Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

High Maintenance Spunky

Spunky Labia, International Foot Porn Superstar, had complaints.

"Appendage!" she cried, "You have not serviced me with a foot peel since before the pandemic!"

"You didn't seem to need one." I answered.

"I AM HIDEOUS."

"Oh, all right. We still have two of them."

I applied a foot peel and followed all the directions. A week later there had been some progress but not the reptilian shedding as before.

"Check the expiration date!" she demanded. And Spunky was right, the foot peel had expired last month.  She felt bad, and to please her I had to buy the most expensive foot peel, and for once the men's version of a product was the more expensive one. 

So next week expect Spunky to man up with this. extra-large, extra-strength foot peel for men.

Spunky: "BRING IT!" 

Gary: "No, it will hurt your toes!"

I seriously doubt it will hurt. Perhaps they add an astringent that might dupe some into thinking it's working, and it might tingle, but that's all.

Spunky is tapping her toes impatiently. 

Cats In the Night

It was dark, and I was in the closet looking for my sweatpants, and when I realized my pink sweatpants looked just like my grey sweatpants, I thought, "At night, all pants are grey."

And then, "What is that from? Oh, 'At night, all cats are grey.' But ... what is that from?"  And then, "Oh look, the Internet."

I learned two things:

In America, the phrase is actually "All cats are grey in the dark." I can't imagine why, it's one word longer with no iambic pentameter.

But in France the phrase is "La nuit, tous les chats sont gris." Translated, that is the phrase I know, only:

•     Equally overly long
•     No meter of any kind
•     Dirty

(Dirty, because of pussycats. And yet why? I don't know what kind of fancy vulvas they have in France, or if they've got a French cat version of a wire-haired terrier, but I don't see the cat-crotch connection.)

Of course I couldn't remember the last time I said "At night all cats are grey," but I imagine I was talking to all the department managers when I said the equivalent of, "Who cares, pussy is pussy."

Spunky Mourns Her Fallen Star

There was a time, sixteen years ago, when Spunky Labia, International Toe Porn Superstar, came into this world when I looked at my Google searches and discovered a fair number of men from foreign countries got here searching for "toe porn". 

I visited my Google searches recently and was curious to see what my lowest search term is. The search that is least popular, even below "snaggly whiplash" (brother of Snidely Whiplash?) and "toilet brush scat," is "toe porn." It has 0 clicks and only 1 time it was even viewed on a page with other Google results. 

I feel I need to comfort Spunky by doing a retrospective of her youth. Too many Spunky references to list them all, but here is the Nascent Spunky.

The first reference

She is yet unnamed

She poses

Still amazed by the toe porn searches

Yet another Google search gives her a name

 

 

Tucks

My crotch affliction is back AGAIN. The lower parts have definitely thinned and rusted to the degree that they are just intermittently tender, sore, and a touch ... gory.

I have eschewed the rough toilet paper and tried all the creams and unguents in the house. I even tried the Monistat 7, which took me down a rabbit hole while I researched what could cause bubbles in one's urine, and by using the scientific method I can say -- decisively -- Monistat 7 will make your urine bubbly. Not your thyroid, or proteinuria, or other alarming  things you may have Googled. 

However, because none of the ointments dealt with the problem, I began poking around in the backs of drawers and found that when I stocked the health larder one thing I bought in preparation for the future was an item called "Tucks."

I heard of them from a commercial that was too vague to say, "THIS IS FOR HEMORRHOIDS," just that they were for relief of rump itching and unpleasantness, and who among us has not been struck by that? 

I figured all the nether holes must be made of the same essential tissue, so why not open the tidy little tub and take out one of these damp circles and poke it up in my lady hole?

This is why: because Tucks are tucking COLD. As cold as witchcraft, frozen nitrogen, dry ice. Cold.

"What is in this stuff," I yelped, and found there is only one active ingredient: witch-hazel. (Witches, there you go. Cold as a witch's crotch.)

That was this morning. Now that I know to expect, the popsicle-in-the-crotch numbing effect is not the surprise it was before. It's actually kind of nice. And I think it might be helping. I'll give it a week and I'm sure things will have improved by then. No doubt the pudenda would improve on its own, and the pads are just a placebo. Don't care. I like placebos. 

Lady Garden Blight Returns

My affliction is back, despite a respite of almost half a decade. The labia is again weeping blood from the outside, not the inside. (See here. In fact you should see here, because that post-menopausal post from five years ago sums up my attitude today.)

Since my reproductive hormones have utterly shut down now, I would have thought that would be the end of my pudenda problems. But, actually, it's comforting, since I know I can write off endometriosis or hormonal fluctuations as a cause for the spontaneous labial bleeding.

