Surgical Fun With Hobos

My son, Conor, had a little “work done” a couple of weeks ago. That’s the Hollywood term for surgery, though in Conor’s case it doesn’t refer to a cosmetic procedure. No Brazilian Butt Lift here. In fact, nothing major at all. Just a little abdominal surgery to repair a hernia. No biggie. I was totally casual about the whole thing. Totally.

On the outside.

On the inside, I was a ball of anxiety because my baby was going under general anesthesia and I worried that he would handle it as well as I do, which is to say not well at all. My body is generally against drugs, especially anything that threatens to relieve pain, and reacts like a tweaker in an imaginary snake pit. It’s charming to watch, just ask Hubs.

My daughter, Riley, was also experiencing some anxiety over Conor’s surgery, saying comforting things like, “when they cut Conor open…” and “if Conor dies…”, so I scheduled a busy day for all of us the day before the surgery to keep our minds off of the whole thing.

Riley has an overactive imagination. I don’t know where she gets it.

This picture is in no way meant to suggest that she gets it from me.

This picture is in no way meant to suggest that she gets it from me. Or that I’ve lost half my teeth.

At the end of the day Conor collapsed into bed, which is when I noticed that he was FILTHY. Evidently at school he’d decided to roll in the sand and climb through a carburetor. Since it was well past bed time and my sweet boy is not known for his sunny morning disposition or ability to retain a great attitude without sleep or food, I let my little hobo fall asleep in the midst of his filth, thinking that I’d clean him up before we left in the morning.

Good plan…

if the giant Coke I had for lunch hadn’t fed my anxiety, which in turn fueled some situational insomnia. I stared at the ceiling most of the night and slipped into a deep sleep right before the alarm went off. At least I assume it went off. I didn’t hear it. I woke up with just enough time to throw on clothes, grab Conor, plop him in the car and make it to the Children’s Hospital by his 6:00 a.m. check in, where I repeatedly apologized to every nurse within earshot for bringing in a stinky, unwashed child for surgery.

Seriously, I can’t remember the last time I was ever that embarrassed over my parental shortcomings. I mean general incompetence is fine but hygiene neglect…that’s just wrong.

"He's cute. It's a shame his mama doesn't wash him."

“Mama doesn’t wash me til the creek thaws and the hogs are slaughtered.”

Three hours of shame and two meltdowns later (Conor found the blood pressure cuff and tiger pajamas traumatizing), he was in surgery and I was staring blankly at a wall in the waiting room.

The elephant tranquilizer is just kicking in [looks like I'm not the only one hallucinating]

Don’t let the drunken joie de vivre fool you, he despises those pajamas.

According to the surgeon, the procedure went off without a hitch. The recovery nurse might have had a different take on the whole experience however, because it seems that Conor also suffers from a tiny sensitivity to general anesthesia, which came in the form of explosive diarrhea and an intense desire to roll around in it. Thank God, Hubs had arrived by that point to help our recovery nurse because I had all but shut down and could only stand there with a box of juice and a popsicle in my hands watching the carnage with mild detachment.

Standing there uselessly I had plenty of time to wonder about things such as why Hubs has absolutely no problem with gay men, but is deeply offended by Vespas, Mazda Miatas and small fluffy white dogs. And also why the nurse didn’t know what the word “defecating” meant which seemed to me like a word that a nurse should know.

The recovery nurse finally shoved Conor into an adult sized diaper and signed his discharge papers before he soiled the entire recovery wing.

At the end of the day Conor had face planted off the recliner and the couch, as well as crapped his way through two gurneys, four diapers, two pairs of pajamas and a new rug. Impressive. But we are fairly certain the hernia is gone.

conoraftersurgery2

And he got to take home a glove balloon and crap-filled adult diaper. Score!

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A Brief Excursion Through The Shallows

My inlaws are in town and between entertaining family and my manic redecorating urges I just haven’t had time to write witty prose. I apologize.

