Wednesday, November 26, 2014

THE Thanksgiving Blog

This blog is to give all you Starrtrippers something to be thankful for this year, and to make some of you (Megan and Megan) quit your bitching about needing a blog to read while you drink.  BY THE WAY, I HOPE YOU'VE BEEN DRINKING EVEN WITHOUT MY BLOG BECAUSE IT HAS BEEN 6 MONTHS SINCE I BLOGGED AND THAT'S A LONG DAMN TIME TO BE ON THE WAGON.  Just sayin'.


1.  The airplane is OUTTA MY GARAGE.  Yep.  After 4+ years of being known in North Suffolk as "the house with the airplane in the garage," we rolled it out, loaded it up, and shipped that bitch to South Carolina last night in the covered trailer of a very nice couple named Sarah and Drew.  It took a little manuevering, seeing as how it IS A FULL SIZED AIRPLANE WITH FULL-SIZED FUCKING WINGS, but eventually (lots of straps and packing quilts later) it all worked out.   Note that the top photo is what I saw (along with the rest of the world) every time my garage door was open (which was always, because my son is seemingly incapable of remembering to ever close the garage door-- yes, I realize it looks like a junkyard, but I'M FROM TENNESSEE, MOTHERFUCKERS, SO IT'S NORMAL).  The second photo is of the fully loaded plane in the trailer, with the wings covered in quilts and hanging from the sides of the trailer.  Now, looks closely at the third photo.  Does anything look weird to you?

It SHOULD.  Because yes, that's a baby in a pack-n-play beside the trailer.  In the dark.  While it's raining.  On the side of my street.  (Please see above comment about me being from TN.  Also, it's not MY baby, it's Sarah and Drew's baby, so back the fuck off.)

2.  Hannah the Hamster, R.I.P.~  Hannah the hamster was never OUR hamster.  In fact, I had never met Hannah until one fine October day when I decided to return a large glass cup shaped like a trophy and full of ping-pong balls (this is the kind of thing people leave at my house, y'all) to my friends Paul and Leslie.  When I got to their house, I saw them both through the open front door, standing over a cage and looking concerned.  The first question they asked me was "Hey, do you know the best way to euthanize a hamster?"  WELL, OF COURSE I DO.  I GET THAT QUESTION ALL THE TIME.  Apparently, Hannah had taken very ill during the night and had spent the morning stumbling drunkenly around her cage, refusing to eat and breathing sporadically.  After a phone conversation with the vet, Leslie had learned that the hamster was not likely to recover and needed to be put down, and put down STAT as their daughter (and Hannah's owner) would be home from school soon.  NOW, a NORMAL person (which none of the three of us are) would have taken the hamster to a vet to have it euthanized.  However, that seemed like a bad choice as the hamster was obviously suffering every second it was alive, Leslie was near tears, and Lily was going to be home very soon.  Paul suggested we put it in a box, use a vacuum hose, and then car exhaust to gas it.  (It was actually slightly terrifying how excited he was about this idea and just how well it had all been thought out.)  I, however, being the friend-group druggie (after gently mentioning to Leslie that her husband might be a sociopath because EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT'S HOW SOCIOPATHS ALL START OUT, KILLING CATS AND HAMSTERS AND SHIT), suggested we dope it up with some of the Xanax I had in my car.  I mean, if half of one knocks my ass out for 8 hours, wouldn't a whole one surely put a 1-pound hamster to sleep forever?  ONE WOULD THINK SO.  I got the Xanax, Paul dissolved it into a syringe, and Hannah slurped it down faster than I've been known to drink vodka on Spring Break.  Then the wait began.  At first, Hannah settled down.  We started high-fiving-- this was good-- it looked like Hannah was going to slip right into the BIG SLEEP.  Until she didn't.  It wasn't but a few minutes later that the Xanax seemed to REVIVE Hannah.  She started running around her cage.  Then eating.  Then doing these weird things that kind of looked like push-ups (and led to Paul suggesting we mount a tiny knife in her cage so when she dipped down in her push-ups she would inadvertently stab herself to death, thus relieving us of the burden of being murderers-- like I said, RUN, LESLIE, RUN).  Anyway.  So it turns out Xanax revives nearly dead hamsters.  I won't go into the rest of the story, other than to say that we DID try to smother it with a pillow, and that turned out even worse than the Xanax and was also unsuccessful.  By the time I left, I felt like a huge failure because Hannah was still alive.  I'm told she later passed peacefully though, and I didn't ask any questions.  I have a feeling "peacefully" might have been an exaggeration (meaning A BIG FUCKING LIE) and that Paul might have had a hand in the passing (MY HOUSE IS A SAFE HOUSE, LESLIE).  R.I.P. Hannah.