It's probably been an infected ingrown hair, only ... there's no hair there on the inner lady curtain. Or perhaps there is, only they are small. I have fuzzy hairs everywhere else now, why not.

Really, that's should be my attitude about the entire crotch issue. All the emotional attachment to my labia is gone now that I am 'paused. Do what you want, crotch: spontaneously bleed, spout glitter, rub together and make sounds like Cuban diplomatic crickets. Over. It.

First

My great grandmother was the first person killed by an automobile in Marion Ohio. And so it began: technology tasted blood, and our blood was the tastiest.

Technology has not killed me, but I think I am the first person ... well, on my block at least ... to develop a remote-controlled bladder infection.

And, yes, I got this bladder infection the same way I get all my bladder infections: something inside my vagina aggravating the fetid puddle of pee that pools in the bottom of my bladder. 

As you have surmised, Gary bought "us" a remote-controlled app-driven vibrator. (This one right here,) It combines his love of his iPad with his love for me, and his need to give me bladder infections - even without laying a finger on me, this time. (He just used his finger to control the device by scribbling on the iPad. The power!)

Come to think of it, he didn't touch me OR even look at me, since he was invested in the software. His nerdiness excites me. Since the narrow pink antenna visibly ... protrudes, I came over and slapped him in the face with the antenna a few times.

This how it shall be in my future. No touching, no looking? No problem.

By the way, I know, I know, similar devices are sending private usage information back to their motherships and plotting with the microwave. And of course, if anyone tried to "hi-jack" it they'd have to do it while it was turned on and Gary and I were using it. We'd just write it off to Roomba wireless interference or the Tivo or any other wiretapping device we have. Actually, given our computer backgrounds we'd have more fun debugging it.

Edited to add: I got out of bed later and found Hal the skeleton greeting me.

Edited to add: Mr. Skeleton (Not Safe for Work) got more sweet words than I got.
.

Friday Freakout: The Last One?

No episode of hysteria for a month. The psychiatrist did call me back Monday and left an incomprensible ten second message. It was background noise and the end of a conversation he had with someone else. I called back, didn't reach him, and didn't leave a message.

Gary was as trying as he could be yesterday, yelling at the television, yelling at me, and I stayed calm.

Clearly the recent diagnosis and my intention to do something about it has whipped my emotional stability right into line.

 

Friday Freakout: Red Light Edition

It has been a week without tears, or mood swings, or arguments with Gary. Well, there was one argument with Gary Friday night, and it was notable how calm I stayed.

We went out for miniature golf, of all things, which was some degree of fun. There are no rules when we play miniature golf, and we don't keep score. My god, if my father knew I married a man who didn't play scrupulously by the rules ... every board game we owned had the rules circled in red and special house rules annotated by my father:

• The LOSER will be responsible for putting away the game.
• THE LOSER refer to the winner as 'THE WINNAH!'
• THESE ARE THE RULES.

After the game, I took his ass to Red Lobster, and when the waiter asked if we were there for a special occasion, I refrained from cheerfully answering "Because I slay!"  I really wanted to ask how many people a day give the full Beyonce excuse for going to Red Lobster, but I did not.

Afterward, we were waiting at a red light when some other light changed, Gary saw other people moving, so he started to drive through the red light.

"RED LIGHT!" I screamed.

He slammed on the breaks, and then clutched his chest and yelled, "Don't scream! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

And then he went on ... and on ... and on. I calmly suggested that he might have yelled the same way I did had our roles been reversed. He might even yelled as loudly as he was yelling now.

I didn't cry. I didn't escalate. It was nice. It was like old times.

This is clearly some subconscious reaction to my decision to get medical or therapeutic assistance.

 

Friday Freakout: Radio Silence Edition

I decided that it would be wrong to bypass the psychiatrist's opinion, so before I go see a counselor I'm going to visit him. I left a message Thursday afternoon, but I haven't heard back.

My mood has been elevated by earrings and wildlife.

Earrings:

I plan to wear these on days I wake up cranky.

Wildlife:

Switching the peanuts out for a peanut / lamb and rice dog food concoction has proved to be very popular.

It has also brought in a new friend ...

Soon we will have wolves at our door. Literally. And figuratively, if I don't stop buying earrings. (That's a joke. I'm not maniacally buying earrings. )

Friday freakout: Are You F'ing Kidding Me?

I summoned up the courage to see the nurse practitioner at the gynecologist.

I described my symptoms: hormonal rages, mood swings, etc.

Her next words were, "So I see you're bipolar."