If we don't abuse them they really don't feel like they've visited.

If we don’t abuse them they really don’t feel like they’ve visited.

However I thought that to tide you all over I would include a list of some of the thoughts that have graced my cerebral cortex over the past week–just a sampling of what it’s like to be inside my skull. You should be warned that some of these thoughts are inappropriate. Many are disturbing and nonsensical. Some of you might not want to know me this well.

Ready? Alrighty, here we go:

  • I’d be funnier if I was English…or black…or English and black…or is that like putting the positive sides of two batteries together?

  • When I die I won’t be able to suck in my stomach. I’m going to look bloated and saggy. I hope I don’t die naked.

  • What if I die in a public place and then everyone sees me crap myself and I’m not around to explain that I don’t normally do that?

  • How would I ever date again now that I’m so gassy? What if I found love again but the guy was offended by farting? I think Hubs will be my only husband. If he dies I’ll live alone and make pottery.

  • Is my face too old for my hair?

  • Is my face too old for my dance moves?

  • I should get derma planing. But what if they accidentally stabbed my eye and then everyone would know that I lost an eye because I was vain?

  • What if I got a boob job and died on the table and then my kids would always think that boobs were more important to me than they were?

  • Is my vagina attractive enough to do porn? What makes a vagina attractive enough to do porn? Is that a thing? Maybe anyone with a vagina can do porn.

  • What if I was decapitated and then my face looked like one of those sad Nixon rubber masks?

  • If I ever have to have chemo and lose my hair everyone will see all of the bumps on my head. I’d have to get a wig. I hate wigs. I hope I don’t get cancer in the summer.

  • Do I have too many moles to wear a backless gown to the Oscars?

  • Will the rats in the heating ducts give us all the Hanta Virus? Would Hubs get into trouble if he had to shoot one? What makes a suburban rat shooting legally justified? How do you repair bullet holes in hardwood floors?

  • What if I’m on a road trip and break down in a place where I can earn the money for my car repair by winning a pole dancing contest but I’m not wearing nice underwear? Or I’m bloated?

  • What if I’m in a car accident while on my period and I fall into a coma and then I get toxic shock because no one takes out my tampon?

  • What if my heart stops and they have to use the paddles but they forget to take out my nose ring and it burns off my nostril?

  • If I had to run for my life without any clothes on how would I contain the jiggle? I should become a self defense bad@ss so I never have to run for my life naked.

So there you have it: some of my thoughts. Yes, I worry too much about things that will probably never happen. And yes, I am at times alarmingly morbid, vain and shallow. I have occasionally endeavored to cut down on the sheer quantity of garbage that floats through my head. But then I worry that I’d be boring or, even worse, so happy and peaceful that I’d die like in Downton Abbey or that movie City of Angels. As a responsible parent I can’t let that happen. My children need me: f*cked up but alive.

I'm sensing a theme in these pictures

Torture is love.

The Galloping Consumption

This is not a real post. Consider this an excused absence from my normal blog writing. i have what my father affectionately referred to as the Galloping Consumption, a term he applied to any respiratory illness that makes you doubt your will to live. Having spent six months in the hospital for tuberculosis, I consider him an expert in this area.

I’m in my second week of the Galloping Consumption. I haven’t been able to sleep, hold a conversation or even read a story to my children. Hubs is renting out my side of the bed and taking applications for a new wife and mother, should I finally blow a major blood vessel on my next coughing fit.  Meanwhile I entertain visions of myself in a cane-backed wheel chair with a lap blanket, being wheeled around by an attendant or lying supplicant on a velvet couch while Johnny Depp recreates Neverland in my sitting room. In my visions I cough with an English accent.

Now I wouldn’t publicly declare myself an optimist but I am prone to want to look at the bright side of a situation, so I can say that I’ve lost ten pounds, though most of it has been in muscle tone and breast tissue. I’m on the verge of obtaining the coveted lollipop figure that LA is known for. Rachel Zoe actually considered taking me as a client until she realized that there was movement in my forehead and declared me dead to her until I developed the good sense to paralyze my face with Botox.

