Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

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 Vibrator is Dead. Long Live the Vibrator.

 

The last words of my favorite vibrator ever:

"zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ......... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ... zzzzzz ... " And the rest is silence.

Dead from a short in the cord. Or it just doesn't find me attractive any more.

I went to the Internet to find its twin brother, and of course was led astray by its blue rubbery two-headed cousin, TLC9906-8. 

So you'd think I'd have a photo of my new friend, in situ, or at least in the room but NO. I ordered it TEN days ago and it still isn't here. And given that the most lovable thing about The Late Vibrator was its speed (less than a minute), the WAIT for this new one is very frustrating.

Granted, I might have given my money to an Internet scam that assumes you would never contact them to complain that YOUR VIBRATOR IS LATE.  I emailed them. I didn't even imply they cheated me out of a vibrator (or as I called it, "Item number TLC9906-8.") I did not end with "P.S. I am VERY frustrated!"

I might have to go back to the store by the Mall where I met the dearly departed vibrator and buy him again. I might even stock up, since he seems to have a short life span. Serves me right for being unfaithful in my heart.

The Cheese Stands Alone

 

Spunky Labia Gets Desperate

Do you think Spunky Labia International Porn Star did not notice she has fallen entirely OFF the list of Lijit searches on the right sidebar?

Spunky was once the Queen of the Lijit Searches. Then BNL crept to the front, and now it seems Steven Page has overtaken BNL, and in the tussle Spunky dwindled and then disappeared!

Spunky knew it was time to re-invent herself. She touched up the polish on her big toe (albeit with an entirely different color; she thinks it's daring). She wanted to sport a latex sheath, so she sent the Appendage out for a condom. But then Mr. Appendage called and offered to buy it, and as we see, Mr. Appendage fell through, didn't he? He just came home without any condoms at all.

He offered up this nice stretchy ring, which is surprisingly comfy and cinches her in much better than a baggy condom. Look for a comeback in Spunky's future.

Don't Do This to Your Vagina at Home

@Polyester_Angel re-tweeted* a fine article : The 6 Weirdest Things Women Do to Their Vaginas

I saw the headline and started making my own list. 1) Hammer tampons up there right after puberty 2) Put carrots up there right after puberty 3) Lose tampons up there (everyone's got a story) 4) Put Hershey's kisses up there and then they do NOT melt and do NOT come out easily (everyone's got a story) 5) Wash them with something too harsh, like Irish Spring 6) Spray them with perfume (ow) or FDS** (Marcia has a story).

But No! This is the list.

1. Problem: Your Vagina Smells Bad  /  Solution: Vaginal Deodorant 

2. Problem: Your Vagina is Dirty  /  Solution: Douching 

3. Problem: Your Vagina is Too Loose  / Solution: Vaginal Rejuvenation 

4. Problem: Your Vagina is Ugly   /  Solution: Labiaplasty  

5. Problem: Your Vagina Tastes Bad   /   Solution: Vagina Mints 

6. Problem: Your Vagina is the Wrong Color  /  Solution: Vaginal Bleaching and Dying 

I'm pretty mad after reading this article. However, I'm torn between loyalty to my sex and the realization there is a great untapped opportunity here:

7. Problem: Your Vagina Sounds Bad /  Solution: Vaginamonica

The Vaginamonica would be positioned at the cervix, like a diaphragm, where it would react to changes in vaginal air pressure by sounding different notes on essentially a harmonica. ***

Excellent article though. An excerpt: "[Use] ...any time your vagina isn't as dry as a British sitcom."

------------------------------------------------

*I don't know if this is the correct APA citation style for a re-tweet.

** Feminine Deodorant Spray

*** Of course, it would be easier to plant one of those microchips they use for the musical cards on the g-spot, then one poke there and you could play a cheery tune. Or, whatever tune you want. Well, except for Beatles tunes. So, no It Won't Be Long or Fixing a Hole or Why Don't We Do It in the Road or Come Together.

