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Lack of Intestinal Fortitude, Chapter 43

While we were at Trout Lodge, something crazy happened that led me to call my doctor once again for the Mystery Abdominal Thing. Long story short? We scheduled a CT scan!

Lady at Scheduling: Your test will be on Thursday at 3:30, but we’ll need you to be here at 2:30 for registration. AND, you’ll need to stop eating and drinking at 11:30 so we can get an accurate result.

Me: Okay and okay!

So, last Thursday morning I stopped eating at 11:00 (Can you guess how many microwave s’mores I ate between 10:50 and 11:00? The answer is Three!), and I parked the Hyundai at 2:22. (I remember the time because I tend to make a wish when I look at the clock and it’s 11:11 or 2:22 or 4:44 or something similar. I’m four years old!)

Registration Lady: Go ahead and fill out these forms, and one of the nurses will bring you something to drink in just a minute.

Me: Excellent! I hope it’s root beer. (Did I mention that I’m four years old?)

RL: Heh.

This is starting to get boring, so take a deep breath and Here We Go!

It was not root beer. It was two gigantic cups of a barium cocktail that tasted like orange coconut poison and while I was drinking it, they called me back to start an IV, and I had no idea THAT was part of the deal, but I’m pretty flexible so whatever, and they started the IV in the crook of my right arm and I gulped the poison, and thirty minutes later they put me on the table and I had to scootch my skirt down to my knees because of the zipper, and when the nurse went to put the stuff into my IV, the IV didn’t work correctly and the stuff infiltrated and BURNING ARM! SO they went to start an IV in my left arm crook (I’m loving using the word crook, by the way), and my veins were rolling too much and YEESH! PAIN! They tried the top of my left forearm instead and still with the rolling and double the pain (maybe even triple) and YEEOWWW! So they called a nurse in from the main hospital who jabbed me on my right forearm (My skirt was still around my knees! Were you wondering about that?) and it worked, but as I was pumping my hand to give her some hefty vein action, my original IV site started secretly spurting and suddenly there was a fat puddle of blood all over my arm, and holy crap. Wooooozzzzzzzyyyyyyyy!

Nurse (pushing the stuff into my IV): I’m pushing this through, and you might feel a warm sensation that sort of feels like you’re peeing in your pants, but don’t worry. You’re not peeing.

Me: I think I’m peeing.

Nurse: You’re not peeing.

Me: This has been an incredible day.

Less than two minutes later, the entire procedure was finished. AND, I can’t really complain because The Pokers were all really nice people, and I suppose I can simply blame my ancestors for my weirdo veins, right? Right-o!

So, anyway. A few of you have e-mailed to ask if I’ve had my gallbladder removed yet. I have not! Because, according to the tests, Governor Gallbladder is an upstanding member of the Angela Pudding Abdominal Organ Population.

Side story: When all of this abdominal stuff started up, I said something to Jeff like, “You know, watch this be a really embarrassing diagnosis that involves one of the following terms: rectum, anus, stool, sphincter, fissures, or yucky vagina.”

When the doctor called with my CT scan results, he actually used one of those terms coupled with the word “abnormal.” (It was not Abnormal Yucky Vagina.)

So, yeah. Here we are. It’s nothing serious, so please don’t bother to wish me well. Just know that I’ll be seeing a gastroenterologist a week from Friday! AND, according to my research, he’s also a pianist!

This has nothing to do with anything, but it’s in my mind: I would give just about anything for a few tablespoons of horseradish right about now. What good is a cheese sandwich without horseradish?! It’s a living hell, I tell you. (According to my calendar, today is the Green Corn Moon, so we’ve got that going for us, I suppose!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

We saw the writing on the wall as we felt this magical fantasy.

