Monday, November 29, 2010
Shortest. Blog. Ever.
Vicissitude, is quite possibly the most amazingly awesome word in the entire world.
Scratch the cats. I think it's doctors now.
Do you ever have one of those days where you wake up, and everything goes so smoothly that you just know shit is about to hit the fan? That was my yesterday. Aside from a not-too-friendly visit from Aunt Flo, my day was going well. The cat's were caged, the kitchen wasn't on fire (for once) and that little voice inside my head warning me that shit is about to hit the fan? Blissfully silent. And then The Hospital.
I give The Hospital capitalization because you know what? I think in my case, it's earned it. The Hospital feels it has earned it. I have learned (slowly) that one does not argue with The Hospital. I seem to remember doing this in the past, and it turning into a horrible bloody mess. In fact, there was one singular event where a surgeon and I were "discussing" just why I could not take my gallbladder home with me. I wanted to make a 3D puzzle out of it and formaldehyde. Don't ask. You would have had to grow up with my Grandmother to understand that one.
Although in this case, it was bleeding.
All easily sickened reader should find their way to the lobby. Now.
I was overcome yesterday morning, by bad, bad, and very bloody bad. It was not fun. In fact, there was such a lack of fun, that I called my doctor. Shannon, being familiar as she is with my frequent visits and 60's era medical marvel problems, sent me immediately to the emergency room. There really is no way to write this without being squeamishly blunt, so I apologize in advance. I am about to use the word "PAD". Dun dun dun!
So here I was, in the emergency room, bleeding through every Auntie-related product mankind has to offer, - namely, pads - and exhausting them about twice per hour. As anyone in possession of a vagina might tell you, this is a bad, bad thing. All the doctors say this is a bad thing. But more importantly, The Hospital says this is a shit-has-hit-the-fan thing. Emergency room doctor, though, is an evil doctor. Evil Doctor disagreed. Evil Doctor believes that I have been suffering from - and I quote - "Woman Problems".
He says this as if all of a sudden, becoming the world's most amazing blood-bank was not an issue. The nurses are freaking out, the internet is freaking out. Even Husband has been hyperventilating on the sly. But doctor? Oh no. He had the nads to lay my bed back for apparently no other reason that to stare vertically into my eyes and spout "Don't you understand? This is your period."
Bullhonkey my not-so-fine old man! Ladies, if you have ever had a period, you will know what your particular monthly bits look like. In fact you probably know more than one would ever want to know about your dear old Aunt. Although there are some people - like me - who, while knowing all, understand just one thing. Auntie hates you. She hates you with a burning fiery passion that just keeps coming back.
This month, Auntie called Jihad. She has decided that I am her personal devil, and come hell or high tides, she will be cleansed. After much deliberation with the sane-minded folk I surround myself with, I have come to the conclusion that Evil Doctor is defending dear old Auntie F. He took one look at me, had me pee in a cup (under supervision!) and then signed my discharge papers. Allow me to relate to you exactly what symptoms I entered The Hospital with. And after that, and excerpt from the discharge papers my "doctor" was so kind to provide me with.
Symptoms Upon Entry -
Mild Shaking
Dizziness/Lightheaded
Heavy Bleeding lasting more than 24 hours
Satan Cramps from Hell
Chilled and Pale
I should note, my final diagnosis? Menorrhagia, otherwise known as bleeding to death from the lady bits.
And now an excerpt from my after-care instructions.
From the Mouth of Evil Doctor -
GET PROMPT MEDICAL ATTENTION if any of the following occur:
Heavier bleeding (soaking more than one pad in an hour for three hours)
Abnormally severe abdominal pain
feeling weak or dizzy, fainting
Now if I were a doctor, looking at this information, I would think to myself "Damn, there seems to be something wrong with this woman. Perhaps I should test something." But no. After deducing that I was not pregnant (go figure) Evil Doctor decided that womanly problems belonged at home, apparently with the women, babies and cake-baking, and not anywhere near him and his emergency room of misogynistic glory. I was given a condecending pat on the back, no lollipop and a bootied foot to the backside. Oh, and instructions to quickly make an appointment with "the woman who does my paps".
Well, I'm calling the woman who does my paps. Little does Evil Doctor know, "woman who does my paps" is a wonderful, Joan of Arcean goddess of fucking SPLENDOR. She is battle hardened by The Hospital and defends my shit with her life. Once it was literally. I personally cannot wait to hear her opinion on Evil Doctor Shmelzer. Seriously. I was being nice with the pet name.
The Hospital may have won this battle. But Auntie-sympathizing doctors or no, I shall win this war. Oh yes, with an elite team of malpractice fighting Medical Gods and an unstoppable she-bitch best friend at my side, I shall win this war.
I give The Hospital capitalization because you know what? I think in my case, it's earned it. The Hospital feels it has earned it. I have learned (slowly) that one does not argue with The Hospital. I seem to remember doing this in the past, and it turning into a horrible bloody mess. In fact, there was one singular event where a surgeon and I were "discussing" just why I could not take my gallbladder home with me. I wanted to make a 3D puzzle out of it and formaldehyde. Don't ask. You would have had to grow up with my Grandmother to understand that one.
