Saturday, February 24, 2007

because I'm all about tmi

Jane 's encounter with a dickhead pharmacist today reminded me of my own eye popping experience of a few years ago.

I was lucky enough to contract chicken pox as an adult. I'd recently had a tetanus booster shot (Yes! Me! Vaccinated!!) because of some stupid job I'd accepted before changing my mind because fucksake, did I have rocks for brains? St Vincent de Paul is a worthy charity but I'd just quit a better job in order to study, what in tarnation was I doing accepting this lesser job only a week later? Altruism has its place but it didn't appeal to me at that particular point in my life. I had IT qualifications to pursue and then never use! So I got the shot, quit the job before I even started it, and woke up a day or so later with a couple of weird looking things on my stomach that rapidly multiplied until I had about a fuckbillion of them all over my torso. "Well shit", I thought to myself, "I'm having an allergic reaction to the vaccination (I know! Me! Vaccinated!!) I'd better go back to the doctor to get some anti whatever it is to reverse this here hoagly making shit before I turn into one giant carbuncle". So I went and complained about the stupid reaction I was having to the stupid vaccine and the doctor raised his hand in the universal signal for Would You Shut Your Whine Hole For A Minute? and when I did, told me to go home and go to bed, I have chicken pox. I was all, The Fuck? But I don't feel ill! And he was all, ha ha ha. You will. So I went home, erupted some more and waited. I never felt ill though, possibly because I rock.

They tell you that chicken pox itch and they're right, it does, but before they crust up to their itching glory, they're like giant pustules of ouch. The Pox hurt, people, and they come up everywhere. Literally. Though by some stroke of luck, I only got one on my face, and even that was only on the edge of my lip and had kind of erupted under a pimple anyway. But everywhere else you can think of, nudge nudge wink wink? Yes. My god. Suffice to say that the only good thing about having those fuckers all over your business is that the searing pain on in and around your personal space makes you forget about pain everywhere else.

An aside, if you or anyone you love gets The Pox, fuck that ridiculous noise about calamine lotion. In fact, fuck all the ridiculous noise you ever hear about anything that's supposed to stop an itch. If you get so much as a mosquito bite, go buy yourself some Vagisil. If you get The Pox, you make sure you get enough of that stuff to fill the damn bath tub and then you dive right on in. Let it be known though, that my knowledge of Vagisil lies only in my Pox experience because it's for feminine itching and my feminine does not, has not and will not, ever, thank you very much.

ANYWAY, the pharmacist story.

It was some thoughtless poxy motherfucker making contact with me that got me into this predicament, and while I didn't want to cause anyone else to ooze so magnificently, I needed help, so I hobbled into the local pharmacy and, keeping my pustules to myself and my voice low, explained my angst to the pharmacist. He cupped his hands around his mouth, forming a makeshift megaphone, and yelled out his recommendations so that the people in the next STATE could hear about the LESIONS!! on my GENITALS!!.

In more recent cooch related news, I may or may not have just had my first womanly time in over two years. My body is acting like it has, what with the cramps and the way the entire world turned into a bunch of the most irritating fucks ever, but it's also acting like it hasn't, given the minute amount of, uh, um, graphic evidence on show. The argument for includes the loss of the last five pounds left over from having Daniel (that would not budge and that had a decided pre menstruall feel about them lasting for the entire last year) in the two days between Wednesday and Friday, the argument against includes the hooters that haven't morphed into the Touch Me And I'll Kick You In The Nuts phase. Is that how the monumental return goes? Not so monumental after all? I did wonder if I ovulated a couple of weeks ago, not because my fertility monitor told me so, because we know how well that went the last time I used it to predict my fertility or lack thereof, but because you don't want to know why, suffice to say, two words, Natural Family Planning, which is in actual fact, three words, ones that are again suffice to say, why I wouldn't be at all surprised if this was my womanly time. What does surprise me is the lack of time in this particular instance of womanliness.

Crap! The time! We're heading over to my brother and SIL's and we're meant to be there in an hour and I'm still in my jammies with unwashed hair and a sleeping child in the room next door.

So there it is, a whole entry about my bits. Enjoy.

Friday, February 16, 2007

walking, talking, living doll


Daniel's standing around like a regular human being for quite some time now, so anyone who's seen him has been all "not long now".

Shyeah, right.

He took his first steps over a month ago and apparently decided that evolution, meh, because since then, nothing.

Last Friday though, he upped and walked and has been stomping around on his chubby little legs ever since.

Sunday, February 04, 2007

bite me

So on March 26, my face is going to be cracked open, rearranged and put back together again, hopefully with something more substantial than duct tape and flour paste.

Thrilled? Why yes, I am. Am also lying, but thank you for asking.