As you know, Giuseppe Zangara, because of the fire in my belly, I did NOT go to BlogHer. I was actually 42% fine with my decision until early last week when people began writing their “I’m packing for BlogHer!” posts. Then my 42% swooped down into the teens. I immediately called Jeff and told him that we need to go “camping.” (I added those quotation marks for you, Coffee Lady! My definition of camping really IS very loose. No television, people in the dining hall are wearing swimsuits, and I didn’t even pack eyeliner? Camping!) When I saw on the news that Trout Lodge’s adjoining camp had to evacuate because of an E. Coli scare, reducing the entire camp’s population by one half? Well, I turned that scar into a star! (I don’t handle crowds very well. You’re a pal, E. Coli!)

We arrived at Trout Lodge on Sunday afternoon, and immediately hit the ground running. When you check in, you’re handed a fairly hefty list of options and times so you can fill your schedule with as many (or as few) activities as you want. I’m still a bit amazed at all of the things we crammed into a 48 hour period of time.

On Monday morning, we went on a fishing trip with Robinson from Colombia. As he pulled the boat away from the dock, he talked a big talk about how we were going to catch a huge fish. We fished for an hour and caught nothing. As Robinson prepared to lift the anchor and take us back to the boat house, Meredith caught a fish. Robinson actually squealed and confessed that he has been taking families out on fishing trips all summer, and NO ONE has caught a fish. Meredith was a hero. (And, seriously. Wouldn’t it suck a bit to fly out to Missouri from South America and spend three months taking families on unsuccessful fishing trips? It almost smells like some sort of punishment! Anyway, because of Meredith, I’m almost positive that Robinson now whistles The Star Spangled Banner as he pulls the fishing boat away from the dock!)

On Monday afternoon, the girls rode ponies. This goes down as their favorite part of the trip. (It was super hot outside, yet all of the ranch employees were wearing Wranglers, long sleeved shirts, and hats. I was actually walking around in a bikini fashioned out of frozen bottles of Gatorade, and these guys were dressed for November. God Bless the Cowboys.)

On Monday night, the girls tie-dyed shirts. And everything about that was great, except for the family of seven that shared the activity with us. They spent nearly half of the evening speaking in fake British accents, and the other half was spent taking cheap shots at the presidential candidate for whom they clearly did not vote. Later in the evening, I noticed that instead of leaving their shirts wrapped in plastic (as we were instructed) to allow the dye to set, the Annoyingtons hung their unwrapped shirts out on their balcony. Confession: When I saw this, I secretly hoped their shirts would lose more than a bit of vibrance. I know. I’m the devil.

On Tuesday morning, we fed gigantic fish. And many of the fish had huge goiteresque humps growing out of their sides. We determined that the goiter fish were the pregnant ladies, and we soon found ourselves aiming the food at them. Can you help me out, fish people? When carp get pregnant do they sort of look like they’ve swallowed a human skull? (Actually, I sort of like the skull theory. It’s possible that I don’t really want to know the truth.)

We also went on a hay ride, the girls swam (several times) in the lake, we walked (and walked some more), we saw a pretty crappy puppet show, we ate ice cream (and biscuits and gravy!), we made body spray (?!?!), and best of all, the girls had crazy giddy fun and no one suffered symptoms of E. Coli. (The entire photo set may be viewed here.)

Okay. This is the part of the post that no one reads because it falls below the final photograph. This part is just between you and me. At night, after Jeff and the girls were asleep, I would sneak out to the boat house and dance with Robinson. Penny, his normal dance partner, was confined to bed due to a botched abortion, and Robinson desperately needed someone to dance with him at the nearby resort’s annual show. When Robinson was accused of stealing a wallet and I covered for him by telling the Trout Lodge authorities about our clandestine (and somewhat dirty) dance sessions, Jeff and the other Trout Lodge campers let their tempers flare. Luckily, everything worked out in the end, and we all ended up having the time of our lives. (Yes, I swear. It’s the truth.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Too bad we’re going to miss Upper GI Wednesday!

Yesterday afternoon we were able to attend a glow-in-the-dark juggling/magic show at the local library. Because we know how these things tend to fill up quickly (We don’t really know that, but we pretend to be knowing. We’re so smug.), we arrived thirty minutes before show time.

