demonstrate, as though I might not be quite sure what a “hand” was.

“You ran water over it and rubbed it with your hand,” I said.

“Yeah.”

I did not eat the rest of that potato.

Since then, I’ll occasionally asked him if he washed a dish with soap and water, or just his “magic hands.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

We watched Paranormal Activity Friday night, and about ten or fifteen minutes into the movie, when the main characters had been dealing with noises in the night and the very annoying female lead was all “Why the fuck are my keys on the floor?!”, I turned to Fred and said “I know what the problem is. Obviously they have CATS.”

If every thump and shriek in the middle of the night woke me up or freaked me out, I’d get VERY LITTLE FUCKING SLEEP, believe you me. Especially when Maxi’s inside for the night. She was inside one night last week and I was laying in the living room reading, and she came hauling ass down the hallway, snarling and snorting like a Tasmanian devil. Cookies spilled out of the hallway into the living room like a tiny school of fish swimming frantically away from a shark, and she paused in the doorway and snarled and snorted some more, adding in a few hisses for good measure.

I can’t imagine freaking out because my keys had been knocked onto the floor. I’d just figure the cats had done it. I ALWAYS figure the cats did it. If I walked into the living room and all the furniture was floating up at ceiling level, a pentagram was drawn in blood on the floor with Fred’s head laying in the middle, and blue flames were shooting out of the fireplace, I’d be all “GODDAMN IT, like I have NOTHING BETTER TO DO than clean this shit up! I’m going to get towels to clean up this blood, and if the furniture isn’t back where it belongs by the time I get back, I’m going to kick your asses! ELWOOD, STOP DRINKING THE BLOOD OFF THE PENTAGRAM, YOU ASS.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

I completely forgot – someone asked in my comments the other day if the other Cookies had caught up, weight-wise, to Hydrox. I didn’t know, so the last night they were here, I weighed them all.

Orange was the lightest, at 3 pounds 9 ounces.
Blue, Pink, and Keebler were all right under 4 pounds.
And Hydrox? Hydrox blew them out of the water at a hefty 5 pounds! He is going to be one big boy, I’m telling you.

Awww, man, I MISS ORANGE!

“Hellooooo, laydeez!”

Snugglin’ Orange and Blue.

I love it when they sleep like this!

Orange and Crazy Jake. I always say to Jake “Your tunes are looney.” Does he look like a complete nut, or what?

Friday night, watching TV. It gets cold in the front room, so I always have my electric throw over me. The Cookies (and Miz Poo) appreciate the electric throw, too! (All five Cookies were on me!)

This is when you know you have too many cats in the house – when you’ve got six cats on you, and you think “WOW, that’s a lot of cats!” and then you realize there are an additional TEN cats in various places in the house. Oy.

I really missed the Cookies a lot yesterday – I kept wishing they were still here, because it was awfully nice to be able to snatch one up, flip him or her on his (or her!) back, and rub their belly, and just have them lay there and smile up at you while purring to beat the band.

Here’s a short movie of Hydrox, up close and personal:

And Pink haz a complaint (“She’s TOUCHING me!”):

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

So, the new guys. They are scaredy cats, these guys. They’re both boys, and they’re about three months old. I hadn’t intended to have more fosters so soon – I’m going in for surgery next week – but at this age, they’re pretty easy to deal with, and they need some attention to get them over being so scared, so I told the shelter manager I’d take ’em. They were already named when I got them, so let me introduce you to…

Fagen.

And Steely Dan.

A couple of people have mentioned that Fagen looks like Mr. Fancypants, our cat who disappeared 7 (!) years ago. He certainly does – he doesn’t have the Fancypants sass just yet, but give him time, I’m sure an attitude will develop.

Steely Dan, markings-wise, reminds us of a long-haired Mister Boogers. And check out that first picture of him, above – looks like he’s got a case of the het going on!

They’re both pretty skittish, but they’re certainly not the most skittish kittens we’ve had. They’ll allow us both to pick them up and hold them and they’ll purr. They haven’t approached us yet, but it’s still early. I have high hopes for these guys.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Miz Poo is patiently waiting for Sugarbutt to leave the cave, so she can steal his spot.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Previously
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: If you could solidify body odor into a spice, it would taste exactly like cumin.
2006: Oh, how I love my books.
2005: I need a nap.
2004: Stuff I bought in Maine.
2003: No entry.
2002: Firsts.
2001: You rock, maaaaaaaan!
2000: I’m blue.