yellow legs

So a few days ago I started having some pain in what felt like my left ovary. Given the nature of my recent surgery, I thought that I should maybe probably absolutely talk to the doctor about it. It took a few days for me to get past the gauntlet of nurses who always seem to take waaaaaay too much satisfaction in keeping me away from the doctor AT ALL COSTS, but I finally got an appointment with him yesterday morning.

Given the thatchy and overgrown state of my down-below, I thought that I should probably show the doctor a little consideration and attempt to whack back the weeds. I know, I know — gynecologists allegedly don’t care. They claim to be totally immune to the state of their patients’ nether regions, because blah blah clinical detachment and also they’ve “seen it all before.” And maybe that’s true. If a crusty 1950’s vagrant popped out of my vagina with a checkered handkerchief tied to a stick and a lengthy discourse on the ins and outs of the “hobo code,” my doctor would probably shrug and be all: “NBD.”

Nevertheless, I felt a nice long shower and some bush maintenance were in order.

Now. There’s two things you need to know before I go any further with this story:

1. I’d had a little bit of pain with urination when I woke up that morning, so I’d taken one of those Uristat pills that help your pee-hole feel better but also turn your piss BRIGHT ORANGE FUCKING YELLOW.

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Not actually my pee. BECAUSE BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I’M NOT *THAT* GROSS. But this is essentially what my pee looked like.

2. Since the surgery, I’ve had a lot of leakage. You know. Urine leakage. And sometimes I don’t even notice the leakage until it’s already happened. Apparently this is completely normal, and it’s expected to happen off and on for a few more months. It’s gross and inconvenient, but that’s the state of affairs at the moment.

All right. Let us continue.

So I took my Uristat pill, got in the shower, tamed the pubic lion, and got back out. So far, so good. But then I looked down at the bathroom floor and saw a puddle of BRIGHT ORANGE FUCKING YELLOW PEE. Thank God I was alone. I used my (fortunately) black towel to quickly mop it up, and threw the offending towel right in the wash. “Whew!” I thought to myself. “Good thing that didn’t happen out in public!”

All right. Many of you know of the passionate summer love affair I am currently having with maxi-dresses. So after I wiped up my BRIGHT ORANGE FUCKING YELLOW PEE, I pulled one out of the closet. It was one of those that hit the floor in the back but are kind of scalloped up to the knee in the front. Here’s an actual factual picture of it if you can’t get a mental image going:

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If you don’t like how I’m posing, or the face I’m making, or the fact that my bed isn’t made, or the est. 1975 sticker on my phone, or my nail color, or my cleavage crack, feel free to decipher the “secret message” my right hand is sending to you.

So I slapped on the dress and slid into my flip-flops and off to the doctor I went. Yes, off to the doctor I went, without once asking myself: “Hmm. If there was a gigantic BRIGHT ORANGE FUCKING YELLOW puddle of piss on the bathroom floor, where else could it have gotten to?”

I discovered the answer once I got to the doctor’s office. I sat down and crossed my legs, which were visible to everyone due to the scalloped nature of the dress, and saw

TWO MASSIVE BRIGHT ORANGE FUCKING YELLOW STREAKS OF PISS AND URISTAT DYE RUNNING ALL THE WAY DOWN BOTH OF MY LEGS AND ALL OVER THE BOTTOMS OF MY FEET.

Holy shit.

I’m pretty sure the doctor noticed but I did my absolute best to hide it. When he asked me to give a urine specimen, I ran to the bathroom, ransacked it for baby wipes, and started scrubbing. But that Uristat dye is POTENT. After a few minutes and about a thousand baby wipes, I’d done the best job I could, but my legs were still stained. Particularly the bottoms of my feet, where apparently my skin is the consistency of dollar-store toilet paper and absorbs literally EVERY MOLECULE OF EVERYTHING.

I was mortified, but My Girl T told me to look at the bright side — “maybe it looked like sunless tanner.” I guess it did *sort of* look like that – if you could believe that a blind monkey with inexplicable access to self-tanner had for some reason smeared it down just the inside of my legs with a dying vibrator. I wasn’t sure that was any less embarrassing, but T’s response? “Better than pee.”

I GUESS.

Still, I have this suspicious feeling that the doctor and his gauntlet of bitchy nurses were under no delusion that the yellow streaks on my legs were sunless tanner. In fact, they’re probably somewhere laughing it up right now and telling hilarious stories about their gross weirdo patient “Ol’ Yellow Legs.”