Sigh. You know, I've never really bought into this bi-polar diagnosis.

The first person to tag me with it was my neurologist, based on my risky roller-coaster behavior. Then I heard it from the psychiatrist, and he should know, right? But then he backed off.

And then when I saw it again on the general physician's chart, I noticed it said bi-polar N.O.S., or "Not Otherwise Specified," which evidently means, "Probably bi-polar but she doesn't fit the diagnostic requirements ... yet." That was twenty years ago. Granted, if the requirements are depression and hypomania, I did have that one time I felt like I could jog home from the mall. Damnit. One particularly happy night and I'm bi-polar for life.

It can also mean "It looks like you have bipolar disorder but your doctor thinks your symptoms might be caused by drugs, alcohol or a general medical condition (see Ruling Out Other Physical Conditions)", where MS is one of the conditions.

"N.O.S.?" I said hopefully to the nurse practitioner.

"Oh, I know all about the different types," she said sympathetically. Then she recommended counseling, which I am going to take full advantage of, as soon as I can pick up the phone to call someone without crying.

I was encouraged when she ran her diagnosis past the gynecologist, who recommended I get a blood test to be sure I'm post-menopausal, or if my hormones could still be fluctuating.

And the test came back and my follicle-stimulating hormones are at 80 in a range of 16 - 113, solidly menopausal. So, I need to schedule a visit to see the psychiatrist again, go back on the Celexa (or perhaps its less fattening cousin, Lexapro), and as an added bonus I am going to indulge in counseling. I'm thinking of it as a luxury. I need to be counseled in how to deal with injustice. Because seriously, my husband can't find the snow peas and he explodes, but no one tags him as bi-polar. So not fair.

Mammogramma

In a rare moment of adult responsibility I scheduled a mammogram for Friday afternoon. I don't know what my reproductive system will think, a mammogram on Friday and a Pap smear on Monday. I picture my ovaries whispering to each other across my uterus, "Are we coming out of retirement?"

This is my first mammogram in three years. I've had the yearly breast exams, in which my doctor and I politely talk while he pads at my boobies like a cat, but this is the first mammogram since the one that really hurt.

This one did not hurt. Not one bit.

Other high points:

From the moment I stepped into the hospital to the moment I stepped out, the visit took twenty minutes. Granted, the drive there was 45 minutes and the drive back an hour.

There was no wait in the check-in waiting room. At first I didn't recognize the waiting room, since I had confused it with the MRI waiting room. On the way out I was able to tell them the reason it all looked unfamiliar was that I'd never been there more than two minutes.

At the check-in desk I signed up for a 3D breast image. It cost 60 dollars more, but they said it was better for women with dense breasts. I suppose they are still dense, if looser and smaller. (I noted the shrivel texture of my bosom as we flopped them into the device.) At first I thought I'd be getting an image like those 3D baby ultrasounds, but no. It's more like an MRI, where the camera pivots around you and makes photos of "slices."  I had to research this after, because Gary was planning to hang the 3D image in the bathroom.

There was almost no wait in the second waiting room, the one where we all get naked and hang out in our gowns tied in the front.

My back was turned when the disoriented woman pulled the curtain on my changing room when I was half-naked.

A nice lady helped me figure out the cappuccino / cocoa machine. I was summoned to the exam room even before the cocoa finished dispensing, but they waited and I sipped cocoa during my exam.

The nurse must have noticed my weight change, since she asked me what I weighed at my last mammogram before she asked what my weight was today.

Not a bad experience at all. I could do that yearly. I feel that I should go on Yelp and give the Barnes-Jewish fifth floor Mammography suite a five-star review.

Friday Freakout: I Finally Cave

I see the OB-GYN on Momday morning. Well, his assistant. I truly hope she doesn't have to go poking about up in the sanctuary. They said something about being overdue for a Pap smear. I still have to have smears? Really? Does it ever end?

Friday Freakout late March

Ugh. It seems I fall into tears every single day now. Still, the trigger is always the same: someone else gets emotional, and I'm like a dry bit of brush catching fire from the superheated air.

There was one episode at work that which I was able to control, but I still felt the rage flash. Outside of work, happily, there are only a few people I have to deal with who have the emotional self control of a yappy dog. I need to find a way to avoid the yappy dogs.

Of course, Gary always displays every emotion, and then amplifies every emotion. Tears always flow around Gary, whether it's a new argument or a new twist on old arguments.

I can't really ask the rest of the world to stop expressing their emotions. All right. As of this moment I'm calling the ob-gyn Monday for some hormones.

-----------Moments later:

I just announced my intention to Gary and he asked, "Why? You seem to be doing better."