As the girls and I waited for the show to begin, Jeff announced that he was going to use the restroom. Ten minutes later he returned.

Jeff: Girls, I think the show is about to begin! I just saw the juggler in the bathroom, and he was washing his balls!!!

Me: Wow. There you go!

Jeff: Yep. So, I guess THAT happened!

Meredith: Why was he washing his balls? Were they sticky?!

Jeff: Well, I’m not sure. I didn’t want to crowd him.

And, Scene.

In health-related news (look away, Eddie), all of my test results are showing that my gall bladder really is a respectable fellow. SO, I’m now on a different medication, and will be having an abdominal CAT scan as well as an upper endoscopy sometime in the next month. Apparently, this is colonoscopy/endoscopy season (who knew?!)—making it very difficult to score an appointment. (Just in case you’re interested, it’s also groundhog, squirrel, and coyote season! Grab your forks!)

And, finally—because we can’t go to Luxembourg, we’ve decided to go camping at Trout Lodge. We’re leaving tomorrow, and according to the brochure we will be there for Safari Sunday, Blast from the Past Monday, and Wrangler Tuesday. Ponies will be ridden. S’mores will be consumed. AND, during naptime? I’ll be dinking around with a Swirl Shawl, or perhaps a Swirl Scarf. Which size do YOU prefer?

Time to juggle. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom!

On Sunday afternoon, I found myself at Starbucks ordering one of their shaken iced tea lemonades. The barista, who looks a bit like Dave Grohl, is my absolute favorite local Starbucks barista. (Wait. It’s not like I know all of them well enough to proclaim a favorite. I don’t. In fact, I rarely do the Starbucks thing anymore. I used to go every stinking day. Now? Maybe once a week. Why am I defending myself to you?) Anyway, this is the barista who yelled “Muffin Down!” when I was there a few months back. And I would link to that story, but now I can’t find it. Wait. Are you still here? Whitey Herzog!

Anyway, as I waited for my lemonade, I stood within earshot of a sixteenish-year-old girl who was trying her absolute hardest to flirt with the Dave Grohl barista. For the sake of convenience, let’s refer to the girl as Tawdry.

Tawdry: So, I was at the mall the other day and I saw a Starbucks shirt but the mermaid wasn’t in the middle. It was a photograph of Jesus and it said something like “Jesus loves you a latte.” And I was like, “How stupid is that?!” If you love Jesus, just get your ass to church and stop wearing shirts that advertise it. I don’t want to know that you’re a Jesus lover.

Barista: I’ve heard about that shirt, but I haven’t seen it.

Tawdry: Yeah, and I couldn’t even look at the other shirts because some lady was there with her screaming kid and she wouldn’t do anything about the screaming. And I was like, “Why don’t you beat his ass and make him sit on a bench until he shuts up?!” That’s what my mom used to do, and I turned out fine.

With that, Dave Grohl handed her drink over and waited until she had walked out before looking at me and declaring, “Ahhh. Fine is such a subjective term, isn’t it?”

Me: It’s a really large and confusing blanket. Also, did you hear that the shirt had a photograph of Jesus on it?

Barista: I didn’t realize they had cameras back then! I have a lot to learn. Wait. Did you want me to sweeten the lemonade?

Me: Nope. It’s fine. Slightly bitter. Just the way I like it. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

If you don’t have anything nice to say…

…give a four year old some tacky Christmas hair accessories and don’t say anything at all. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Skirting Around the Biliary Dyskinesia

A few weeks ago I suddenly got the urge to fill my closet with skirts. In the past, when similar urges have struck or stricken depending on your preference, I simply made a trip to J.Jill where I tried on a handful of skirts, did the math while standing half-clothed in the dressing room, and walked out empty handed (yet fully clothed) with the skippy feeling you get when you have saved $439.85 by NOT filling your closet with skirts.

