Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Fresh air! Times Square! Oliver and Lisa Douglas visit the Grand Canyon

As usual, Gary has taken this Grand Canyon plan and has inflated it into the Grandest, Canyoniest vacation ever.

I expressed my original vacation plan to him last week. "We shall lounge about during the day, we shall look at the canyon from the windows of the shuttle bus, we shall gaze at the stars and wander idly through the safest viewing points. If we descend it shall be by helicopter." The canyon was to be seen as the Carnegies, the Mellons, the Rockefellers saw it.

This past weekend we went to buy shoes, because he did a little research and felt our current tennis-shoes were not optimal for unstable soil (BREEP, BREEP, heed the warning signals) or for cobblestones (oh yes, Quebec and Paris were hard on our feet, switch off the alarm).

I ignored the warning bells and missed my chance to get a promise to stick to paved surfaces.

So, the store where we got the shoes sold not only shoes but socks (ELLEN WE NEED SOCKS A PAIR FOR EVERY DAY) and water bottles (MUST HAVE WATER BOTTLES CANNOT SHARE GROSS GROSS) and a backpack with a built-in bladder that holds two liters of water (NO WE STILL NEED THE BOTTLES YOU CANNOT JUST SUCK ON MY BLADDER GROSS GROSS).

The only thing left to buy were those walking poles. I heard him talking to the salesman. "Yes, hiking is a new hobby for us -"

BREEEEEEEEP! HEED the alarm this time!

"Wait," I said, "What's that? Hobby? Hiking?"
"We discussed this," he said, annoyed I had interrupted his pre-sale posturing. He turned back to the salesman. "We plan to hike all the national parks."
"We WHAT?"
He ignored me. And that was it until we were on the parking lot.

"Gary. Do you want me to die? I am not hiking the Grand Canyon. We are not HIKING. Hiking in the desert will kill me."

He protested that he was the one who should be worried about being over-exerted because of his age.

I bought that load of crap until tonight when we were on our daily practice "walk." That would be our practice walk in which he carries his backpack with ever-increasing loads of water.

He said, "We need a knife and a toilet shovel and a compass and a fire starter and -" BREEP! BREEP!

"Are we CAMPING now? Do we need bear spray? Is this Naked and Afraid? I don't want to CAMP! We have a bed and a hotel room."

"We aren't camping, but we still have to Be Prepared for anything."

After some discussion, I realized this was all suppressed-Scout talk. All because he was lost on the mountain at Scout camp. After a little more pressing I uncovered his resentment about never having had a sleeping bag like the other scouts, only a lot of blankets safety-pinned together.

"Ohhhhh. You want the stuff," I said, finally understanding.

"I want all the stuff," he said quietly. He paused. "I want all the stuff and I want to be off the grid. Self-sufficient." He paused again. "I have a Pack." So there you are. A man with a pack. And that makes me Ms Pac-man.

So, if you drop by the Grand Canyon in the too-near future, you will see me boarding a helicopter to the canyon floor, with my husband beside me, with his compass in case we get lost.

This Week in My Uterus

I'm pretty sure what the ob-gyn is going to say when I call. I'm thinking cyst. Cysts? Cysteria? A few clues (or, self-delusions):
Clue 1: on Monday, the ultrasound technician was so apologetic that I had to tell her to stop saying "I'm sorry." She said I had my fists balled up in front of my chest and she thought I might hit her. I asked what that object was on the screen was that she kept measuring. "That's your ovary, " she said brightly. If true, my ovary is the size of a fist and it has an identical twin snuggled right next to it. I also saw something very messy that looked like a ball of granola, but the tech flew right by that.
Clue 2: Tuesday I had a nasty ache along the edge of my shoulder blade. Since then I've read that's where people feel cyst pain. Google it if you don't believe me.
Clue 3: Then, after a gaspy-sharp pain Wednesday, everything went right as rain. All cleared up. I've put away the chicken purse, which I'd been using to tote my pads and tampons and lube.

What pleases me most about this diagfauxsis is it won't interfere with the big upcoming vacation ... toooooo ... the Grand Canyon! In a victory for procrastinators everywhere we got a room inside the park. Not the nicest place, not the el Tovar, but the Maswik Lodge, where I believe half the rooms have a balcony, and from the internet photos all the deer hang out there. I'm looking forward to the sunsets, the wildlife, and the stars. It will be far afield from our usual hyper-civilized trips. Gary is shopping for hiking boots that he will wear around the room and then take off before he takes his daily nap.

Saturday Morning Doctor's Appointment

The doctors appointment Saturday morning did not go as anticipated. One surprise was that in the days leading up to the appointment the issue completely changed (heh). What had been a quiet discreet Paint It Red party on the Lower Left Quadrant became a noisy Pee It Red party in the Urethral Hood. That required a pad, so that was new, but also good because it let me track what was going on. The party was in the front. Then the night before the appointment my vagina said, "hey, that looks like fun, let's do that too." 

That's why when the doctor asked "is it bleeding outside or inside?" I said "outside, but overnight it moved inside" and thought, "but the inside bleeding isn't really a problem, because vaginas bleed, that's what they do."

He then said, "It might be on the outside and the inside." He leaned in. "Well, let's take a look - THAT'S A LOT OF BLOOD."

It was at that moment that I fell a step behind on the conversation. 

I was still reacting to all this vulvar bleeding while he was in the hall calling for a speculum. 

While he was cranking me open I was thinking "this can't be good for the delicate area around my urethra."