Friday Freakout: False Hope

Yesterday I was in the car with Gary, and I was thinking how long it had been since my hormones took over and made me into a menopausal monster. A whole week and a half! I decided if I could go a month I could consider myself cured.

I was at peace.

Not twenty seconds later I flipped out because Gary changed into the wrong lane.

Friday Freakout

Today I removed all the staples holding the torn leather on the loveseat, because the loveseat has two issues: the broken down upholstery and the torn leather, and no one works on both. So I have to present the tradesmen with separate issues.

I thought Gary would freak out when he saw the upside down loveseat, but he didn't. He instead bottled it up until he needed a bandaid and they were six inches from where he expected them to be.

But did I lose it, as I now do when he gets emotional?

No I did not. I laughed at him and eventually found the band aids.

Perhaps this is the end of the hysterics. Mine, anyway.

Friday Freakout

This week Gary and I both really lost it on Wednesday, when we were headed to see a tax accountant.

Two things:

1. See a tax accountant. I've spent the last few days amending old tax returns I did with TurboTax. TurboTax deceives you, people. You shut off your brain because you think Ol' T.T. will do all the math for you, and it does not. It does almost all the math, then it doesn't bother to multiply the cost basis by the number of shares sold, and you are too confident in T.T. to check its math.
2. Sometimes it's nice to drive somewhere in a car screaming at each other,  because one of you made assumptions about which Bread Company the tax accountant was waiting in. I felt a little better about my rage, since Gary met me scream for scream.

On the other hand, there was one hysterical outburst this week that had us again considering low-dose hormones. Here's my question: won't the low-dose hormones just delay the problem? I can see taking them to get my mood swings under control, but let's say I take them for five years to pump myself full of the soothing lady hormones. When I get off them, won't I then be with the hormones again and in wild hysterical hormonal mood swings?

Friday Freakout: Bad Week

The theme for the week has been "YES I AM YELLING, GARY, WHAT'S IT LIKE BEING MARRIED TO SOMEONE WHO YELLS?"

Any time Gary complains about my yelling or whining or hysteria, I point out that I'm behaving the way he has behaved the last thirty odd years.

Today, we had to drive separate cars to put the Mini in the shop. (Yes, my rage has abated enough to send the sickly car back to the dealer. I even set foot into the dealership and was far more civil than I expected.) Anyway, I went over the edge when I drove behind him and witnessed him putting on his seat belt on the highway and swerving into the next lane while doing it.

I honked, I screamed, I cried, and of course he was in a different car and didn't notice. So, I pulled in front of him and swerved into the next lane myself. It was dumb. It was also effective. He seemed appropriately horrified.

Of course, I watched him drive very sensibly after that. Sixty miles an hour, just like I always do. Or, just like I always did, because I now understand why he wants to rush me on the highway. People get right up on your tail, then whip around you. It's not safe.

I think another contributor to my crankiness is that I've been doing QA at work. Quality assurance puts me in a critical mindset, because that's the point of QA, to find and pick out every nit. It's been hard to leave the criticism at work.

I need more music, more long drives, and I need to be nicer to my husband.

Friday NonFreakout

No freakouts this week! There have been flashes of anger (always directed at Gary) and one time I started to cry, wanted to cry, and had to nurse it. NURSE it into full tears. I find this very encouraging.

I'm getting better and figuring out what triggers it.

(Hint: Gary. Gary triggers it.)

 

Friday Feast-out

No menopausal freakouts this week. Instead I give you this

... That's as far as I got before Gary commented that I had cooked this pork roast incorrectly! Not done! He did not care that it hit the internal temp and was resting, he claimed he cut into it and he could tell it was not done. This launched outraged screaming, doors slamming, and an interlude of laughter when he said, "NO YOUUU HAVE THE EGO."

So, I cannot even get through a post about my mental stability before losing it.

Friday Freakout: Errands

A few days back I posted about a conversation Gary and I had about getting the Mini fixed.

What I haven't told you about is the conversation from the day before, Tuesday. I had to save that for this week's Friday Freakout. (It occurs to me now that Menopausal Mondays might have been a better choice.)

Anyway, Tuesday evening we had some errands to run. I'd had a fine day at work. Quiet. Productive.

I walked in after work and Gary said, "We have to get the Mini fixed. I tried to drive it today, and it gave off an awful smell."

"Why did you want to drive the Mini? What kind of smell? And we'll get it fixed, just not right now."

"I wanted to visit my parents! It was an exhaust smell! And look here, I researched what a used Mini would cost!" He shoved a printout into my hands.