3.  I'm so fancy~  And I want this pillow for Christmas.
IT'S LIKE JESUS WAS THINKING OF ME WHEN THIS WAS MADE.  I bet now you're wondering how I found something so fabulous and Haley-fied.  I SHALL TELL YOU, BECAUSE IT WILL GIVE YOU SOMETHING ELSE TO BE THANKFUL FOR.  Sometimes when I'm bored, I like to go onto and search things like "penis" or "taxidermied humans" or "fuck."  You'd be surprised what you find.  That's where I found this pillow.  FEEL FREE TO BUY IT FOR ME.  You're welcome.

4.  Thinking positively~  I am not an optimist.  I am the GIRL WHO HOPES FOR THE BEST BUT KNOWS THE FUCKING WORST POSSIBLE SCENARIO IS GOING TO HAPPEN so I should be prepared because that's how my universe rolls, yo.  If I'm making a green shake, I'm going to catch the blender on fire (thanks for the new Ninja, B).  If I move into a new house, I'm going to end up with a snake in my kitchen and an airplane in my garage.  If I try to visit a friend, I may end up helping euthanize their pet.  THAT IS MY LIFE.  So I'm trying here lately to AT LEAST focus on the positive.  For example, I am moving out of Virginia after a decade into a big, brand-new, super-fancy house in Georgia.  While I myself, am FANCY AS FUCK (please refer to the pillow), I have some trepidation about the new house because we are closing on it on Friday, and our house here hasn't sold yet.  The reason for this is because B has already been gone so long already, and we just couldn't live apart any longer.  So B found an amazing house, and we just up and bought it.  I know we're good, and it's fine that this one hasn't sold yet, but it's still stressful to me.  But instead of focusing on the STRESS of having two lovely houses that I adore this holiday season, I am trying to focus on the BLESSING of it.  The fact is that lots of people don't have ANY house.  So I am lucky.  I am twice as lucky as many people, and much, much luckier than I deserve to be. 

5.  Being a Weirdo Magnet~  All of my close friends are psycho as all hell, as you have probably deduced if you have read my previous blogs.  It's because I attract weird people, and I only like to hang out with people who appreciate my OWN brand of crazy, so I tend to gravitate towards people I meet who are obviously as fucked up as I am, even if they don't appear to be when you first meet them.  THESE ARE MY PEOPLE, DUDE.  I LOVE THEM.  When B and I realized we needed to put the house on the market, it was already time for him to leave for the new job, so I was left here to TAKE CARE OF SHIT (which is kind of what I do anyway, so it's cool).  Knowing that we needed some curb appeal, I mentioned to my friends Heather and Jess that I had ten million yard work related things to do, and out of the kindness of their hearts, both bitches showed up to help.  Heather came first, bringing her new baby along.  It was a sunny day and Heather found me with all my porch furniture in my front yard, sitting in an Adirondack chair, staring at my house (with the garage door open and the plane on display).  She took a seat, and we immediately started talking about our favorite topic-- wine.  I went into the house and got a couple of bottles that I had picked up and wanted to get her opinion on, and when I came out, she was nursing her baby.  So we sat, bottles of wine scattered around us, and chatted while she nursed.  Then Jess showed up, with a bunch of tools and she and I started chopping up some ENORMOUS FUCKING SHRUBS THAT HAVE BEEN HERE SINCE WE BOUGHT THE HOUSE AND THAT WERE UGLY AS FUCKING SIN with axes (because Jess is a badass), then Heather painted my door frame (with a baby), and people started slowing down as they drove by.  I don't know if it was the plane, the boobs on display along with the booze, or the fact that Jess and I were going all Paul Bunyan on my shrubbery, but we got a lot of attention.  And this was perfectly normal to the three of us, because THESE ARE MY PEOPLE, DUDE.  I LOVE THEM. 

