#askawayfriday: a dish of daily life

I’ll admit it. I’ve never done anything like this before.

I am an #AskAwayFriday virgin.

Still, I’m willing to try anything once. JUST ASK MY HUSBAND! *ba dum chik*

No? Nothing? Eh, fine.

In all seriousness, #AskAwayFriday is a great way to get to know other bloggers and explore the deepest, most cobwebby corners of their minds. Today I will be swapping dirty little secrets with blog empress and fellow WAHM Michelle Nahom from A Dish of Daily Life. You can read my answers to her questions below, but also please swing by her blog and see what nasty lascivious things I managed to trick *her* into revealing!

Here we go!

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Michelle: I often wish I was a little bit funny, but I’m really not. I find your writing hilarious though. I also read your post on all the funny things your son has said…he’s pretty funny too. Do you think people are born funny? Or do they become that way growing up? Were your parents funny?

Sarah (est.1975): Honestly? Funny is a complicated animal. I think in some respects Funny is a natural talent like the knack for music, an aptitude for sports, or the ability to pick up and put down a cigarette without getting addicted (go me!) At the same time there’s definitely an element that’s learned, either from family/friends or through the active study of comedy. (Or both.)

However, I also think that Funny can be a coping mechanism. Feeling depressed but don’t want to bum everyone else out? Be Funny. Don’t quite fit in and aren’t sure how to lubricate your awkward entry into some uncomfortable social situation? Be Funny. Aren’t pretty/intelligent/sexy/effervescent/charming/educated/whatever enough to impress? Be Funny.

Yes, my parents have the Funny. My Dad’s Funny is dry and a bit more subdued than mine. My Mom’s Funny is almost accidental, like she’s tripping over it on her way into the kitchen to get some more coffee. And obviously they both have different boundaries than I do, being of an older generation. Everyone’s Funny is just different.

Michelle: I also read your post about The Mess of Manscaping and it made me think of pet peeves. What’s your biggest pet peeve?

Sarah (est.1975): Besides my husband’s pubic hair all over the bathroom floor, I would say that my biggest pet peeve is the group of people I like to call The Entitled Ones. I’m pretty sure you know who I mean. The Entitled Ones don’t thank you for favors. They cut you off in traffic and don’t wave. They become irate when rules that apply to everyone else also apply to them. Their kids are more special-er than your kids. They just feel like they DESERVE things.

Michelle: It’s always interesting to hear about everyone’s worst job. What was yours?

Sarah (est.1975): Surprisingly, my worst job was not the lowest-paying job I ever had, nor the most run-of-the-mill, nor the most difficult.

My worst job was as an analyst on a trading floor. I was the tender age of 24, I had a body that I liked to show off, and I had absolutely no idea how to comport myself in a high-stress, highly-masculine environment. Consequently, I spent the entire time fending off propositions for sex (primarily from married men), being treated “like a dumb blonde” (if you’ll excuse the stereotype, particularly because I’m not even blonde), and sobbing into my cocktails (or if it was before 6 PM, Diet Coke.) It was awful.

Michelle: Share three random facts about yourself.

Sarah (est.1975): Let’s see. Well, I’ve been epileptic since I was about 15 years old. I may or may not have ADD, but I can’t do anything for ten minutes straight without taking a break. And I LOVE nail polish. I’ve got over 300 bottles. How ya like me now?

Yup. A vintage hospital cart filled with nerl polish.
Yup. A vintage hospital cart filled with nerl polish.

Michelle: I enjoyed your post “Mothers of Single Children: The One and Done Mom” over at BLUNTmoms, and I laughed because we all have our own situations that we get used to. There are many days I feel completely overwhelmed and the worst is when I see the “I have 6 and things are completely in control Mom” balancing it all. What’s your favorite thing about being a parent…and the least favorite?