I cannot begin tell you how pissed I am that I've got to go through this hell because my parents..What? I need to let go of the past? well, duh...but anyway, bitter, pissed and what have you, that my parents were so fucking cheap that, in lieu of orthodontic advice, they had my crooked teeth extracted instead of straightened because, do you really need more than two molars on each corner? Actually you do, especially when your head is still growing and your brain is saying things to itself like "now I need to add a bit more over here to make room for all those other teeth to come through". Take away the teeth and the brain goes "Oh. Okay. Where did that space come from? Whatever, with those teeth gone it looks like that bit is as big as it needs to be, lets work on growing something else to adulthood and leave that bit alone". Granted, teeth were routinely extracted back in the day, but they were generally extracted in cahoots with banding, and often a palate expansion thingy was used make sure the hapless child's face wouldn't get stuck in some kind of dental Groundhog Day. Had that been my experience and had my parents sought the second opinion my dentist recommended (read: had my parents not been so fucking tight), I wouldn't be needing this face breaking shit that scares the bejeepers out of me that also makes me bitter. Let's not forget that bit.

Also, I'm going to look different, so I'd better end up looking like Angelina fucking Jolie because by crikey, there'll be trouble. I mean, shit, if I've got to through all this there ahd better be some visible benefits as well. Thing is, the things (thing things?) I don't like about my face - my sunken cheekbones, my mannish lower jaw, my teeth when I smile - are all the direct results from my bad dentistry, so hopefully I won't hate the end result. My mum looked like a movie star when she was younger, my dad too, and my brother still looks like he fell out of a modelling agency. And then there's me who, while not ugly, am definitely the plain one of the family. Had I kept my teeth and had some orthodontic work, I might have ended up stunning, and no doubt so in love with my looks that I'd have also ended up alone and bitter anyway - but at least I would have looked good doing it!!

Daniel's fate for the week I'm in hospital and the first week I'm back at home are still to be decided. Childcare said they'd take him for five days a week instead of his usual three, just let them know the dates, but having told them the dates on Friday, she was all "Oh dear, I need to check the dates. We might not have any spaces available". The fuck?! Although it is a good metaphor for my teeth. Point being, that's still to be sorted which, fuckityfuck. My SIL said she should be able to collect Daniel from daycare and stay with him at my place overnight, and then take him back in the morning before heading off to work, lather rinse repeat. She lives anywhere from 20-45 minutes away, depending on the traffic, and works from home, so while I think its a big ask to go back and forth twice a day and obviously the guilt, oh the guilt, she says it's what families do. They pull together. Considering the last twenty years, I'm still a bit bunny in the headlights about that whole family jive, but I'll deal with my guilt if my little boy is looked after by people he rather enjoys.

Also and in unrelated news, I have question for you all, my multitude of loyal fans. Herewith the question: does breastfeeding...though, wait. Would you prefer I call it 'nursing'? I've noticed that y'all over yonder refer to it most often as 'nursing' - is that because 'breastfeeding' actually makes reference to the required apparatus? Or is it because you're an economic bunch and 'nursing' contains only two syllables? Anyway, the question relates to my feet in reference to, um, nursing. The problem here being that you say 'nursing' I think medical personnel. "I nursed my son?" "I gave him a sponge bath and earlier in the day I handed over the scalpel when the doctor barked the order in the OR.". Can't help it. ANYWAY! My feet vis a vis breastfeeding. Or nursing. Whatever. They get kind of swollen, is all. Puffy, like I'm storing several buckets of water in them puffy. It started when I was around seven months pregnant, which was to be expected given every woman on the earth gets feet like an elephants while pregnant. I thought they'd go back to my regular feet, albeit wider and more ducklike thankyouverrymuch relaxin, shortly after I became unpregnant. They still swell up though, and even my ankles look chunkier to me, so the question is, does breastfeeding cause you to retain water? Which begs the question, if so, is it limited to my lower extremities or can I hope to see more of my hip bones sometime in the near future too? I'm only a couple of pounds above my pre-pregnant weight, but my hips are all floofy and I seem squishy in the middle. Very annoying, given I still totally have issues with actual and perceived fat. See, my 'recovery' was simply because I got too lazy to keep being anorexic. That starving shit is hard, man. Seriously. Anyway, my ankles (and possibly my whole doughy body!)? Breastfeeding? Yes? No? Or can I have the question again please, Virgil?

Also! Daniel's hair. To cut or not to cut? It's pretty fucking long. On the one hand, I figure he has an entire lifetime of social norms determining the shorter do, so why not give him a few more years of long, flowing hippy hair? On the other hand, he'd probably look cuter with an inch or so off the ends, but do I really want to make decisions in re my son based on my wants for his looks? But then again, if his looks are the issue, check it. Doesn't he make an adorable girl?

I really do send myself nuts with things that totally don't matter that much. Or do they? Is this important? (again with the nuts making, oy)

Lastly, I finally uploaded an additional *drumroll* ten photos to flickr. Woot!

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