6.  With Age Come Awesome~ I am 37 years old.  I have carried two children, had two emergency c-sections, and have the scars to prove it, along with hysterectomy scars.  I have a filling in one tooth where I had a cavity once when I was a little kid.  I have some crow's feet, major lines in my forehead (I tend to scrunch it a lot when I'm thinking), and my wrists won't bend completely flat because they never healed properly from being broken.  I swear A LOT, even in front of my kids (who have been trained that they are not allowed to talk that way), and I drink wine every day.  I still cry all the time when I think of my Dad.  I love doing intense workouts, but it's because I love feeling like a badass, not because I'm trying to lose weight.  I hate popcorn and chocolate ice cream.  I regularly shower three times a day.  AND I GIVE ZERO FUCKS WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT ME.  There is a lot of shit I don't care for about myself.  There is a lot of shit I probably need to change.  But I love the feeling of freedom that comes from not caring what anybody else thinks of me (except B-- I will admit that he is the exception to that, although luckily he is very non-judgmental of me and everyone else).  It's fun.  It's cathartic.  It's like flying.  GO OUT IN THE WORLD AND BE YOUR RIDICULOUS SELF.  GIVE ZERO FUCKS.  I GOT YOUR BACK.  (Unless I don't like you, then I will tell you I don't like you because I don't care if you know.)  That's why I am not afraid to show you these photos, taken two days apart.  Me, pre and post- yoga, feeling all awesome, and then me on a day I had been crying and stressing all day, and took solace in trying on hats in Burlington Coat Factory to cheer myself up, and then, realizing how fabulous I looked, had to take a selfie to send to B in South Carolina to cheer HIM up because THAT'S HOW FUCKING AWESOME OF A WIFE I AM.  I TAKE SELFIES IN BURLINGTON COAT FACTORY WITH HATS AND NO MAKEUP EXCEPT SOME LEFTOVER EYELINER FROM THE DAY BEFORE THAT HADN'T COME OFF IN ONE OF THE SIX PREVIOUS SHOWERS I HAD TAKEN.

I'm pretty fucking fabulous in all three.

7.  My utterly ridiculous family~ 

All mixed-up, and crazy as all hell.  THIS IS MY LIFE.  THESE ARE MY DAYS.  THIS IS WHAT I'M THANKFUL FOR.  They make me CARPE THE FUCKING DIEM.  I hope you do too.  Happy Fucking Thanksgiving. 

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Keeping Afloat

This past week I've been drowning in a tsunami of anxiety, and I feel like I'm just now getting my head far enough above the water to catch my breath.  There's just been a lot of shit going on, and I am not a girl who handles chaos well.  Or at all.  CHAOS IS NOT MY FRIEND.  Rather than unloading on everybody all the things that have STRESSED ME THE FUCK OUT, I decided to instead tell you the things that MADE ME FEEL THE FUCK BETTER.  Like:

1.  My new mug from Missy. 

Let me tell you folks, there isn't just a "chance" this is wine.  There is also a "chance" this is vodka and watermelon juice, tequila, or whatever-the-fuck-my-hands-grabbed-first-from-the-liquor-cabinet.  BUT NOBODY REALLY KNOWS, RIGHT?  BECAUSE IT'S IN A COFFEE MUG.  Everybody knows that you can't question someone drinking innocently out of a coffee mug (or a Tervis cup in church during a wedding, for the record).  That Missy, she's a genius.  Love her. 

2.  Drunk dancing with old men.  Specifically, B's 93-year-old Grandpa, Papa.
I would assume that Papa has mad dancing skills.  Unfortunately, I did not get to find out because his walker was in the way and B blocked me before I could fling it to the side and snatch Papa up and teach him how to twerk.  Apparently, twerking with Papa is frowned upon at family weddings (and most other events including, but not limited to, Easter and Christmas).

3.  Mimi, my Emotional Support Animal (certified and trained, obviously).
I know this look well.  It's the "feed me or I'm gonna cutta bitch" look.  I get this a lot.  SHE STILL MAKES ME HAPPY.  She's deaf, mostly blind, can no longer jump up on the furniture or climb steps well, she snores like a lumberjack, and she prefers to ignore me unless it's mealtime.  But I love her dearly.  I've always had a penchant for loving things that didn't love me back.

4.  Knowing that Belly has a clear career path.
It breaks my heart to say that I actually MISSED THIS GOING DOWN.  But, as the story goes, my daughter was on a porch full of drunk adults, hula hooping for money.  Like, people were THROWING CASH AT HER.  I swear to God this is true.  The kid came home with $20.  I can't wait to see what she can do on a pole in Vegas when she's 18.  I'm a proud mother.

5.  Seeing Lola engrossed in Game of Thrones.
Obviously, God created "special" dogs for "special" people.  Like this.  Lo's got her mind on the Iron Throne and the Iron Throne on her mind.  If I had the ability to relax to this extent, I would be set for life.

6.  This shit.
I know you're waiting on me to say something clever here, but I got nothing.  I got nothing but WHAT THE FUCK?

7.  'Cause 7's a good number.
Judging by Bell's hula hooping skills and Potamus's adoration of Bell, I suspect that Potamus may someday too earn her Benjamins in an under-the-table-with-no-taxes-taken-out sort of way.  Yeah, that's a sequin beret on her head.  Yeah, she has a stuffed toy named "Gangsta Bunny."  I'm not only a proud mother, I'm also a proud aunt.  My family rules.