Sarah (est.1975): My favorite thing about being a parent is the copious amount of snuggling. I love it so much that I actually feel an icy knot of stress and dread in my belly when I think about the moment it will all come to an end.

My least favorite thing about being a parent is my son’s constant stream of verbal diarrhea. I’m gonna be honest with you, I like silence. I like being alone. Not great characteristics for a blue-ribbon parent, I grant you, but there you are. I’ve adapted as best as I can, but when my son marches around the house narrating every single second of his life “color commentary style” I sometimes wish I could just put him on mute. You know? So that I don’t disturb his creative line of thought, but also so that I don’t have to listen to it.

Michelle: You mentioned to me that you are a sports mom too. What sport does your child play? Have you ever seen any crazy parent antics on the field, and if so, what was the funniest (or most obnoxious) thing you’ve ever seen?

Sarah (est.1975): My son is still in Kindergarten, so even though he’s been swimming and playing soccer, basketball, and tennis since a very young age, it’s mostly been in the context of practicing and developing fundamental skills. He has *just* started getting into competitive sports this year, so sadly I don’t have any stories of crazy parent antics yet. I’m assuming it’s just a matter of time, though. (I’m also a little worried that it will be my husband doing the antics.)

My son getting FABULOUS on the soccer field.
My son getting FABULOUS on the soccer field.

Michelle: What is one characteristic you see in your child that he got from you (besides being funny, of course)

Sarah (est.1975): He pooches out his lips when he cries. It is the most adorable thing. It’s not adorable when I do it, of course. I would say it’s more disturbing.

Michelle: On a typical day (or week), do you ever take time for yourself? When you do, what does that look like?

Sarah (est.1975): I *have* to take time for myself or my brain explodes. I am a high-maintenance, highly selfish person. If I don’t get quiet time, or “Me Time” as I call it, or “GET OUT OF MY FACE! Time” as I also call it, I get extremely ornery and tetchy. So usually I’ll take a little time when my son is at school and catch up on television, or chat online, or go for a coffee with friends, or read, or play video games. You know. No big.

Michelle: You seem to be a regular contributor to at least one other site that I can see. What advice would you give someone looking to expand their horizons and writing in other places?

Sarah (est.1975): My advice would be to really focus on social media. Your blog should showcase your best material, for sure, but you can also attract the attention of interested blog sites through active participation in (and the placement of additional material on) Twitter, Pinterest, Facebook, etc.

Another strategy is to scour the Internet for blog sites that accept submissions from the general public, and submit fresh work to those sites when you can. Just keep in mind that every site’s policies regarding intellectual property are different.

Michelle: We just “met” not too long ago. How long have you been blogging? Why did you start? Do you have an end game? Or are you just waiting to see where the ride takes you?

Sarah (est.1975): I’ve only been blogging since Christmas 2013, so just a little bit over 2 months. I started because a friend of mine, columnist and features writer Heidi Stevens of the Chicago Tribune (like the plug I did there?), encouraged me to give it a shot and I trust her judgment completely. I’ve got no end game other than writing the Great American Novel, I guess. Honestly, I think I’m just waiting to see where the ride takes me, as you put it. It’s been a fun two months, that’s for sure!

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And that’s the end! Once again, don’t forget to check out Michelle Nahom at A Dish of Daily Life for her awesome answers to my nosy awesome questions.

A Dish of Daily Life

 

This #AskAwayFriday was hosted by:
The Real Housewife of Caroline County
Mrs. Tee – Love, Life & Laughter
Bold Fab Mom
This Momma’s Ramblings

Thanks, ladies!

The Real Housewife of Caroline County

NURSE!

[Author’s Note: I wrote this blog post yesterday morning while incarcerated in the hospital for a bad bladder infection and several kidney stones. I’ve since been released until surgery tomorrow, which is when they’ll remove the biggest stone. But worry not, loyal so-and-sos! I’m okay, and I’ve had this surgery before. Just read on and laugh.]