"Let's talk about this later, Gary. I don't want to think about this now."

After we got in the Honda so we could go buy the squirrels some nuts, he continued, "The used Minis have a one year warranty - "

A little loudly, I said, "Stop it. I love my Mini. I hate the Mini dealer. My Mini is fine. Stop TALKING ABOUT this."

About half a mile down the road he said, "If we got a new car - "

"STOP! IT!"  I could tell I was starting to lose it. I tried to calm myself down by concentrating on my breathing. I concentrated so well I started to hyperventilate and got a little woozy.

After a few minutes of shaky breathing I said, "I'm sorry. I had the working car and you didn't get to see your parents. Did you call your parents instead? How are they?"

He said, "Well, Mom's not feeling well."

I burst into tears. "WAAAAHH Your Mom's sick and I had the car and you couldn't seeeeee heeeeerrrrrr."

I was able to calm down by the time he went into the bird store to pick up the nuts.

When he got back to the car he hesitantly said, "Are you okay now?"

I burst into tears again. "I'm sorry I'm like this now I HATE MYSELF." Sob sob sob.

I sobbed for about three miles before he took a shortcut that led us the wrong way through the McDonald's parking lot. You can't sob and gasp in terror at the same time. Good to know. That's a Life Hack right there.

That episode calmed me down, so that by the time we were done with the Walgreen's drive-through I calmly and pleasantly asked, "So what side effects come with this new cholesterol medication?"

"Uhhhhh ... it says,'increased sensitivity to pain.'"

I burst into tears again. "WAAAAAAHHHHHHH," I wailed, "YOURE GOING TO BE IN MORE PAIN?"

Seriously. This is not acceptable. I'm like Miss Pittipat with the fucking fantods.

Friday Freakout: Nothing!

My mood has been stable. No tears this week. At least, no sobbing. Seven whole days without freaking out!

Friday Freakout

New Policy: Friday posts are devoted to whatever is giving me anxiety this week.

Anxiety, my new friend. I've never been a worrier in the past, but now my new buddy Anxiety sits by me and bothers me allllll the time, and he says things like:

"Oh no. The phone's ringing. Someone has died."  It's just a phone call. In fact, it's a telemarketer, because IT'S ALWAYS A TELEMARKETER.

"Oh no. I have email. It's the rental company calling to tell me Mom's house has been blown away by a tornado." IT IS NEVER A TORNADO.

My Mom was a worrier until she got old. Then she realized none of the things she worried about came true. Instead, other, more horrible things happened, so what was the use of worrying?

I, however, have come to worry late in life. It annoys me. I can't be the delicate princess who gets the fantods whenever the phone rings. 

THIS WEEK'S ANXIETY: The car.

The day after Thanksgiving the SERVICE ENGINE SOON and Dynamic Stability Control lights came on. I called the dealer to make an appointment. They couldn't get me in till December 7th.

Our car stayed at the dealer three days. We would call and hear "We're still diagnosing it." I snorted loudly on the third morning, and later that day we got a call that they couldn't find the problem, so they reset the warning lights and we could pick it up.

When I paid the cashier the $130 (instead of the 4K I was worried it would cost), I noticed she looked at the invoice, and then pointedly said, "If anything goes wrong with your car be sure to call us." I was too relieved I was getting out for $130 to think that anything might go wrong.

Sure enough, ten minutes down the road, SERVICE ENGINE SOON.

I cursed steadily until I got into a parking lot, got on my phone and called the dealership.

"YOU DID NOT FIX MY CAR."

"Ma'am. I'm not familiar with what work was done on you car. I need the invoice number to see what we did."

"NOTHING. YOU DID NOTHING AND CHARGED ME $130 FOR IT."

Before I got home, some Customer Service Wrangler had called to hear the whole story. When I called him back I was still so angry I lost my ability to say simple words like "cashier." It came with a French pronounication. "Cash-e-AY." I don't know what that's all about. But that's how mad I was.

So mad they called back the next day and sweet-talked Gary, and promised us a loaner car, and they'd give our car special attention, and drive the car home themselves personally to their house to see any lights, and not give it back till it was fixed, and bullshit, and et cetera.

Gary had already called Dobbs Auto, who immediately said they couldn't get to anything until after the holidays. You know, as opposed to lying and making appointments they can't keep.

In the past, I would have thought, "My righteous indignation has cowed the dealer. They will now do the professional job they should have done before and charge me a fair amount."