And Now On a Very Special Mystery Diagnosis

I love Mystery Diagnosis. When they had a woman on with MS, I did not guess it at all. The teratoma episode: I could watch that over and over. If you've never seen it, this is the formula:

Setup: You meet the patient. Patient experiences symptoms.
Commercial

Recap of everything before the commercial. You can be really sloppy with the TiVO with this show.
New developments. New Symptoms. Patient is mis-diagnosed.
Commercial

Recap of everything before the commercial.
Patient goes to a big city hospital OR a geneticist and is diagnosed correctly.
Patient whines, how it it he or she was not diagnosed correctly?
I yell at the screen either:
    A: "Because NO ONE has Analyze E-Factor Homolymne Syndrome!" or
    B: "Because you presented with freak symptoms. Who gets MS by stepping on a crochet needle?"
Doctor explains that no one has Analyze E-Factor Homolymne Syndrome or that crochets needles are not a typical MS trigger.

So, I bring to you A Very Inappropriate Mystery Diagnosis.

Anheuser-Busch*

MS can tweak your senses. Some people have visual hallucinations, some people have hyperacusis, and if you asked me today I'd say I have hypomanic smelling.

I smelled stuff all DAY. There was a wheaty smell all through the office, for example. I plunked down in Marcia's cube and thought "Ah, Marcia had tuna fish again for lunch. But wait - she had leftovers from the Chinese we got yesterday."

Then on the drive home I went round the corner on Hwy 94 and smelled my grandfather's garage. Old rubber tires. Not burning rubber, old dusty decayed rubber tires filled with stale water. Then, within ten minutes I walked into my house and, in my kitchen, smelled Granceil's basement - musty and damp.

Then I took off my pants and realized this vag cream doesn't smell like cereal. Unless your cereal is named "Old Rubber Toasty Tires (Now with more Mildewed Tuna Fish Crunch)"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* At the first BNL concert I saw (in Saint Louis), they tried to tell a joke that went along the lines of:

Q: Anheuser-Busch?
A: Fine. And how's your penis?

Or, alternatively,

Q: Anheuser-Busch?
A: Better, but this cream doesn't smell like cereal.

The Monthly Visitation from Aunt Flo Who Stays Out On the Porch and No Longer Goes Inside

I took my crotch to the crotch doctor for the monthly swelling and bleeding of the alternating labia. When I apologized for bothering him with a matter obviously not life-or-death, he mentioned Cancer. (CANCER SHOUTOUT NUMBER ONE.) He peered at me and saw the problem. 

He drew a picture of my vulva and said, "You have a hole here, at the base of your left labia, and another here, on the other side." I got the impression I am not supposed to have these holes. I nodded. "So," he continued, "We have one option, which is to cut out the base of your labia - "

"And do a biopsy? Do it. Cut everything out."

"Well, we'd only do that if you had vaginal cancer." (CANCER SHOUTOUT THE SECOND.) "OOOoooooorrrr, you use this cream and see if it helps. It's an anti-fungal and anti-inflammatory."  Then I was directed to get dressed and wait for my prescription.

Early on I learned that many of my doctors use this time to mutter their notes into some recording device in the hallway, so I always get dressed and stand in the open doorway now. I heard him mumble:

"Swelling inflammation, [mumble] bleeding alternating labia minora," (Eeee! He's talking about me!) "Grade 2 tumor," (Oh, no, must be someone else) "Prescribed anti-inflammatory anti-fungal [mumble]." (Hey, wait, that's me again.) 

So, I got the Mycolog II cream, which reportedly smells like "cereal." ("I like Trix," Gary remarked.) Then I went home, found Gary, and what am I to do when the doctor tells me there are holes in my labia. What else does one do but get the digital camera and take a hi-res crotch shot and zoom in on the naughty bits?

Anything. Anything ELSE. DO ANYTHING ELSE.

Because the geography from afar may look healthy, but the close-up is terrifying. I think I saw 20% smooth pink, but the rest was a collection of bumpy twisted purple, dark purple, indigo, white and bruise-yellow. With, amazingly, the tiny wormholes the doctor had mentioned. I only saw one, but it looked precisely like someone had stuck me with the graphite end of a wooden pencil. Just until the lead was buried in the flesh.

"There are microbes living in there," Gary said. "You have a fungus eating those holes in your labia? No. I'm keeping away from it."

The Sentient Labia

(Damn. That's what I should have called this blog.)

I've always known my hair can hear when I make a haircut appointment. My hairs unite and bid for a last minute reprieve. "We were just getting it together, man. Look at us, how full and shiny. You can't cut us now." I'll cut you, man.