Hospitals are in many respects a necessary and benevolent evil. We all know this. The long walks, the interminable waits, the crowded elevators, the arrogant doctors who ask us the same questions a thousand times, the other patients who are always way sicker and grosser than we are… these facets of the hospital experience are well known to each and every one of us.

Yet every time we find ourselves within the confines of a hospital’s walls – those institutional but familiar “what is this, taupe?”-painted walls — we quickly devolve into a state of bitchy, offended surprise at the delays, inconveniences, and blasé attitudes of medical personnel who are often Completely Over It.

How is it possible that in this day and age we still get caught off guard by these things? They are the unavoidable truths of hospital life. Every washed-up hack comedian has written jokes about them. Every friend and family member has personal stories of them. We’ve experienced them ourselves, over and over again. WE SHOULD KNOW WHAT TO EXPECT BY NOW.

I’m no exception to this phenomenon. I’m typing this very post from a hospital bed, and in the 18 hours I’ve been here I’ve already racked up about a dozen stories of boredom and discomfort, bureaucracy and waste, clueless medical staff and irritating elderly roommates who may or may not be LOUDLY SMACKING THEIR LIPS AS WE SPEAK.

And I want to bitch about these things to everyone.

But we’ve all heard these stories, right? No one wants to hear more of this shit, do they?

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Yup. It’s a rage face. I’m not above it.

No?

WELL, TOUGH! IT’S MY BLOG.

Here we go.

Story #1: I went to the Emergency Room at 6:00 PM and was not admitted to an actual hospital room until 4:30 AM. When a very nice nurse with extremely poor timing came in at 5:00 AM and brightly asked me: “SO DID YOU GET ANY SLEEP?!” I wanted to punch her with my forehead.

Story #2:
Nurse: “Would you like a Percoset?”

Me: “Can I get a heating pad instead?”

Nurse: “I’m sorry, but I can’t get you a heating pad unless a doctor orders it for you.”

Me: “So you can get me Percoset, but not a heating pad?”

Nurse: “That’s right.”

Me: “…”

Nurse: *defeated sigh* “I know.”

Story #3: I am currently not allowed to drink any water. Not even one drop. The nurses have been extremely strict about it — so strict, in fact, that when they granted me permission to have a tiny little swallow with which to take my Percoset, there was much rejoicing.

Still. Fear not. What I *can* have instead of water is AS MANY ICE CHIPS AS I WANT.

Yep. Dead serious over here. About 2 hours ago I was given a humongous 28-ounce cup of ice chips, and I have already eaten over 8 ounces worth. Plus, as the ice melts, as ice is wont to do, it creates… well, you know. Water. Which I then drink.

Call me judgmental, but I think that somewhere in this hospital there *might* be some medical personnel who need refreshing on that whole “Water as Solid, Liquid, and Gas” lesson from elementary school.

Story #4:
My roommate (who I will now refer to as “Old Lip Smacks”):  ”NURSE!”

[Side note: Old Lip Smacks never presses the nurse call button. She just yells “NURSE!” out into the hallway until someone finally comes to shut her up.]

Nurse: “What is it?”

Old Lip Smacks: “I’M HONGRY.”

Nurse: “That’s good! It means you’ve got your appetite back!”

Old Lip Smacks: “IT AIN’T GOOD WHEN YOU DON’T GOT NOTHIN’ TO EAT!”

Nurse: *confused* “But there’s a whole tray of food right here next to you.”

Old Lip Smacks: “NO THERE AIN’T.”

[Side Note: Yes there was.]

Nurse: *pulls the food cart a little closer* “Look. It’s right here.”

Old Lip Smacks: *disgusted* “THAT? THAT AIN’T FOOD.”

[Side Note: Yes it was. Old Lip Smacks had been given PLENTY to eat. She just didn’t want any of it. The French toast was “too sweet.” The peanut butter “made her stomach hurt real bad.” The scrambled eggs were “I DON’T EAT NO EGG.”]