My new friend Anxiety says, "They hate you now, and they lie, so they will take advantage and spit in your wiper fluid and tell you that the transmission is out or whatever the most expensive thing is, and then just buff the exterior and do nothing else. Last time you got that light they said it was the fuel pump. I bet it wasn't the fuel pump at all. They probably set the computer chip to randomly send a SERVICE ENGINE SOON light whenever they want your money."

Happily, we have two cars. And while I could have afforded the car work before Christmas, I can't now, so the car just sits in the garage. I start it up every two weeks, and look balefully at the SERVICE ENGINE SOON light. Hah. "SOON." Sure.

Wedding Anniversary Gifts

From Hallmark:

29th Wedding Anniversary.

Theme: Tools.

Give them new 'tools' for their favorite pastimes and hobbies. This might be a manicure set, drill bits or cooking utensils."

My gift to Gary

After he watched an episode of Martha Stewart Bakes, Gary was intrigued by the science of pies, and coveted Martha's extra long 18 inch rolling pin. He got that, plus the rubber spacers that keep the pie crust regular.

Friday night we made a pie crust by hand, and I wish it had been made with love, but instead it was made with acrimony and screaming. Still, Gary used his laser surface thermometer to ensure the dough temperature never dropped below 60 degrees (pie crust melting point) and it tasted tremendous.

We filled it with a Bob Evans strawberry pie knock-off recipe, bought a Bob Evans pie as a benchmark, and had a pie face-off.

Our pie (on the right) won on crust and beauty, the Bob Evans pie won on filling.

Gary's gift to me

First, I shyly need to disclose what he got me for Valentine's Day. Evidently, he feels I have been using amateur vibrators, and need to graduate to the vibrator previously know as the Hitachi Magic Wand. (Wikipedia entry here.)

I wasn't impressed. Bulky. Inconvenient. Not discreet. And, a bit high-powered for me. I tucked it behind my mattress and neglected it for months. It wasn't even blog-worthy.

But then, for our anniversary, Gary got me the attachments. Evidently the attachments are the selling point.

A funny friend explained that the Magic Wand is “The KitchenAid of vibrators.”  (Do not look up that quote, you will find instead the internet plans for turning your Kitchenaid into a vibrator. Talk about overpowered.)

After using the attachments, I can fully endorse this machine. After the recent three year hiatus from sex, during which Gary valiantly tried to increase his stamina on his own, we both ended up in the same bed enjoying each other. And then the next night, and the next, and the next, (and then he gave me a night off because I was getting a vaginal ultrasound the next day), and then the next night – and then I came down with a bladder infection. (I blamed the ultrasound.)

(You may notice the photo includes one attachment I bought him. He was not a fan and remains a Luddite.)

So, we both enjoyed our gifts. It was much like our second Christmas when we unexpectedly bought each other matching leather jackets. This anniversary we unexpectedly bought each other extra-long tools with rubbery attachments.

Damn!

D and C Report

Monday night I was visited by the Menstrual Cramps of My Youth. I tried to soldier through, but then I realized I have a friend I didn't have at age 11, a Mr. Jack Daniels. I took a shot, and even held it for thirty seconds before I projectile vomited it into the sink. I might have tried it again, but I hit the midnight no-food-or-drink pre D&C cutoff.

The hospital called the next morning to see if I'd like to come in early, and we cleaned up and piled in the car.

I admit, I was driving, I was rushing, but that had nothing to do with running the red light.

As Gary explained to the officer, "We're on the way to the hospital."
"Oh, Gary, stop. That has nothing to do with it." I gave the officer my ID and insurance. "When I looked at the light, it was a yellow flashing arrow, and then the other guy couldn't decide who went next, so I did, and my husband tells me the light had turned red."
"Why are you going to the hospital?"
"Oh, I'm not a doctor, just a patient."
"So why are you going?"
"Just ... for ... a procedure." I'm getting the crazy scraped out of me, officer, thank you for asking.

He let me off with a warning, and we still got to there in a reasonable time.

The big rush to come in early was to ensure I didn't get shunted for an emergency surgery my doctor had.  Everyone was in quite the rush. I had all four professionals in my room while they all did their jobs simultaneously. The Cuddly Nurse put on my socks, while the Vital Stat nurse took my blood pressure three times, while the Anesthesia Nurse misunderstood every word I said, and the Anesthesiologist himself countered every argument I had about Versed. (And to my surprise, I've been saying it wrong. He says VERsed, not VerSED. Or he may have just corrected me to put me in my place.) We argued about it for twenty minutes while people stuck in tubes and checked armbands and essentially, it was clear I was getting Versed today even if I killed myself immediately after. ("Oh, suicidal depression could be caused by a lot of different things," chirped the Anesthesia Nurse.) The only thing the Anesthesiologist said that swayed my opinion was that a gastroenterologist administered the drugs before, and supposedly it changes qualities in his golden hands.