Cheers to not drowning :)  Happy Tuesday.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Just Say No, or: The Lesson That Never Stuck With Me

Every now and then, people want to know if I'm dead.  Then I have to pop in and be all like, "No, I'm not dead.  I mean, I DID grate my thumb half off with the cheese grater when I was making chicken parmesan for dinner, but it wasn't even a near-fatal accident."  It would probably make more sense to mention that I've just had a lot of shit going on.  And when I have a lot of shit going on, I just don't blog much.  (I also don't blog much when I'm sad,usually, but I'm not sad right now, just incredibly busy.  Although if you were concerned that I'm sad and wanted to send me flowers, go right ahead!  I love flowers!  Ooh-- I've also been sick a lot, which keeps me from writing and is another great reason to send me  flowers!)  Because I'm busy, you've all been deprived of my awesomeness and, I suspect, are likely sitting by your computers waiting on a Google Alert to tell you that I've blogged and told you how we got off the side of the road in Siena and what happened for the remainder of the Italy trip back in October.

Yeah.  Sorry.  I'll get around to it soon enough.  Probably.

And I don't even know how Google Alerts work or what they do exactly, I just know that I hear celebrities say all the time in interviews that they have Google Alerts set on themselves, which makes me automatically assume that EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD knows what Google Alerts are and how they work and whether or not I'm even imagining that they work the way I think they do and can alert you when I've blogged.  Shit.  I think I've given myself a stress headache trying to figure this out. 

On top of that, THIS  blog, detailing my non-death, will probably get, like, seven hits because I'm not FB-ing it, because I just kind of threw my hands in the air and gave up on FB one day a few weeks ago with the exception of yesterday when I was bored and hijacked B's phone (which still has FB on it) to tell my friend E how completely unacceptable it is to NOT like Trader Joe's.  Seriously.  WHO DOESN'T LIKE  TRADER JOE'S?  I'm all about supporting the non-conformist, but not liking Trader Joe's is just taking it too fucking far.

But on to my story.

Last week I had to see a doctor as a new patient, so I had all that ridiculous paperwork to fill out.  Seven pages of shit that nobody ever reads (except the insurance info-- you KNOW they read that), proven when the nurse asks you the SAME questions in the exam room that you've already answered on the paperwork, then writes it down only to be followed by the doctor coming in and asking you the SAME QUESTIONS AGAIN because he's too damn slack to read your chart first.  I KNOW YOU'RE BUSY, DOCTORS.  WE ALL ARE.  PULL YOUR SHIT TOGETHER AND READ YOUR DAMN CHARTS.  THAT'S YOUR JOB.  Anyway, I filled it out and eventually was taken to the exam room by a large, black woman who was probably in her mid-fifties.  She put the blood pressure cuff on me and popped a thermometer in my mouth.  Then this went down:

Nurse:  Do you smoke?

Me:  (Mumbling around the thermometer.)  No.

Nurse:  PUT THAT BACK IN YOUR MOUTH.  Have you EVER smoked?

Me:  Yeah.  (Thermometer beeps and she takes it out.)  But just pot.  Not like, cigarettes, or crack.  Or meth, either, now that I think about it.  Did you KNOW you can SNORT meth?  I learned that from watching "Breaking Bad."

Nurse:  (Completely ignoring me and writing something on my chart.)  WAIT A MINUTE.  (Nurse gets visibly agitated.)  Girl, it asks here if you've ever done illegal drugs and you checked YES.

Me:  THAT'S WHAT I JUST SAID.  Yeah.  I mean, I have.  I don't anymore, but I have, so I just told the truth.


Me:  Oh.  But that's a lie.  I figure the question is there for a reason.  What if I said no and then you guys gave me some kind of crazy meds that interfered with the drugs that might have at one time been in my system and I DIED?  WHAT ABOUT THAT?  Somebody told me once that some drugs leave residue in your spinal fluid.  Do you know if that's true?  WHAT IF THAT'S TRUE AND YOU GAVE ME SOMETHING AND IT INTERFERED WITH MY SPINAL FLUID AND I DIED?

Nurse:  Like what?  What would we give you?

Me:  I DON'T KNOW.  I'M NOT A PHARMACIST.  JESUS.  Do you want a list of all the drugs I've ever done?  I can name them off, but if you need the scientific names I may need to use Google.  Although, depending on how drug-educated the  doctor is, we may or may not be okay with the information I can provide.  I'm reasonably smart and have a decent memory.

Nurse:  Mmmh-hmmm.  (Stops writing.)  Are you doing drugs NOW?