That's why when he said, "There's a lot of blood. We need to do a biopsy" I said, absolutely, because I saw no problem with him taking a tidy little slice of my labia, even if he needed to put in a tiny little stitch. Because I'm brave like that.

Then, when he threaded the device through the speculum I caught up.

"Wait what? You mean an endometrial biopsy -"
"Yes."
"No no no no no no," and my knees clamped shut. He stopped threading. "I mean I know you have to" (he started threading) "but I was just thinking the other night that when I had that years ago that was the most painful -"
"You'll feel a little pinch."
"Okay, okay, just give me a second." I steeled myself for a repeat of the painful experience I'd had before, during which I shook and gritted my teeth for five minutes. "Okay - "
And then it was over in less than a second. He reeled out the hole punch device while I whimpered, bit me with it (ca-chunk!) and I screamed (AAAAAAAAGH) and whipped it back out while I laughed hysterically (agh ha ha agh ha haHA HAHAHAHA sob.)

"That was a lot faster than the other one." I gasped.
"I made it fast." And that was nice. 

Next time I hear the word biopsy for anything I'll take a Vicodin. Just for reading it. Just in case one is waiting for me around a corner.

I don't remember his exact words, but he thought he'd see a cyst in there but there was SO MUCH BLOOD he couldn't see, and that I'd need an ultrasound Monday. It just amazes me to think there'd be blood up there. Perhaps it's been trapped there for five years.

Had I known that a) endometrial biopsies would be involved and b) it would all dry up to nothing by the middle of Sunday and c) I would require LUBE to insert a tampon nowadays, then I bet I would never have gone. I could see that happening.

Because I don't want to be a step behind again I'm studying up for the ultrasound. I no longer think fibroids are the culprit, because they shrink up after the pause. What I'm doing now is planning for one huge ovarian cyst that I can blame for the ten pound weight gain this past month. I know of a woman who had an ovarian cyst removed and it contained fifty pounds of water. 

Of course, that just means they'll be putting me under anesthesia and I'll say, "Wait - did you mean surgery when you said 'hysterectomy?'"

I Had a PARTY, Damnit!

You know the only thing scarier than being on the doctor fast track is being on the Saturday morning appointment fast track.

Biopsy and ultrasound results to come. I place my money on fibroids.

The Earth Tilts On Its Axis

Gary came into the living room moments ago and announced "I just realized that it's my Birthday Month."
I forgot. HE FORGOT.
Retirement will shake your world, people.

The Second to Fifteenth Coming of the Holy Weeping Labia

(For reference: Previous posts dealing with the Crotch Rot -  this, this, this, this, this, this, and most recently, this.)

Allow me to stick my head between my knees and speak loudly to my vulva.

"You are in menopause. I am done with this drama. No one else I know has a labial flap that weeps blood for no apparent reason.  I do not understand why I am the only one cursed with this stigmata. Wait. Is it the Pope? Is this a sign of the end times?"

I can't imagine what I did to bring this scourge back on me. I thought I was all done with the issue of blood from the outside of my insides, especially since it was in synch with my cycle and now I no longer even HAVE a bike. Now that I am cycle-free you'd think I'd be done with any ersatz menstruation.

And this time it is tenacious. I was unaware that the healing ointment that knocked it out last time had expired, and it took that opportunity to set up camp. Now, even with a new prescription, it just keeps doubling down. I clear it up, it comes back, and it shocks me every time. "What is this! Am I - oh, damnit." 

It's like my crotch has Muchausen's and is faking a period for pity. Or to look young. 

(Puts head between legs.) "SERIOUSLY."

Frito Be ... You and Me

A month ago Frito Pie was not on my radar. Never had it, never wanted it.

Then I read Gone Girl in which Frito Pie is mentioned a number of times - and now look what has popped up in my company cafeteria.

There it is, peeking out from the left side of the photo. I was surprised. In my mind, Frito Pie was something more advanced than taking chili and cheese, plopping it on top of Fritos, and calling it a meal. I thought it would be baked, like spaghetti pie. Baking would give it some kind of credibility.

Of course, I had to have it. I hope the guy manning the flatbread station didn't see me select the Frito Pie after I rejected his flatbreads for being too fattening. Instead, the Frito Pie man layered my Fritos, chili, and cheese, then in lieu of salsa added dollops of sour cream and guacamole the size of my boobs.

It wasn't awful, but it was no more than the sum of its parts. I only ate half, and now I'm looking forward to lemon-cream-broccoli-chicken risotto for dinner.

How I Spent The ice Storm

It's all good here, even with the ice storm overhead. We have food and entertainment and electricity.

For food, we've been shopping, cooking, and eating. We've both admired the bright color pallette inside the fridge because all the fruits and veggoes are stationed up front, ready for the long tuck-in. I even made bread, so the rest of you have another loaf of bread to snatch off the shelves. 

For entertainment, I've halfway through Gone Girl. I didn't expect it to be set in Missouri, so that was a nice surprise. On the other hand, I keep questioning the logistics, like "there is no way he can get from Ladue to Hannibal in an hour. Ninety minutes, sure, if he speeds." Wonderful depiction of Missouri food so far. It made me want to make a Frito Pie. 

I've also spent hours, hours watching this epic film with Kirk Douglas that I confess I've never seen before. It's called Spartacus. Have you heard of it? 

Yes, I'm serious. I've never watched Spartacus. And to my surprise I discovered that I am not just Tony Curtis saying "I am Spartacus," but I am Spartacus through to my soul.