However just between you and me, even a career as a geriatric super model isn’t enough to raise my spirits while I am coughing mercilessly through the night. I can be tough and resilient for short stretches but I grow impatient about hardship quickly and then I’m just irritable and nihilistic.

I’d be terrible at war. Sure I’d be focused and bad@ss for a couple of fire fights but then I’d grow weepy, start complaining about a lack of coffee breaks and finally I’d lie down in a fox hole and wait for enemy fire to claim me. They never would’ve made a mini series about my war-time heroics. So don’t hold out for Band of Brothers and One Sister. It ain’t coming.

Anyway, thank you for your patience. Normal posts will resume shortly.

A Bucket And A Rock

Today I’m just this side of useless.

Hubs and I have been in training to become MMA fighters…well Hubs bought a book written by an MMA trainer, which is nearly the same thing.

Guaranteed to make you look like a beast. Actual fighting skills not included.

I love this book. I did one of the workouts and then strutted up and down our street in a roid rage, looking for someone to choke out. All I could find was our 90-year old neighbor and he’s in a different weight class, so I haven’t technically put my title on the line, but I’m pretty sure that I’m invincible. Seriously, I am this close to earning a Tap Out t-shirt and a tribal armband tattoo.

I’ve been following the book’s diet plan religiously: no refined foods, lot’s of whole grains, fruits and veggies.  Because you can eat like a hippie and not lose your agro edge, which is important to know if you chase gang members for a living or shop at Target on a weekend. The diet has me feeling like a finely tuned machine. A washing machine, but not just any washing machine. A really good one. Like a front loading Whirlpool with all of the extra settings that I would never use.

But here’s the thing about a deluxe Whirlpool washer, you need to treat it well. You don’t dump a bunch of crayons and gum in it and expect your next load to be pristine…are you getting lost in my metaphor? See, I’m the washer and the crayons and gum are…yeah, I know my metaphor sucks. What do you expect from a gummy, crayon filled washer?

Somewhere in those suds is a better metaphor. (image via dreamstime)

You see, yesterday after my yoga class I was feeling a little smug and self empowered, so I impulsively decided to treat myself to a piece of key lime cheesecake, as a reward for my hard work and potential bad@ssery. I took my cheesecake home where I ate it in half hour increments because that makes it healthier…in my mind, you know, where it counts. I haven’t had any refined sugar for a couple of weeks so I caught a rush off that cheesecake like a cheap date.

Then we went to a little shindig at our neighbor’s house, which turned out to be a dessert party. I have the feeling MMA fighters don’t hang out at dessert parties. Whole grains and vegetables were notably absent and all of the fruit was coated in custard.

I was strong. At first. But I got hungry and the kids didn’t eat all of their treats and I hate to waste food and did I mention I was hungry? So I had a little off their plate. I mean plates. And by a little I mean that I licked those plates clean. And then I had a teeny tiny dark chocolate, espresso brownie of my own, but not on a plate so that it wouldn’t count, but apparently nobody explained that rule to the brownie because that sucker was DEADLY.

I knew it was a mistake immediately. I felt light-headed and sick, like I’d just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, dipped in crack and rolled in the scat of llamas that have dined solely on poppies.  It occurred to me that I hadn’t really eaten anything except desserts all day. So when we got home I made myself a super healthy meal, but by then it was 8:00 and the damage was done. All I could do was wait for my stomach to revolt, which it did at about 10:00 (bye super healthy meal), and vow to treat myself better today.

Feeling the llama’s wrath. (image via mushypony.com)

This morning I woke up with a full on sugar hangover. I need a nap and a large German woman to knead my muscles and throw me in a sauna to detox. I have zero energy and no pithy thoughts.

The Whirlpool is broken. What you’ve got here is a bucket and a rock.