I want someone to know my pubic hairs can hear me too. This morning they whispered to my inner labia, "She just called the gynecologist."

Inner labia: "She's on to us!"

Pubic hairs: "Yeah, she just told the nurse she was expecting her inner labia to swell and bleed this week, and that she her left inner labia is starting to swell, and that an appointment next Monday would be too late, it would all be over."

Inner labia: "Uh-oh. And I was all worked up and just starting to bleed on that side."

Pubic hairs: "Well, you better cheese it, man." (They talk this way. They're in the Muffia.)

Inner labia: "You are so gross."

Pubic hairs: "She thinks something's fishy." (Muffled sound of pubic hairs giggling.)

Inner labia: "Well, then it's time for a speed attack. We go straight to the bleeding."

Pubic hairs: "Get started, man, she's got an appointment for Friday."

Inner labia: "Shit!"

Anus: "What?"

This same thing happened last week with my intense shoulder pain. It was gone by the time I visited the doctor. Time to shave my armpits.

I Learned Something Today

When Sarah, the woman on the sticker from your Lush bottle of Sonic Death Monkey Body Wash says:

"Best Before 21/Apr/08"

...she means it. Expired Sonic Death Monkey reeks.

I tried the Monkey today because I had fond memories of its Tootsie Roll odor, and I needed a smell self-esteem boost today. A few weeks ago Gary asked if I had ever considered douching.

What I should have said:

a. Have you ever considered sticking your dick in a autoclave?

b. No. Why would I? I smell like cinnamon toast and taste like tres leches ice cream.

c. Sorry. Well, you know I have Advanced Labia Rot down there. It won't smell pretty.

What I said:

Really? You think I need to do that?

What I did about it:

I've tried to take a little more care of the area, not just a surface shampoo and a hand swipe, you know, but a scrub past the gates. Not with soap, because I've done THAT once - but with a washcloth full of suds.

Another reason I'm atending to my toilette is I've been riding Western saddle on cold unwashed cans of Diet Rite White Grape Soda this past week. It's official: the labia swell with my cycle, then the week after my period yet again doesn't arrive, there is the external blood. Hence, my intimate relationship with cold soda cans. If in the future your labia swell painfully, go right to the refrigerator and grab a soda. This has been a Pubic Service Announcement.

I should be glad I've found it's cyclical, because that is proof my body does still recognize something is supposed to happen every 28 days. And I'm assured it'll be gone sometime next Wednesday at worst.It's monthly proof I am not pregnant. In my labia. With a Blabia.*

ANYway. When Sonic Death Monkey goes bad, it goes madmonkeybad. It goes so bad it smell worse than my purulent decayed shedding privates.

* A parasitic labia baby. I'm sure it's in Urban Dictionary. Not to be confused with Barbia, or Barbie's labia.

 

See those hips? That's Barbie. Before her vaginal reconstructive surgery.

After:

 

I Ache In The Places Where I Used To Play. Still.

I was self-diagnosing on the internet when I came across the graphic below.

Does this graphic look right to you?

 

Uh, it seems to me it is not drawn to scale. Or else it is accurate and Gary is really well endowed and has stretched me entirely out of shape. Because my parts are not in those proportions.

There more I look at this the worse I feel. I have an enormous vagina! I have a bad body image now. 

If that's to scale I've been getting it directly in the ovaries. Right up past the tubes, frankly. No wonder I have an ice pack in my lap right now.

In Which my Good Name is Besmirched

When Becs has told me that Panera Bread (St. Louis Bread Company to the locals) thinks my blog is porn and won't allow access, I've assumed she's just gotten a message like the one I get at work: "Access to this website is restricted."

When I got a twitter from Hot Mom and friend again mentioning, specifically, "porn," I went and did a little more research.

(I didn't go to to Panera to research it, because Panera comes to me. Gary often drops by on the way home. For example, last night he brought a delicious grilled turkey sandwich and a chocolate duet cookie, the best chocolate cookie I've ever had. Mmmm. Go buy one now. Panera is heaven!)

My research led me to Mediagirl.org, then on to the specific filter Panera uses. You can go there and see how Panera rates your blog.