Although in this case, it was bleeding.
All easily sickened reader should find their way to the lobby. Now.
I was overcome yesterday morning, by bad, bad, and very bloody bad. It was not fun. In fact, there was such a lack of fun, that I called my doctor. Shannon, being familiar as she is with my frequent visits and 60's era medical marvel problems, sent me immediately to the emergency room. There really is no way to write this without being squeamishly blunt, so I apologize in advance. I am about to use the word "PAD". Dun dun dun!
So here I was, in the emergency room, bleeding through every Auntie-related product mankind has to offer, - namely, pads - and exhausting them about twice per hour. As anyone in possession of a vagina might tell you, this is a bad, bad thing. All the doctors say this is a bad thing. But more importantly, The Hospital says this is a shit-has-hit-the-fan thing. Emergency room doctor, though, is an evil doctor. Evil Doctor disagreed. Evil Doctor believes that I have been suffering from - and I quote - "Woman Problems".
He says this as if all of a sudden, becoming the world's most amazing blood-bank was not an issue. The nurses are freaking out, the internet is freaking out. Even Husband has been hyperventilating on the sly. But doctor? Oh no. He had the nads to lay my bed back for apparently no other reason that to stare vertically into my eyes and spout "Don't you understand? This is your period."
Bullhonkey my not-so-fine old man! Ladies, if you have ever had a period, you will know what your particular monthly bits look like. In fact you probably know more than one would ever want to know about your dear old Aunt. Although there are some people - like me - who, while knowing all, understand just one thing. Auntie hates you. She hates you with a burning fiery passion that just keeps coming back.
This month, Auntie called Jihad. She has decided that I am her personal devil, and come hell or high tides, she will be cleansed. After much deliberation with the sane-minded folk I surround myself with, I have come to the conclusion that Evil Doctor is defending dear old Auntie F. He took one look at me, had me pee in a cup (under supervision!) and then signed my discharge papers. Allow me to relate to you exactly what symptoms I entered The Hospital with. And after that, and excerpt from the discharge papers my "doctor" was so kind to provide me with.
Symptoms Upon Entry -
Mild Shaking
Dizziness/Lightheaded
Heavy Bleeding lasting more than 24 hours
Satan Cramps from Hell
Chilled and Pale
I should note, my final diagnosis? Menorrhagia, otherwise known as bleeding to death from the lady bits.
And now an excerpt from my after-care instructions.
From the Mouth of Evil Doctor -
GET PROMPT MEDICAL ATTENTION if any of the following occur:
Heavier bleeding (soaking more than one pad in an hour for three hours)
Abnormally severe abdominal pain
feeling weak or dizzy, fainting
Now if I were a doctor, looking at this information, I would think to myself "Damn, there seems to be something wrong with this woman. Perhaps I should test something." But no. After deducing that I was not pregnant (go figure) Evil Doctor decided that womanly problems belonged at home, apparently with the women, babies and cake-baking, and not anywhere near him and his emergency room of misogynistic glory. I was given a condecending pat on the back, no lollipop and a bootied foot to the backside. Oh, and instructions to quickly make an appointment with "the woman who does my paps".
Well, I'm calling the woman who does my paps. Little does Evil Doctor know, "woman who does my paps" is a wonderful, Joan of Arcean goddess of fucking SPLENDOR. She is battle hardened by The Hospital and defends my shit with her life. Once it was literally. I personally cannot wait to hear her opinion on Evil Doctor Shmelzer. Seriously. I was being nice with the pet name.
The Hospital may have won this battle. But Auntie-sympathizing doctors or no, I shall win this war. Oh yes, with an elite team of malpractice fighting Medical Gods and an unstoppable she-bitch best friend at my side, I shall win this war.
I find myself at the computer yet again.
I could be sleeping right now, at 10:00 in the freaking morning, but no. Here I sit, wasting those precious moments of potential half sleep that we all no shall ne'er come again. I sit and waste me sleep time, so that I might inform the internetal (my blog! my word!) collective just how much I am dreading this morning.
Husband works and 2:00 in the afternoon.
I have and appointment with a friend at 12:00
My mother two town over needs us there at 1:30
Our snake needs a new heating pad and mice (by the way, the pet-mice people hate us)
Between those we need to somehow:
Go to the bank
Feed the felines
Wash the car
Change the cat litter
Ingest some sort of food product
Clean the kitchen
And do my husbands godamn laundry
The things on this list? I know they're not so mighty and unconquerable. But there are many of them, and only one of us. I say one, because Husband likes to stall and lay around like some kind of overweight lion creature, while I on the other hand, attack our schedules and day plannings like a rabid hyena ready to totalitarian the shit out of our wee little corner of the Marriage Jungle. I feel there is a balance to be had here.