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Photo credits: 
“Urine Sample”: James Heilman, MD – Own work. The characteristic color of urine after taking pyridium. CC BY-SA 3.0. File:Pyridiumurine.jpg. Uploaded by Doc James. Created: 11 May 2011

nothing’s sacred

So this is the thing about being my friend. If you’re my friend, and you send me a hilarious text or instant message, there’s an almighty good chance it might end up here for all the world to see. Because writing original blog posts is hard and I need to capitalize on other people’s wit I just think it’s unfair to give short shrift to my friends’ collective comedic genius when I could be sharing it with all of you loyal so-and-sos.

I’m always thinking of others like that.

Onward!

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So I COULDN’T FUCKING POOP was having some bowel problems right after my recent surgery. Here is Kelly Fox of Foxy Wine Pocket being all kinds of supportive:

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But not to worry! After an excruciating TEN days of constipation, a poop did finally arrive! So I sent this text to my husband:

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Unfortunately, resuming what I’ll call “the back door call of nature” did not end all of my post-operative woes. After about two weeks, my episiotomy stitches started to dissolve/come loose and my perineum became really irritated. I called my doctor and left a message, but to no avail:

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Then My Girl T decided to join in:

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My sister is always good for a laugh. Here she is with a “parenting pro tip” I think we can all get behind:

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Here she is weighing in on “The Great Eyebrow Debate: Plucking v. Waxing”:

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And no est. 1975 Social Media Roundup (phrase courtesy of The Hollywood Sigh) would be complete without My Girl T and her random non sequiturs:

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Oh! While I’m posting screenshots of Facebook stuff, I should share with you that est. 1975’s Facebook page was lucky enough to have its first troll this month. I think I handled it pretty well:

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Well, that’s about it for letting my friends write my blog post for me this little peek into my social media universe. I’ll let Kelly Fox of Foxy Wine Pocket say my goodbye for me:

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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.

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mcdonald’s: i’m hatin’ it

This wasn’t the post I had intended for today, but I had an EXPERIENCE yesterday and I just *had* to tell the six people that read this blog ALL ABOUT IT.

Let me begin by saying that yesterday was the first day of my son’s summer vacation. And as I’m sure many of you already know, summer vacation presents stay-at-home parents like myself with one of two choices:

1. Entertain your kid 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

OR

2. Sign him or her up for a whole bunch of inconveniently-timed and unreasonably-priced activities just so you can actually have sixty seconds to yourself without hearing some variant of:

“MOM. I’M BORED. CAN WE GO TO THE POOL? CAN WE GO TO THE PARK? CAN THAT KID YOU HATE COME OVER FOR SEVEN HOURS ? CAN WE HAVE NUTELLA FOR A SNACK AND GET IT ALL OVER THE NEW CARPET? AW, COME ON! YOU ARE THE WORST MOM EVER. IN AN ACT OF DEFIANCE I WILL NOW PLAY VIDEO GAMES ALL DAY AND THEN CRAB LIKE ALL HELL WHEN YOU FINALLY MAKE ME TURN THEM OFF.”

It’s not exactly Sophie’s Choice, people.

Needless to say, I went with Door #2 and consequently my son is attending soccer camp this week. And because I hate myself and want to make my life even more miserable than it already is, the soccer camp we chose is one that requires me to a) get up at the exact same time as if I were taking my son to school, b) drive just as far as if I were taking my son to school, and c) pack food and a drink as if I were preparing my son for school. AND YET THE CAMP ONLY LASTS HALF AS LONG AS A SCHOOL DAY. 9 AM – 12 PM to be exact.

THE HORROR!

The unfortunate timing also means that I have to deal with lunch the minute I pick my son up from camp. Now, normally I’d take him back to the house and make him eat something cheap home-made, but yesterday he and I thought McDonald’s might be a good way to kick off the summer. Because nothing says fresh air, sunshine, and healthy living than hitting up the McDonald’s drive-thru, ordering a mess of burgers and nuggets, and then eating them in the air-conditioned living room while sitting on the couch watching television.

Yesterday’s McDonald’s experience went somewhat differently than expected, however.

We pulled into the drive-thru line which was LONG. But okay, it was noon. I made a mental concession. My son and I chatted about soccer camp during the wait, and when I finally got to the speaker thing I placed a very simple order:

  • A chicken nugget Happy Meal
  • Two cheeseburgers
  • A small fry

I pulled up to the This Is Where You Pay Window and I gave the dude his money. No problem there. It was only when I pulled up to the This Is Ostensibly Where Get Your Food Window that things started to fall apart.