Me:  NO.  I ALREADY SAID NO.   I haven't done drugs in years and then it was only experimental with friends and stuff.  I wasn't a junkie or anything.  It was practically two decades ago.

Nurse:  (Writing again.)  No.  We're just gonna change this answer from yes to no.

Me:  Why?  That seems dumb.  I'D BETTER NOT DIE.

Nurse:  (muttering to herself)  GIRL AIN'T GOT NO SENSE.

*In case you're curious, the doctor either didn't notice the answer had been changed-- which would have looked pretty damn suspicious to me if I was a doctor-- or he didn't care.  Maybe he was high.  He did, though, seem extremely nervous, which I like to attribute to the fact that the nurse may have tipped him off that I was crazy before he ever came into the exam room. 

Thursday, March 13, 2014

La Dolce Vita

Last October, B and I spent the better part of October traipsing through Italy.  We flew into Rome, stayed for a week, moved onto Siena, then Florence, then Venice, then back home.  It was an amazing way to celebrate our ten-year-wedding anniversary, and gave us a chance to REALLY get away from it all-- no kids, no dogs, no jobs, etc.  I kept a journal of the entire trip-- actually, WE kept a journal of the entire trip as we took turns writing in it--and I considered going back through it and writing a blog about each city we encountered.  Then I thought, "Hmm... I kind of have a headache and it's already 3:30 on Wine Wednesday, and 75 degrees outside, so do I REALLY want to put that much effort into blogging about Italy?  Nah.  That's what travel bloggers are for."  So instead I compiled you this really awesome list of my favorite memories from Italy.  Enjoy.


1.  Giving Diabetes The Finger~  October 17, 2013, was my 25th anniversary of having Type I Diabetes. Though I am an extremely healthy diabetic who has excellent control over the disease, I can't even begin to tell you the number of times in my life that diabetes has FUCKED ME OVER.  All the birthday parties with no cake because my sugar was high, all the headaches I've gotten because my sugar was low, all the frustrating attempts to learn how much insulin to take for Chinese food or pizza or, well, ANYTHING.  So, as a way to say, "FUCK YOU, PANCREAS, FOR GIVING UP ON ME AND LEAVING ME STRANDED WITH THIS FUCKING DISEASE," on my diabetes anniversary, B and I got directions from our innkeeper to the best gelato in Rome, at a lovely little place the locals visit called Portofino.  It was my first experience with gelato (of  course, my diabetes had only allowed me to have diet soda while all my friends ate gelato the last time I was in Italy) and it was HEAVENLY.  I had white chocolate and biscotti flavored gelato, with real whipped creme on top and ate EVERY SINGLE BITE.  And, by using my handy dandy insulin pump, I didn't even screw over my blood sugar.  HIGH FIVE, ME.

2.  The Time We Interrupted The Funeral~  One evening in Rome, B and I were wandering around looking for something new to see when we decided to go back to the Pantheon.  The first time we had visited, we had gotten there right at closing and hadn't been able to go inside.  This time when we arrived we saw that it was open, and people were going in, so we walked right in with them.  There was a sign taped to the  door written in Italian, but in Italy EVERY SIGN IS WRITTEN IN ITALIAN (go figure) and neither of us speak fluent Italian, so a lot of damn good THAT did us.  Once we got inside the church, we marveled at the beauty of it all-- the dome, the hole in the center top, and were being very, very quiet because, as it appeared to us, Mass was taking place.  But as we began to look closer, we realized that this wasn't just any mass.  THIS WAS SOMEBODY'S FUNERAL MASS-- made obvious by the ginormous portrait of the dead guy on an easel in the front of the church--AND WE WERE CRASHING IT.  Those other people in there with us?  Those were the dead guy's friends and families.  OOPS. We left.

3.  The best thing about Italy is that there are no open container laws and they sell wine EVERYWHERE, so you can walk into one of their little supermarkets, buy a bottle of local, delicious wine for 2 Euro (slightly less than three American dollars), pop the cork out (if you happen to be carrying a corkscrew-- which we always were because we're GENIUSES), and drink it while you're walking down the street.  If you were so inclined, they even had WINE JUICEBOXES (we never partook of these, seeing as how we're too classy for that, but see the photo I took below.)  ANYWAY.  So you can drink wine while walking down the sidewalk.  Or crashing a funeral.  Or, say, at the laundromat at 9pm on a Sunday night in Siena, the most intact medieval walled-city in the world, after you've been hiking for two solid hours straight up and down the streets of the city carrying all of your laundry in your backpack, searching for somewhere open to wash your clothes.  (Yes, this DID happen, and, while I did appreciate the opportunity to drink wine unencumbered in the laundromat, I would rather have skipped the hiking-around-carrying-all-my-shit part.  And yes, drinking at the laundromat is what I'm doing in the photo.)  I would write my favorite memory here of our wine-capades, but there is no one favorite memory.  We drank SO MUCH WINE.  Holy Hell.