I'm going to go now, and pretend that I m organized, focused and driven on what needs to be done on this, our morning of hellish errand running. :)
Husband works and 2:00 in the afternoon.
I have and appointment with a friend at 12:00
My mother two town over needs us there at 1:30
Our snake needs a new heating pad and mice (by the way, the pet-mice people hate us)
Between those we need to somehow:
Go to the bank
Feed the felines
Wash the car
Change the cat litter
Ingest some sort of food product
Clean the kitchen
And do my husbands godamn laundry
The things on this list? I know they're not so mighty and unconquerable. But there are many of them, and only one of us. I say one, because Husband likes to stall and lay around like some kind of overweight lion creature, while I on the other hand, attack our schedules and day plannings like a rabid hyena ready to totalitarian the shit out of our wee little corner of the Marriage Jungle. I feel there is a balance to be had here.
I'm going to go now, and pretend that I m organized, focused and driven on what needs to be done on this, our morning of hellish errand running. :)
My Cats
I have been told many things about a Blogger's first post. Things about how it should read and the things it should say about you. It must be funny and informative - clever, but not know-it-all. In fact, it must be many things that I am not. I am, however, fucking hilarious. So, ladies and gentlemen...
My Cats. They are trying to kill me. In fact, as I am sure all the "sane" people are aware of - ALL cats are trying to kill me. Most are just not up to the level of mine. My cats have dedication dammit. And do you know exactly how they are trying to kill me? I'll tell you how.
With a feline window-licker's sense of attachment disorder rage.
This is not random blathering on my part - oh no. This is a study in just how much it takes to break a woman. For example. Today I came home, expecting to find my freshly cleaned, wonderfully controlled environment ready and waiting for me. My expectations were disappointed. Instead of and OCD haven of loveliness, I was greeted by a ravenous hoard of attack cats - lying in wait no less! - aimed and already firing at my tender bits.
Have you ever watched a scary movie, where the useless heroine runs behind a door, only to hurl her back against it upon discovering she has just chosen to hide in Satan's pleasure dungeon? That woman? That woman is me. A speeding harpoon of feline fury hailed upon me with enough G-force that we are all lucky I didn't break that poor, battered little door. I had a split second to think 'Sweet Jesus what do they want?!" before it hit me (along with 20 bruising pounds of pure cat-rage) - they want the fuck out.
Now I could use even more adjectives to explain just how life-alteringly traumatic this was for me. Enough to make the Grammar Nazi's run screaming into the night. But you know what? At this point, I have given up. So it is like this that I shall recite my horrible tale of terror and tragedy. Cold and Factual. Excuse me a moment while I find an appropriately bleak font.
9:08 pm - Come home.
3:46 pm - Give up and try to sleep through the claws
My Cats. They are trying to kill me. In fact, as I am sure all the "sane" people are aware of - ALL cats are trying to kill me. Most are just not up to the level of mine. My cats have dedication dammit. And do you know exactly how they are trying to kill me? I'll tell you how.
With a feline window-licker's sense of attachment disorder rage.
This is not random blathering on my part - oh no. This is a study in just how much it takes to break a woman. For example. Today I came home, expecting to find my freshly cleaned, wonderfully controlled environment ready and waiting for me. My expectations were disappointed. Instead of and OCD haven of loveliness, I was greeted by a ravenous hoard of attack cats - lying in wait no less! - aimed and already firing at my tender bits.
Have you ever watched a scary movie, where the useless heroine runs behind a door, only to hurl her back against it upon discovering she has just chosen to hide in Satan's pleasure dungeon? That woman? That woman is me. A speeding harpoon of feline fury hailed upon me with enough G-force that we are all lucky I didn't break that poor, battered little door. I had a split second to think 'Sweet Jesus what do they want?!" before it hit me (along with 20 bruising pounds of pure cat-rage) - they want the fuck out.
Now I could use even more adjectives to explain just how life-alteringly traumatic this was for me. Enough to make the Grammar Nazi's run screaming into the night. But you know what? At this point, I have given up. So it is like this that I shall recite my horrible tale of terror and tragedy. Cold and Factual. Excuse me a moment while I find an appropriately bleak font.
9:08 pm - Come home.
9:08 pm - Attacked by cats
9:09 pm - fight my way to the kitchen for a lighter & cigarettes
9:22 pm - Make it to the kitchen only to find there is no lighter
9:23 pm - Attacked by cats
9:50 pm - Survived cat attack
9:55 pm - Smoke cigarette and barricade myself in bedroom
...
3:45 pm - Husband is home
3:46 pm - Husband lets cats into the bedroom
3:46 pm - Attacked by cats
3:46 pm - Give up and try to sleep through the claws
3:50 pm - Miraculously survive cat attack
3:51 pm - Pray for death as opposed to recovery
3:52 pm - Attacked by cats
Anyone else seeing a pattern here?
And now if you will excuse me, I need to go fend off said cats and participate in some very critiquing and possibly negetive self talk regarding this post. :)
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