Story #5:
Hospitalist: “So I hear you talked to your urologist this morning.”

Me: “No, I didn’t.”

Hospitalist: *confused* “But it says here in the notes that he stopped by.”

Me: “He didn’t.”

Hospitalist: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Yes.”

Hospitalist: *blinks*

Me: “And I haven’t slept at all so I know I didn’t miss him.”

Hospitalist: *befuddled stare*

Me: “So maybe you could look into that.”

Hospitalist: “Yeah.” *looks at clipboard in vague disbelief* “Yeah, I think I will.”

[Side note: The urologist arrived 5 minutes later.]

Story #6: This morning I heard Old Lip Smacks shouting down a NURSE! for her bedpan. Now, I have an elderly father and elderly grandparents, so bedpans and diapers and whatnots don’t phase me in the least. (I’m mentioning this because I don’t want you guys to think I’m making fun or being agist — I’m merely setting the stage.)

Eventually the NURSE! arrived and Old Lip Smacks was dumped unceremoniously on top of the bedpan. Of course, I was behind a room-dividing curtain so I couldn’t actually see her — but believe me, I could *hear* her. Which is why I got to hear every second of the most DISGUSTING sounds of defecation I have ever encountered in my entire life. It sounded like someone was dragging a serrated knife through sheet after sheet of industrial-sized bubble wrap.

And the SMELL! I’ve never smelled anything like it and I would do just about anything to never have to smell it again. This is not an exaggeration — it smelled like someone had cut open Old Lip Smacks’ belly and found a dead raccoon inside. A dead raccoon who had eaten the worst-smelling shit in the whole world. And then shit it out. Inside her colon.

Lord, it was so bad I could almost TASTE it. In fact, I was chatting to my girl T when the whole thing went down, and I wrote to her: “OH MY GOD. IT’S IN MY MOUTH.” Then, completely coincidentally, my husband walked into the room, almost gagged, and whispered: “OH MY GOD. IT’S IN MY MOUTH.”

(Someone on my Twitter feed once tweeted something like: “I just farted and it was so bad that my dog started chewing the air.” This smell was like that. CHUNKY.)

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Anyway, all of that was funny. But the funniest part was much later, after the nurses had changed shifts:

Old Lip Smacks: “NURSE!”

Nurse: “Yes?”

Old Lip Smacks: “MY STOMACH HURTS REAL BAD.”

Nurse: “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Have you had a bowel movement today?”

Old Lip Smacks: *in the sweetest most liar-ish voice that ever was* “OH NO, SWEETHEART. NO BOWEL MOVEMENT TODAY.

Me:

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As my girl T said: “The smell in the air says she’s a liar.”

lest ye be judged

Remember learning about Anubis in grade school? He was the ancient Egyptian god with the head of a jackal who hung around the underworld mummifying bodies and weighing hearts against feathers and whatnot. Here’s a picture of him holding court with some weirdos and a tiny bird-man:

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Anubis weighing some shit.

I bring up Anubis and the whole ancient Egyptian “weighing your heart against a feather” afterlife doodly-doo because all of it offers some context to the following chat conversation I had with my sister Cheeks the other day:

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….aaaaaand it does.

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Poor Anubis.

i remember (fashion edition)

Welcome to the second installment of the “I remember” series, in which I reminisce about things that were shitty a long time ago and would still be shitty if they were around today. Join me as I take a journey through time and “fashion,” recalling all some a fun-size portion of the fads and trends we’ve left behind — and for good reason (they fugly.)

I remember hair accessories such as the claw clip:

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The banana clip:

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And the ubiquitous scrunchie:

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(Side note: The above picture of the red scrunchie reminded me of the movie Heathers so I did a little Wikipedia browsing in a “Where Are They Now?”-style attempt at pop culture research. And what I discovered was DID YOU GUYS KNOW THAT THE MAIN HEATHER DIED? THE BITCHY ONE?  LIKE 13 YEARS AGO OF BRAIN CANCER? Mind = blown.)