So he said, "I'll give you something to make you a leeettle sleepy -"
"What exactly will that be?"
"Propofol and Versed."
At least he looked me in the eye to see me glare at him.
"And what is this going into my IV right now?"
"That's the Versed," Cuddly Nurse said.
So let it be on your head, I thought, but didn't say.

Immediately after that they hustled Gary away.

And immediately after that Gary was back again and I was drinking apple juice. I don't remember a damn thing. And, more important, I felt perfectly happy. Part of me hopes I was verbally violent to the anesthesia team and there's a recording of it somewhere that some future HIPAA ruling will make available to me.
Gary says the doctor said they found nothing. No cancer, no polyps, no cysts. He did a "gentle scraping" (just to tickle me, I guess). Cuddly Nurse had photos I was not allowed to take home. Pink and perfect, except one ovary opening was a little messier than the other, and there was some white stuff they took a picture of.

So what have we learned?

• "Talk to your anesthesiologist" means "Good luck talking to your anesthesiologist."
• There is an inverse relationship between how your uterus feels and how it looks.
• I am not allergic to Versed, but I may be allergic to Jack Daniels.

I Wish There Was a Scratch Test

"No Versed," I said to the nurse at the doctors office.
"I don't know if they use that drug for a D&C, but I'll make a note of that in your chart. Be sure to tell your anesthesiologist."

A few hours later, I was speaking with the pre registration woman at the hospital.
"No Versed," I said.
"I'll make a note of that in your chart. Be sure to tell your anesthesiologist."

A few minutes later, I was speaking with he pre registration woman at the women's health clinic where they'll do the D&C. She was explaining that they'd use Propofol.
"Oh, good. I like Propofol."
"Plus Versed and Fentanyl."
"No Versed."
"Be sure to tell your anesthesiologist."

Seriously? What will he do? Will he make a note in my chart?

It has been twenty years, and I still cry when I think about the time the doctor turned into a giant sheep. I can always successfully convince them that I can't take the Versed, it's just a hassle. Everyone believes me when I say I'm allergic to penicillin. I think this time I'm going to focus on how I woke up to nurses yelling at me to breathe.

We shall see.

I Am In a Mood.

- I woke and found that OBGYN office called to ask me to change my appointment time from 3:30 to 12:30. This is the appointment to see what was wrong with the reproductive system.
- I called the OBGYN and left a message that the change was fine and I'd be there at 12:30.
- I was concerned they might not have gotten the message, so I left early and got there at 12:10.
- Of course they had no idea, and the doctor juuuuust left - but he'd be back in an hour, could I wait?
- I waited. I waited while hail pounded on my car in the parking lot.
- At 1:30 they put me in an exam room.
- At 2:00 I threw down the magazine I was reading and stomped out to the nurses' station. "Look, I'm just going to write this off as a wash. I rescheduled because he moved his afternoon appointments, and it is now afternoon."
- Nurse went off to find the doctor, and hustled me back in the exam room. I did not sit down.
- Doctor walked in. I said, "So, cyst, watchful waiting, am I right?" (The thought bubble over my head said, "CAN I GO NOW?")
- Doctor said, essentially, yes. Sit down.
- This stupid cyst is two centimeters small. Two centimeters. I have been blaming it for my swollen belly and it appears I have just attained a new level of fat.
- For some reason I have to have another ultrasound in three months. I'm cool with a two centimeter cyst. I don't need to get pictures of it.
- Then I went back to work and had to stay late to get a project done.
- Then I came home and had to explain to Gary how to react to me when I have had a bad day. "OH POOR THING YOU'VE HAD A BAD DAY THAT SOUNDS AWFUL." The man is sixty! Who doesn't know the drill at sixty?

Gah. Nasty day.

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 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."

Updated: Dirty Jobs. Dirty.

Gary hasn’t just been sitting around since he’s been retired. He’s self-employed. He works every day at his new job, where he works with his hands. Well, hand. He puts in hours of work every day at his hand job. Research, too. Not just getting his hands dirty.

I have a side job similar to Gary’s (his is full time), and you could say I like to keep my hand in too. However, I have adopted modern day technology to assist me in my job. Gary’s a purist, he can produce the same result without electricity, it just takes him longer. Like the Amish.

Gary was helping me with my job the other day (it goes even faster when he helps), and when I was done in less than a minute (it goes really fast) he spoke with envy of how I could do such quality work in such a short amount of time.