(I know. I don’t HAVE to go to J.Jill. BUT, if I were to choose a store based on the style I think I want to represent, stinking expensive J.Jill it would be.) ((Um, by the way, I would love to be able to carry this off. I believe I would drink more green tea if I dressed like that! And I know I would smile more! And I would be right on track with Infinite Summer!))

Anyway, instead of making a trip to the mall this time around, I made a trip to the fabric store.

Last weekend I put this together:

I wore it out on Monday, and it didn’t fall apart when I sat down, so I headed back to the fabric store a few days back with my biggest critics—Harper and Meredith.

Me: I would like you to help me choose some fabric for a skirt that would look good with either a white or a black t-shirt.

Meredith (after browsing less than three minutes): This is the one. You can wear it when you go to a restaurant.

And I know that it’s probably best suited for a pot holder or a tablecloth, but Meredith actually put a bit of thought into it, and Harper agreed with her. So now I have one of these:

AND, because my brain is completely wrapped up in skirts, I went out this morning and bought the fabric to make another. You see, I’m going to a party tonight (who? me? what?), and I believe the party calls for something with neon dots, as most parties do.

(Please stay tuned, for my next update will contain actual photographs (or cartoony drawings, depending on your preference) of my gall bladder—specifically, my sphincter of Oddi, which has absolutely nothing to do with the large-tongued dog in the Garfield cartoon strip.)

Skirts!

Edited to Add: Finished with the Friday Skirt! (See what I mean about the skirts?! It’s all skirts all the time over here! Simplicity 2906!)

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Muffin Failures, Unicorn Videos, and Rear View Organs

Don’t you hate it when someone starts singing songs about giving away muffins and then they disappear for a week? Let the Truth Be Told: I never heard back from my muffin man. I’m going to contact one other person (Governor Muffin) to see what I can do, but right now it’s not looking good.

Speaking of not looking good, here’s the Testicle Unicorn, as seen on Pudding Laundry Day, which is pretty much every day, and I’m not sure why I need you to know that. Perhaps I’m just a bit embarrassed by all of the laundry baskets sitting around. Also, pay special attention to how the unicorn’s hair is gently blowing in the breeze. Please know that there was no breeze. The thing truly is magical. (Mythical? Testicle?):

Oh! And once again speaking of Not Looking Good, get this. The next time you see me you’re going to think “Wow. Something is different about her, but I can’t figure out what it is.” Here. Let me help you. It’s my gall bladder, or lack thereof! I’ll spare you the uglies. Just know that I have a surgical consult on Thursday! And the only thing that really gets my goat is the fact that this whole gall bladder extraction thing might affect my road trip to Chicago in a few weeks.

Turning Lemons into Lemonade, as I Often Do: Since I might not be able to deliver the muffins, perhaps I’ll knit up a sporty little gall bladder and one of you (very lucky) people will be able to place a spanking new handknit organ on your dashboard before the end of the summer (or winter, or whatever season you’re dealing with right now, turn, turn, turn). I’ll be in touch. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

The Sparkling Scrotal Steed

The girls have been playing with the most annoying unicorn purchased by my mother at a garage sale a few years back. (And that sentence is funny, because it now sounds like my mom often purchases unicorns at garage sales. The one in question was voted Most Annoying by the army of unicorns that are currently filling our home with sparkling rainbows and magical happiness and blue eyeshadow and whatnot.) When you press the eyes (or perhaps the ears or the horn or something) the unicorn begins to belt out a song that goes something like this: “I’m a something-cal unicorn something something glowing horn. We’ll have lots of fun today something something something play.” The only part of the song that really intrigues me is the “I’m a something-cal unicorn” phrase. For the life of me, I cannot figure out what the unicorn is saying. Yesterday as we rode to the store, I turned down the radio and sang “I’m a PRACTICAL unicorn” to see what sort of response I would get.

Meredith: No. I’m a BEAUTIFUL unicorn.

Me: I don’t think so. I’m a FUNCTIONAL unicorn?