I remember the United Colors of Benetton, an upscale Italian clothing company whose advertisements were designed to shock us –– OMG A GUY WHO KIND OF MAYBE LOOKS LIKE A  PRIEST FROM BEHIND IS KISSING AN UNCHARACTERISTICALLY BEAUTIFUL NUN IN A COMPLETELY CHASTE AND NOT EVEN THAT SEXY WAY! — as were their prices.

Pretty much no one gives a shit about Benetton now, but when I was a freshman in high school, I coveted nothing more than this hideous Benetton rugby shirt:

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Look at that thing. What an ugly, boxy, unflattering piece of shit. In retrospect, I can only characterize my desire to own a shirt like that as “dumb,” particularly given the fact that I had no idea what a rugby shirt, or indeed rugby itself, even was. But back then all I needed to know was OH MY GOD ALL THE POPULAR GIRLS HAVE THEM AND MOM I NEEEEEEED ONE.

Alas, my parents were not keen on the idea of spending a fortune on what was essentially an unattractive and ill-fitting man’s shirt for their 13-year-old daughter. So I had to Wait. And whether or not you want to admit it, many of you know The Wait of which I speak — The “Wait Until It Comes to TJ Maxx” Wait.

The Wait was the bane of my high school existence.

So. As with every other article of brand-name clothing I managed to squeeze out of my mother over the course of my adolescence, I had to endure The Wait for the coveted Benetton rugby shirt. Unfortunately, by the time it actually came to TJ Maxx – and believe me, back then, only the ugliest and most inappropriately-sized brand-name rejects ever did – the trend had already become passé.

The shirt was ugly. It was too large. It was out of fashion. It would not fool the popular girls into thinking I was one of them. I made my mom buy it for me anyway. And wore it like three times before throwing it on the floor of my closet and bitching that “nobody wears these anymore, Mom. Duh.”

I remember the iconic ESPRIT black canvas tote. The below picture is not the best, but there were surprisingly few online images of this bag considering that EVERY SINGLE GIRL AT MY HIGH SCHOOL *AND* COLLEGE HAD ONE. I’m also pretty sure that back in the day, 99.9% of sororities even modeled their tote bags after it. (Not that I was ever in a sorority, mind you. Do I look like I’m made of bucks? I had to wait till the Benetton rugby shirt came to TJ Maxx, for God’s sake.)

I wish I’d kept my ESPRIT tote. That thing was useful as fuck, and it actually looked pretty cute, not that you can tell from this picture:

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I remember pegged jeans. I realize this is sort of a low-hanging fruit, so I’m just going to say this about them: at the end of every school day, one of the first things I did when I got home was unroll those shits because THEY CUT OFF THE CIRCULATION TO MY FUCKING FEET.

Seriously, the things we do in the name of fashion:
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While we’re on the topic of jeans, I remember Palmetto’s. I hope I’m not the only one, because the whole concept of Palmetto’s was awesome, hilarious, and totally misguided. You see, there was one reason and one reason alone to wear Palmetto’s-brand jeans. See if you can figure it out.

Cheapy Palmetto’s-brand ass patch:

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Expensive-y Guess Jeans-brand ass patch:

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Remember how I used the word “misguided” just now? That’s because there was a major and obvious flaw in any every plan to substitute Palmetto’s jeans for Guess ones, and that was this: if someone looked close enough at your ass, the jig was up. And I’m pretty sure that in junior high and high school there was a copious amount of close-up lookin’ at asses going on.

