I just spent nearly fifteen minutes typing out a paragraph full of things that I need to accomplish in the next twelve days. It was terribly boring, as it contained phrases like “write script for field trip” and “recycling event” and “dog vacation?”. Anyway, after reading through that 3,293 word paragraph and barely being able to stay awake, I decided to triple click and delete. Your time matters to me.
Why twelve days? In twelve days, a local man will be slicing into me (like one would slice into an Easter ham, except no spiral slicing—just three one-inch-wide gashes, so nothing like an Easter ham at all, really) and pulling out my uterus and my right ovary. He also said something about stitches in my vagina, but I’m not sure how he finished that thought because I was too busy rocking back and forth in my paper gown and screaming out the lyrics to Madeleine.
Anyway. Surgery. Two weeks from today. I’ll be in the hospital overnight, and I’ve heard the recovery goes anywhere from two to four weeks, but a lot of it depends on the amount of endometriosis, and there’s so much stuff to do between now and then, and hardly any of it involves eating good food and laughing about good times. (And by Good Times, I didn’t mean the show, but after typing it, I now have the theme song in my head. And you can have it, too.)
Quick thought: Because we’re hoping to move, we decided to not take piano lessons this summer. Writing that e-mail made me feel sad. I’ve had to write four sad e-mails in the past few days, and sad e-mails they say so much, Elton John.
We went to six open houses last weekend. I really need to stop looking for the perfect house, because the rest of my family is starting to become a bit discouraged with my habit of barely walking through the front door of a house before inhaling deeply and saying, “No. This is not our house.”
I’ve said, “This could be our house.” only two times in the past month. The first house was the house I told you about a few weeks ago. (It’s actually still on the market and I look at it every single day.) The second house was one we saw last weekend. The current owner is a builder of guitars and tables and all sorts of other wooden things and the house was incredible, except for the fact that a highway is being built less than 500 feet away from the back yard fence.
Walking through houses where people are currently living is such a weird thing. Last Sunday we met a dog named Mike, we almost lifted the lid from a slow cooker to stir the little smokies, we cringed at the sight of dirty toothbrushes, and we screamed and ran for our lives when we came across this face in a master bedroom.