4.  The first night we were in Siena, we were sitting in Il Campo (this is like the center of town-- it's this HUGE, gorgeous, medieval, scallop-shell-shaped courtyard surrounded by old stone buildings).  This seems to be where people just go and hang out--study, dance, read, drink.  The sky was an inky blue-black and the moon was full over Il Campo.  It was AMAZING.  And then this scruffy little dog walked by and sniffed my foot, so I started petting him.  His owner, whose name was Francesca, turned out to be a very nice lady who spoke not a word of English, so communicating with her was pretty difficult.  We finally (with lots of miming and B's newly acquired Italian) figured out that the dog's name was Hugo.  So I loved on Huge (I was missing my Mims a lot) and then they went on their way.  A few days later, we were sitting at a table on the edge of Il Campo (drinking wine, of course) when I saw a little dog go walking by.  IT WAS HUGO!  So I started yelling for him and Francesca, who seemed a little mind-boggled as she had obviously forgotten me and had no idea how I knew her dog, brought him over.  It was awesome.

5.  SO, our plan was to take the train from Siena into Florence as there was no way in hell I was getting into a little European car with B behind the wheel.  Seriously, I have to Xanax-up and pray before we drive from our house to the grocery store (a mile away) because he scares the ever-loving fuck outta me.  Everything had gone smoothly with this plan thus far.  We had gotten from Rome TO Siena by train, and now we were back at the station to catch the train to Florence.  It was raining pretty hard, and the train was late, but it was no big deal.  We were under a covered platform and had two bottles of wine with us for the ride, so it was all good.  About an hour after we were supposed to depart, the train guys finally let us board the train.  We got settled in and sat there for a half-hour or so.  Then they told us we all had to get off because flooding had canceled the train.  It was explained to us all (in Italian and very, very broken English) that buses would be coming to pick us all up and we could use our train passes for the buses.  This wasn't such a big deal because Florence was only about fifty miles away, so a bus was fine.  Except the buses never came.  B and I met a chick named Marissa from NYC who was traveling around the country and the three of us hiked BACK UP another giant hill (carrying all of our luggage) to get to a bus station.  Once there, we bought bus tickets and waited for a very long time until our bus finally arrived.  There were tons of people waiting by now, and the bus filled up quickly, so we were stuck without a seat.  Once again, we were in ITALY, SO WHAT if we have to stand on a bus for fifty miles.  IT WAS A GOOD.  We were tired and a little irritated at everything we had gone through, but we were excited to get to Florence.  Only we didn't GET to Florence-- we got about five miles down the road before the bus pulled over to the side of the street in the middle of nowhere and KICKED EVERYONE WHO WAS STANDING UP HOLDING THE HANDRAILS OUT.  Yep, that's right.  They put us out in the side of the road with our suitcases, no explanation, and just left.

Wanna find out what happened next?


Wednesday, March 5, 2014

And Now It's.....March....

After January, March is my least favorite month of the year.  It's gray, it's cold, it's windy.
IT BLOWS.  (Note that that is not a pun on March being windy.  It's just how I feel about March, in general.)  I hate March.

I realize that nobody who is born in March can help it, so I'm not going to bash those guys, but I will say that I rarely get along with those who are Pisces (Meredith and Janine, you are my two exceptions).  March babies (at least the first-half-of-the-month ones) are usually flaky and flighty and I don't trust them.  And I've never understood people who get married in March.  "Hey, let's get married in a mediocre month and have a mediocre marriage because WE'RE MEDIOCRE," is what a March anniversary screams.  Seriously.  I don't care what your reason is, that's what everybody is thinking about you.

So why have March at all?


1.  Nobody needs St. Patrick's Day.~  WHY DO IRISH PEOPLE THINK THEY ARE SO SPECIAL?  They aren't.  I like Scottish people.  SCOTS ARE SPECIAL.  (Except for kilts.  Kilts are ridiculously stupid.)  The only good part about St. Patrick's Day is the Post Family's annual Wearin' of the Green party, but they are moving to Rhode Island this summer, after which I will likely never acknowledge St. Patrick's Day again.  Although now that I think about it, I do support a holiday celebrated mainly by drinking beer, AND Sutt was conceived one frisky St. Patrick's Day evening, proving that it's an EXCELLENT day to make a baby.  However, as of next year I believe I shall choose to think of the holiday as BEER AND SUTT DAY, represented by Sutt's favorite color, Carolina Blue.  Feel welcome to join me.