Meredith: That doesn’t make sense. I’m a FESTIVAL unicorn?

This morning, Harper rode in on the unicorn singing the most perfect interpretation ever.

“I’m a testicle unicorn.”

Harper wins.

Testicle it is.

(Perhaps I should record the unicorn’s anthem and ask you to help us with the lyrics? Also, I’m in the mood to give away some muffins, so we could make a contest of it…) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I like to think I was born to run, but I’ll take what I can get.

Last week I took the girls to my folks’ house to spend the day with my twelve-year-old nephew who was in town for the week. Justin, my nephew, is one of those kids who can pick up a video game he has never played before and pwn it. (Suddenly, instead of actually gaining worldly-wise points by using “pwn” I believe I’ve just morphed into your dead Aunt Gladys who used to smile through gloppy smeared lipstick and ask, “So, are you sweet on anyone? Hhmmm???”) Anyway, the game of the day was Mario Kart for the Wii, and before I could throw my keys onto the couch, I was challenged to a race. And although only two of us were racing, I actually came in sixth. (I’m still not completely clear on how that happened.)

MC: Mommy, sometimes I think you were born to lose.

Later that afternoon as I lost my balance and fell down while trying to rotate the lazy susan, I was once again told that I was born to lose. A few hours later, when I asked the girls to put their shoes on because it was time to go to the bathroom (I meant time to go home. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if you could actually feel parts of your brain infarct. I’m imagining it’s not unlike Pop Rocks just inside the back of your skull.), it came up again. “You really WERE born to lose! Ha Ha HA HA HA HA!!!” And even at 39, when you’re told over and over (and over) again that you were born to lose, well, it begins to affect your mood. Maybe they’re right. No, they’re not right. Maybe they are. No. Maybe.

Later that evening, Jeff took the girls to the YMCA to swim, and I drove to the nearest bookstore to pick up a copy of Infinite Jest. Yes. I am one of the many who have ambitious plans to participate in Infinite Summer, and although many may believe I was born to lose, this is something for which I am fully determined to pass muster. (I recently learned that it’s Muster and not Mustard. Apparently, you can cut the mustard, but you must pass muster. Four synapses just began firing again, and it feels like butter melting behind my ears.)

As soon as I can figure out how, I’m going to add some sort of progress update to my sidebar (below the ad thing, of course, because I’m wearing a XXL “Plays by the Rules” jacket) so I feel a pinch of accountability. Please feel free to update me on your progress, as well. Even if your progress has nothing to do with anything I’ve mentioned to you today.

Speaking of improvisational dancing, my final Sports Active update is up. If you go here and then click on the line of text right above the photo, you’ll be directed to a super secret location where you may cast a voyeuristic peeper upon me in a skirted swimsuit. This is a once in a lifetime experience, internet friends. Born to lose, indeed. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Who says?!

It’s no secret that I went to the gynecologist a few weeks ago. It’s also no secret that I’ve been taking estrogen-free birth control pills for the past four years. (Seriously. Anyone who has spent five minutes with me knows that I’m on estrogen-free birth control. It’s my “How’s the weather?” ice breaker!) Wait. You know what else isn’t a secret? My gynecologist believes that I’m ready for some estrogen! (Did you know that estrogen promotes wound healing in both humans and mice? This comes as good news, for I am Wounded.) ((I’m not really Wounded.))

I come to you today as a sassy snarling woman who wads up imaginary paper and yells, “Who says all birth control pills have to be the same?!” I am repunctuating my life! My carefree curly-haired Logical is having talks with my straight-haired (and argyled) Emotional! (They even play Toss the Pills together at 0:11! How cute is that?! Also, did you know that fewer periods equals cuter clothes? Everything I know comes straight out of the Seasonique ad!)

(WARNING: All hell is going to break loose around here during the week of September 6th. Just in time for Labor Day, Jerry Lewis!)

(If you’re interested, I’m shrinking a bit. Scroll down to the photo. Right above it is the Week 3 link.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>