It started with me… not getting my food. They didn’t have it ready. No big deal — they just wanted me to pull into the parking lot and wait for it. Okay, I get it. Sometimes that happens when you place a particularly complicated order for rare and exotic items such as chicken nuggets, cheeseburgers, and fries. Being a gracious woman, I made another mental concession. But then this happened:

Drive-Thru Lady (in what I will generously call “English”): “Please to park where that blue car and red car are parked.”

Me (confused): “Um. I can’t park there. *They’re* parked there. And there’s no empty spots around them.”

Drive-Thru Lady (exasperated): “Please. See that blue car and that red car? You park there.”

Me: “But there are NO SPOTS THERE. The area you’re directing me to is full.”

Drive-Thru Lady: *glare*

Me (apologetically): “I’m really sorry, but I just don’t understand what you’re telling me to do.”

Drive-Thru Lady: “PARK TO WHERE THAT BLUE AND RED CAR ARE PARKED.”

Me (desperate now): “BUT I CAN’T! I LITERALLY CAN’T!”

Drive-Thru Lady (slowly, emphatically, and as if I was the dumbest person on God’s sweet Earth): “THEN. TO WAIT. UNTIL. THEY LEAVE. THEN PARK THERE.”

At this point I was so discombobulated I just went ahead and pulled out of the line, desperately trying to figure out where exactly this insane person wanted me to park. The Blue and Red Cars of Infamy had no one inside and were clearly not going anywhere. They were surrounded on all sides by other parked cars that had no one inside and were also clearly not going anywhere. So I did the best I could and parked about three vehicles down. Granted, it wasn’t PARKING TO WHERE THE BLUE AND RED CAR WERE PARKED, but neither (I felt) would it be a journey of epic proportions for the McDonald’s people to find me. So my son and I sat back, rolled down our windows, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

In my rear view mirror I saw car after car leaving the drive-thru, their drivers with bags of delicious greasy food clutched in their hands. This pissed me off and it also confused the fuck out of my son. “I don’t understand why they’re getting their food and we’re waiting here,” he complained. “Where’s our lunch?”

Good question, son.

But I am a patient-ish person and I waited a little bit longer. About ten or twelve minutes total, I would say. Finally, though, both the boy and I were like:

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So we got out of the car and walked into McDonald’s. Which was… completely empty.

Girl at Counter: “Can I help you?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. We’ve been sitting in the boiling hot parking lot for ten minutes waiting for our food.”

Girl at Counter: “Oh. I didn’t know there was anyone waiting. Did you park where the drive-thru lady told you to?”

Me: “HA! It’s interesting that you should say that, because she told me to park in one of two spots that already had cars in them. So no. I didn’t. But I parked as close as I possibly could.”

Girl at Counter: “Well, that explains it. It looks like someone went out there but couldn’t find you. Oh, here’s your food.”

At this point she reached under the counter and handed me a bag of lukewarm nuggets and soggy fries. I just stood there for a second, boggling. Really? Whoever brought out the food COULDN’T FIND ME? I literally COULD NOT BE FOUND? I was only three cars down from where the crazy lady told me to park. I had my engine running, my windows open, and a six year old in the car bitching at the top of his lungs about WHY ISN’T THE FOOD HERE YET. And it wasn’t like they had to dispatch Lewis and Clark on an expedition into the Uncharted West — I was parked literally twenty feet from the main entrance of the damn restaurant.

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So what did I do then, you probably don’t care? Well, with a grand announcement that we would never be returning to that McDonald’s (as if anyone gave a damn) my son and I marched out with our bag of rapidly-cooling greasy grossness and more than a whiff of the moral high ground. And as my son so eloquently remarked:

“We should have never trusted this McDonald’s.”

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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. ONE OF US! ONE OF US!

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Photo credits:
“French Fries”: English: McDonald’s french fries on a white stoneware plate. Date 29 October 2010. Photo by Evan-Amos. This photo was taken as a part of Vanamo Media, which creates public domain works for educational purposes.
“Detox”: Source unknown. Footage taken from Rupaul’s Drag Race, broadcast by LogoTV.
“Lewis”: Author: Charles Willson Peale (1741–1827) Description: Portrait of Meriweather Lewis.
Date: Circa 1807: Source/Photographer http://media-2.web.britannica.com/eb-media/63/10263-050-BB45DC47.jpg. Licensing: This is a faithful photographic reproduction of a two-dimensional, public domain work of art. This work is in the public domain in the United States.
“Clark”: Author: Charles Willson Peale – http://media-2.web.britannica.com/eb-media/58/12858-050-C634509E.jpg. This media file is in the public domain in the United States. File: William Clark-Charles Willson Peale.jpg. Uploaded by Connormah. Created: 31 December 1809