2.  March Easters suck. ~Easter, and spring break, rarely ever fall in March and when they do it's cold and gray and windy, as I pointed out earlier.  It's really freakin' hard to focus on Jesus busting out of his tomb or the Easter Bunny delivering his baskets when it's 40 degrees outside and everything is still muddy from the FREAK MARCH SNOWSTORMS YOU KEEP HAVING.  Beach Week isn't so great if you have to wear a a coat and boots--trust me, I've been there.  Nobody wants spring break in March.

3.  Bad things happen on the Ides of March.~  Now, for those of you who are very poorly read (or are surgeons), the Ides of March falls on March 15 and is a legendarily cursed day.  It first became infamous in Shakespeare's play "Julius Caesar" when a soothsayer told Caesar to watch his back on the Ides of March.  Caesar didn't, and he got stabbed.  BAD SHIT.  Also falling on the Ides of March, the US has faced a horrendous blizzard (1941) that killed over 150 people, Hitler took away the Jews' right to vote (1938), SARS was announced (2003), and the movie "Titanic" took away the title from "Star Wars" as the highest grossing film in US history (1998).  I loved me some Jack Dawson, but, seriously-- STAR WARS IS LEGENDARY.  Just ask my son-- he'll tell you that he's never even heard of "Titanic," but he's seen "Star Wars" approximately 731 times since he turned 4 and became obsessed with it in 2009.  Anyway, get rid of March, get rid of the Ides.  It only makes sense.

4.  March is full of absolutely useless "days."~  For example:  "Save A Spider Day" (March 14)-- really?  We need to save them?  Because I'm all about squishing those sons of bitches.  "Hexagonal Awareness Month"-- WHAT THE FUCK?  "Self Injury Awareness Day" (Marcy 1)-- if you are self-injuring, do you REALLY need a specific day during which to become aware?  If so, you've got more problems than a "day" is going to solve.  "Bisexual Health Awareness Month"-- I have no problem with bisexuals.  As a matter of fact, B keeps encouraging me to BECOME one (hasn't happened yet, but he's still trying).  Do bisexuals really need their own MONTH for health awareness though?  A month seems a little excessive to me.  Take a day off and go in for a physical, whether you are bisexual or not.  PROBLEM SOLVED.  Because I guarantee you that if you take a few days off in March and pin it on "Bisexual Health Awareness," your employer isn't falling for that shit, and if he is, it's because he wants to come over and video you with your bisexual partner.

5.  What starts in March doesn't end well.~  My first date with my ex-husband was on March 27.  Note that HE IS MY EX-HUSBAND.  My first tattoo, obtained on a whim, after I had just rolled out of bed after a terrible break-up with a boyfriend who had broken my heart, roused by a girlfriend who said, "Hey, let's go get tattoos!" ended up being an African violet on my hip.  THANK GOD I DIDN'T GET A DAGGER WITH HIS NAME ON IT OR SOMETHING EQUALLY STUPID.  March is a month of bad decisions.  If you make a decision in March, let's hope it's not something you have to live with forever (like a tattoo).

Learn from this.  And HAPPY EARLY BEER AND SUTT DAY.

Thursday, February 27, 2014


I've gotten a few questions and comments from some people I knew when I was a kid who have seen my blog mentioned on Facebook, read it, and want to know what happened to me.  Why I am so incredibly different at 36 than I was at 16.  Personally, I think this is a stupid question--we're ALL incredibly different at 16 than 36, give or take a few people--and my first instinct is to give a completely sarcastic and smartass answer, but I decided for once to give everybody a break and be nice.  Here you go.


When I was a little girl, I always did exactly what I was supposed to do.  I cared A LOT about what other people thought of me, and it hurt my feelings when someone didn't like me.  I made good grades, I listened to my parents, and I tried to please everybody.  If someone was mean to me, I cried.  If someone told me no, I listened.  I lived my life trying to be perfect all the time, and I looked up to my Dad, who was smart and kind and fair, and I strove to emulate that myself.  I thought the world was smart and kind and fair, and that's all I ever wanted-- to live out my life in Cleveland, Tennessee, surrounded by smartness and kindness and fairness, with my big, extended family and everyone else I knew.  Happily Ever After.

But time passed, and with it so did my naivete.  I realized that sometimes even when you do your very best, you will fail.  Sometimes even when you want to please, you'll disappoint.  Sometimes even if you are smart and kind and fair, you'll be repeatedly fucked over, often by people you love, and then you'll die.  Sorry, but it's true.  And, perhaps, I think, more often than not.