Technology, I answered. Then I started to think about it, did a little research on my own, and I have purchased a life-like robot for him that can take on some of his duties. I know he won’t like it at first. I doubt he’ll even use it. If he uses it I doubt he’ll use the 21^st century features after the first time. But it might catch on, with my help. 

================================

Update:

Gary, refusing to join the Industrial Revolution, actually dismantled the device so he could use the Luddite part while the mechanism remains SHUNT.

The Little Hat

I was helping Mom with a house purge when I was in my thirties, and I found what looked like a little light-blue doll-sized rubber beret with a tiny rolled rim. I figure it was hardware; Mom held on to every piece of useless hardware just in case she might need it later.

So I asked, "What is this?"

Mom seemed annoyed. "What does it look like?"

"A doll's hat?"

I don't remember her answer, in fact, I forgot all about it till last night when I was in the hardware store searching for that very same bit of hardware junk.

As I explained to the middle-aged woman who greeted me, I was there to buy something that "looked like" a diaphragm to cap off my uterus piñata.

The greeter suggested the plumbing aisle.

I searched and searched, but I never found the hardware my Mom had. "Man," I thought, "I wonder what happened to that. It looked just like a diaphragm."

That's when it occurred to me that Mom's hardware was probably just what it looked like. I don't know why I never thought Mom might use a diaphragm. She had sex. I suppose because she had only the one good hand. Anyway, at that realization I stopped searching in the hardware store for something that looked "just like a diaphragm" and bought a dark blue toilet flappy thing I could paint pink and repurpose.

In Which I Am Shocked

In prepation for the MenoParty (subtitled "Dead. Aunt Flo. Dead.") I ordered these tasteful, discreet chocolate molds shaped like birth control packs.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the padded envelope and pulled out a mold that did not look at all like birth control. It took a moment to figure out what it was, since the mold was concave and my brain had to interpret the convex form. I thought:

"This isn't what I ordered! What is it? It isn't round, it's ... kind of a pointy oval. It's sliced down the middle like a loaf of bread. Oval bread? With lips in the midd - Ack! Labia!"

Little labia lollipop molds, to be specific. One reason they were so hard to recognize is they were NOT to SCALE. They were life-sized for a ten year old. Perhaps that's what I found so shocking. It was daytime, I wasn't prepared for them, I was expecting birth control, and I got baby labia.

I felt a little outrage at first, but that dissipated, and my comment to the seller on eBay was a simple "I ordered birth control. You sent me labia."

We shall see what happens next.

I Am a Changed Woman

Gary said, "does this mean you're going to start acting MORE like a man?"

Must Have Been the Pizza

Last month Gary read an article in Maxim (he SAYS) that encourages couples to have "Naked Time." Not sex, per se, or per whatever, just daily nudity. Maybe just a naked hug, maybe naked spoons, at times naked penetration. The focus is intimacy, not the sex.

This is a great improvement over the past few sexless years, so of course I'm very positive about naked time. Very excited. Gary's excited too. He's been scouting about the internet, finding new things to do, suggesting them to me, I call his bluff. Lots of fun.

Tonight during Naked Time I did something during sex I have never done before.

I broke wind.

I don't know how it happened. It wasn't on purpose. I tried not to, but he knocked it out of me. I've been having sex with this man for years (not counting the last few) and that's never been a problem.

It squeaked out, and he rolled off me laughing. I tried to apologize, but the mood was shot. Poof! Gone.

 

Sad State of Affairs

We were in the car Sunday when Gary decided to molest me. I don't remember why. Usually he just honks my breast, which stimulates nothing but an eye roll, but this time he opted to rub vigorously at my privates.

"First," I announced, "You are an inch away from what you are aiming at. And second, what you are aiming at is covered up by a Poise pad."

He was a lot less repelled than I thought he would be.

Divide Me In Half, Put Me in A Greased Bowl, Flip Once and Cover Me with a Clean Towel

Some of you may recall my Hellish yeast infection from two years ago (see the Chronicles of the Holy Bleeding Cooter,  June '09  - January '10). My labia minora would swell and bleed and throb painfully, and it turned out to be a Yeast Infection, damnit, when I thought I had crotch cancer and I might be taken seriously.

Well, it's back.

Two years ago it would have been diagnosed swiftly and easily if I'd had the classic yeast infection symptom: Cottage Cheese Crotch, but it would seem my yeast infections are non-dairy. Come to think of it, most female reproductive systems are lacto-ovo vegetarian, mine is vegan. No eggs, no milk, no cottage cheese.

The Return of the King

I'll be delicate while I tell you about my sortie to pick up a replacement vibrator. After the jump.

The Cheese Stands Alone