The solution? Rip off the patch and leave just the triangle-shaped shadow behind. BECAUSE THAT WOULD FOOL EVERYONE. Except it didn’t fool *anyone*. Why? Well, I think this graphic says it all:

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Lastly, I remember ridiculous footwear such as the slouch sock (best worn layered for extra foot sweat and a complete inability to put on your shoe):

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The jelly shoe:

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[EDIT: A conversation that I had with My Girl T after this post was published led me to remember how cut to HELL my feet always were after wearing jelly shoes. Those things tore my shit UP. And yet, I loved them. And had about a billion pairs. They were way uglier than the ones pictured above, though.]

And don’t forget the Eastland boat shoe (WITH CURLED LACES. GOD HELP YOU IF YOU DIDN’T CURL THE LACES):

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Sooo… obviously there are way more hideous 1980’s and 1990’s fashion trends than this, but I am running out of patience with finding and fixing up the graphics. (I’m also probably going to get cease-and-desist orders on 75% of them.) So I’m gonna bring this post to an unceremonious close, because that’s the kind of blog this is – the kind where the blog author complains about having to research and/or create new material.

WHATEVER. *does W with thumbs and index fingers*

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If you haven’t already done so, consider following est. 1975 on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Pinterest! I add fresh, hilarious material every single day.

pelvic organs? come on down! (part 1 of 4)

Posting the below screenshot to my personal Facebook account was the tactful way in which I chose to announce to my friends and family that

MY GIRL PARTS ARE FALLING OUT OF MY BODY.

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Yes. Yes, they are.

And because my girl parts are falling out of my body, I’ve decided to go ahead and schedule both a hysterectomy and what the doctors call “pelvic reconstructive surgery,” though I prefer to think of it as GO GO BIONIC VAGINA!

AND TAINT!

ALSO BUTTHOLE!

If you’re already lost and disgusted, let me back up and offer a little illumination. Pelvic reconstructive surgery is the procedure used to correct a fun little condition called female genital prolapse, which you can read about here if you’re not the squeamish sort. If you are the squeamish sort, “my girl parts are falling out of my body” should do you for now.

(Still, I feel fair warning is in order: in true est. 1975 fashion, I will be exploring a few some many of the gory details of pelvic organ prolapse in this series. This first post won’t be so bad, but if you want to keep following along, you’re going to need to nut up.)

Anyhow.

The story begins, as many often do, with the birth of my son.

We all know that there are plenty of unpleasant side effects to carrying and delivering a child. What a lot of us don’t know, however, is that one of the most common is some degree of female genital prolapse. That’s when a woman’s pelvic organs start to just sliiiiiide out of her body in what I can only describe as a most undignified manner. (Out her hoo-ha.)

Yet no one ever talks about it.

It doesn’t happen to every woman. And for some women, it doesn’t happen right away – it can take years. And years. And years. Still, the Harvard Medical School claims that “by age 80, more than 1 in every 10 women will have undergone surgery for prolapse.” Wikipedia adds that “genital prolapse occur[ed] in about 316 million women worldwide as of 2010 (9.3% of all females.)”

That’s a lot of girl parts sliding out of a lot of lady holes.

Now. Before you say “THAT COULD NEVER HAPPEN TO ME” let me assure you: it can. It can happen to absolutely any woman. It can happen regardless of whether your childbirth was vaginal or C-section. It can happen whether your labor and delivery turned into one of those prolonged fucking nightmares we’ve all heard so much about, or whether the whole thing was more like an “energetic queef” situation. In fact, a baby doesn’t even need to be part of the equation – a weak pelvic floor, some heavy lifting, or an athletic injury can all do the job.

What I’m saying is it can happen. Trust.