Me first me first! And yes my blog is currently rated as: Category 4: Pornography

I thought it might be all Typepad blogs, but SoThatHappened is Category 15: Business and Economy and 31: Web Communications

"Oh, it's the toe porn," I thought, and checked out toe porn wanna-be Jammies. Nope, hers is the very neutral Category 31: Web Communications. 　

How about someone pure, and who better but Autumn? Her Xanga is Category 31: Web Communications, Category 13: Chat/IM, and - score! Category 6, Adult/Mature Content. Not flat-out porn, but still nothing to be ashamed of.

Everyone else is is pretty much unrated or Category 31: Web Communications.

Happily, there is a way to protest. I explained to the filter service that there is a difference between porn and satirical porn, and that the "Must be 18 to Enter" category discussed labial cysts and vaginal prolapse. I asked to be reclassified as Adult/Mature Content, because it is a family place and I wouldn't want to put a mom off her delicious Broccoli-Cheese Soup. (That's my favorite. Go get some now!) 

I delayed posting this until I got feedback, and here it is:

"You submitted the following rating request to SonicWALL CFS Support:
Rate mocklog.typepad.com as "6.Adult/Mature Content" at 2009-06-04 20:25:00.273

The request has been reviewed and rated as:
"31.Web Communications" at 2009-06-05 08:35:31.363

You should see this rating change reflected within 1 to 3 business days."

So, essentially they said, "You call that adult?"

Oo-oo I Feel Like Making Love, Too Yooou

About fifteen years ago I was having a conversation with my doctor about my weekly bladder infection, and the conversation turned into this:

"And when was the last time you made love to your husband?" he asked.

"Um ... we had sex two nights ago."

"And did you drink water before and after you made love?"

"I had some water before we had sex, I believe."

"Made love."

"I'm sorry?"

"Made love."

And because I was young and modest, I said "OH! Yes, we made love," instead of "No, I fucked him till his eyes rolled back in his head" which is what I would have said today because, Doctor, maybe you believe two rutting rhinoceroses can make gentle tender love but I disagree.

So it's time for a poll, and again your anonymity is assured. I'm trying to see if "make love" is an appropriate synonym for "have sex."

I'm not counting foreplay. That can be gentle and tender and loving. But to get the job done, you need to get passionate in ways that aren't what I would call tender, unless perhaps there is a weekly bladder infection involved. I'm not saying violent, I'm not saying painful, I'm just saying the required enthusiasm precludes what I picture "making love" to be.

Then I started thinking, what would that even look like? A "loving" reproductive act would be quiet.  And slow. And lots of eye contact. And possibly a nap during, because I'm sorry, that just doesn't work. I think humans have some boom-chika-wow-wow innate tempo.

What about movies? You'd think I'd have seen an R rated movie with some love-making. The best I could think of was "Out of Africa" with Robert Redford and Meryl Streep - and yes, he tells her not to move. "Don't move." "But I want to move." "Don't move." Robert would have me looking deep into his eyes with a questioning "what type of freak are you?" gaze.

Okay, so do you call what you do making love? And is it?

Target

I've been going to Target for a long time. Not as long as Target's been around; it's been around since I was born: 1962. I went to Target when there were two non-Kmart discount stores: Venture and Target, and they were essentially the same.

This is my Target:

 

I went to Target when Mom called it "Tar-ghey" and people laughed because they hadn't heard that joke before. That's how long I've been going to Target.

Then Target ate Venture and then went through some upscale makeover.

We all went to Target some weekend in 1999 and came out going, "Dang, that's some nice stuff at Target. Too nice for me. Where do I go for my junk -" and then Walmart heard us and erupted from the ground at our feet. Meanwhile, you kids have been going to Target not knowing its lowly position on the Great Chain of Being of Chain Stores - one rung above K-Mart and two rungs above GrandPa Pidgeon's.

I mention this because there's a Target by the Starbuck's by my house and I thought they might have some water-based lubrication products.  I thought I was cool because I have a silicone-based lubrication product, but evidently a pricey new friend requires a water-based product. 

The lube is by the condoms, and it always makes me feel a little self-conscious hanging out by the condoms, so I was pointedly not standing in front of those naughty condoms when I saw

THIS.

AT.

THE.

TARGET.

Crotch Congestion

[Feed Readers - if you can't see the jump and are faint of heart, look away. If you want to see me at my stupidest, continue.]