Take me, for instance – my son’s birth was incredibly easy. I was in labor for not even twelve hours and I pushed for not even one. I didn’t tear. I didn’t poop. And at my six-week postpartum checkup, nothing seemed amiss. All was well down below. I seriously thought I’d won the childbirth lottery. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

And yet by ten weeks postpartum, I felt like I was smuggling a clementine in my vagina. I went back to the gynecologist and was diagnosed with a prolapsed bladder. My doctor, who truth be told seemed mighty “meh” about the situation, told me that the solution was threefold:

  1. Lose the pregnancy weight.
  2. Do Kegels.
  3. Give it time.

I left the office that day feeling a bit uncertain. It seemed like my doctor was not much concerned with the fact that my vaginal canal had a bladder in it, even though I was pretty sure that my vaginal canal wasn’t the usual place for my bladder to hang out. And the prescribed therapy (lose weight, do some vag clenches, chill out) seemed way too simple and frankly also a little ridiculous.  But ultimately I was not a doctor. My GYN obviously hadn’t been bothered by the situation, so eventually I decided that neither was I.

A couple of years went by. I did lose most of the pregnancy weight but let’s face it, I wasn’t a skinny mini to begin with. I did my Kegels – for a while. Time passed and the prolapse seemed like it was improving. Because these things improve, right?

RIGHT GUYS?

GUYS?

RIGHT?

Wrong. Gravity is a powerful force and one not to be underestimated. And I had underestimated it. Also, I had not been informed of all the facts, particularly one vital piece of information that in retrospect you’d think someone would’ve bothered to tell me:

A woman’s bladder, uterus, and rectum are kind of like Siamese triplets.

That’s right. Siamese triplets. They’re all attached to one another, and apparently they suffer from crippling separation anxiety, because if one of them tries to run away, it’s only a matter of time until the other two follow suit. From that point forward, no matter what you do to try and stop The Gynecological Great Escape, it’s going to happen.

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And it did happen.

Despite my best efforts to avoid getting older, I did nonetheless… do that. And because of the aging process, my slowing metabolism, and the fact that I eat 238723847 tons of food a day, I put all of the weight back on and more. I stopped doing Kegels because they are boring and make me have to pee, and all the while the force of gravity continued to work its unfortunate magic on my Siamese triplets.

Now, what should look like this:

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Side view of what the vaginal canal is *supposed* to look like. If a 3-year-old drew it.

Looks more like this:

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Side view of what my vaginal canal *actually* looks like. If a 3-year-old drew it.

And because it should most definitely not look like that, I am currently in the process of scheduling my hysterectomy and pelvic reconstructive surgery. I’ve seen all the doctors, I’ve been to all the appointments. I just need to make the actual phone call to set up a date and time.

Ugh.

I hate making phone calls.

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Stay tuned for Part 2 of this series when I discuss how the surgery necessary to keep MY GIRL PARTS FROM FALLING OUT OF MY BODY is considered purely “elective.” That’s right. If I want to spend the rest of my life leaking piss and feeling like my bladder, uterus, and rectum might go flying out of my body if I do a hard sneeze, I can choose to live like that and no doctor would have a problem with it whatsoever.

And sadly a lot of women *do* choose to live like that, because it’s awkward and embarrassing to talk about hoo-has and poop chutes, especially when they are trying to run away from you.

But I have no sense of decorum, so I’ll talk about hoo-has and poop chutes all day long. Boy, will I.

Lots of gory details in Part 2!

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Interested in reading more of this series? Follow the yellow brick links!

Post 1: Diagnosis: Prolapse

Post 2: How to Fix Dem Sagging Girl Parts

Post 3: The Wide Wide World of Pre-Op

Post 4: Pain and Catheters and Constipation, Oh My!

tickle my pickle

Last night I was hanging out in bed when my husband started tickling me in a dumb and completely ineffective attempt at foreplay.

Me: “What are you doing?”
Him: “Tickling you.”
Me: “For real? Tickling sucks! No one is turned on by tickling.”
Him: “Whatever. I love tickling.”
Me: “Oh, you do NOT. You HATE it.”
Him: “I love it.”
Me: “Fine. I’ll just tickle YOU then.” *tickles*
Him: “STOP. STOP!”
Me: “See?”
Him (accusatory): “Look at what you did. You made my underwear fall off.”

 

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