To me, life isn't a beautiful gift, it's a harrowing obstacle course.  Consider-- in the moments of our success, we take flight in our joy, high on the power of  breathing and living and being.  But our moments of failure?  Those moments when we, or someone we care about, lose or fail or die?  There's no end to the depth of the hole into which we can plummet.  And where we'll stay until we dig ourselves out and gather the strength to face the next challenge.  To carry on.  The will, itself, to carry on may be a gift, but that rocky pathway we're traveling certainly isn't.

It took a lot of years and a lot of life to shape my viewpoint.  It took a divorce and a remarriage, career changes and university degrees, births and deaths, hopes and lies.  Elation and heartbreak.

Over the years, my family has fallen apart, like somebody dropped an emotional atom bomb on Cleveland, Tennessee.  Look to the McCoy side and all you have left is a drunk uncle who is too stupid and greedy to pay his own taxes, thus sacrificing everything that his own father worked so hard to create.  His family is there too, as worthless as he is.  Look to the other side and there's nothing but lies and drama and bad decisions, all mingled with desperation.  I don't need that shit.  I'm better than that.

And there you have it.  The reason why I'm more likely to say "fuck off" than "bless your heart."  The reason why now, if you push me, I'm going to push back twice as hard.  The reason why I care more about what happened on The Blacklist than whether you like me or not.

I'm still smart and kind and fair, but I'm also strong and unfiltered and fearless.  I think if he was still alive, my Dad would have wanted to be more like ME now.  I think my Dad would be proud.  And that's what really matters.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

You Learn Something New Every Day

Recovering from surgery (whenever your husband isn't at work and is thus making sure you don't do anything strenuous) is really fucking boring.  Over the past year, I've gotten a hairline fracture in my foot while running, had my first experience with diabetic ketoacidosis while accidentally over-ellipticizing at the gym when my blood sugar was higher than 500, and battled the flu while taking care of my son who ALSO had the flu.  All of these things were much more difficult than this stupid surgery recovery, but none were even a smidgen as boring.  To fight off some of the mind-numbing frustration that comes from being a person-who-hates-to-sit-still but who is stuck doing nothing much more eventful than an easy walk around the block, I have read every book I could get my hands on, watched every television show that does not feature a Kardashian, and looked up endless recipes of things that I could surely cook if only I was allowed to carry in the groceries from the car that I would have to buy in order to cook them.  IT'S FUCKING MISERABLE.  So, finally, as a last resort, I started the "Random Haley Google."  This is where, whenever I catch myself having mentally wandered off, I stop my thinking cycle and I Google whatever I was thinking about.  What I have learned from this is that no matter how fucked up I think something is that I've been thinking about, there are always at least a handful of other people out there who have, at some point, been thinking the exact same fucked up thing.



 1. How intelligent do you really have to be to become a surgeon?
         This was probably the first thing I looked up after Dr. K told me I should have a hysterectomy.  I had seen her degrees and her board certifications, but a piece of paper telling me that you went to undergrad at U of A only tells me that you're a dumb redneck who doesn't have sense enough to get into a university that isn't in the shithole that is Alabama. Furthermore, I had FB stalked her, only to find that her profile photo was of her at a Halloween party, complete with pigtails and a cheerleader uniform.  HOLY FUCK.  THIS IS WHO IS CUTTING ME OPEN?  It only made matters worse that I have a handful of friends who are surgeons and, while I wouldn't call any of them dumb, I also wouldn't refer to any of them as the sharpest tools in the shed.  And I SURE AS HELL wouldn't want to put my life (or uterus) in any of their hands, especially when I've seen most of them stumbling home drunk after a neighborhood cookout.  But I digress.
       What I found out from Google was that really you don't have to be all that smart at all to be a surgeon.  You have to have a decent work ethic.  You have to be willing to study.  But actual intelligence?  Nope.  Not entirely necessary.  AWESOME.  THAT MAKES ME FEEL GREAT.  Next time I injure myself (or need an organ cut out), I'm going to get tanked, give Blaker a knife and the stapler, and let him have at it, seeing as how he's the most intelligent person I've ever met.   JESUS.  That further lessens my faith in oh, so many surgeons.

2.  Do I really have to wait 6 weeks after a hysterectomy to have sex?
       No.  Not if either my husband has a very tiny penis (he does not-- I asked if I could post a photo but he said no, so you'll just have to trust me), or I want to have to go to the ER and request to have the sutures re-sutured in my Queen Victoria (I do not desire to do this, particularly at Murderview).   And I feel like I shouldn't have to tell you WHY I Googled this, unless you are a complete and total idiot, in which case GO FUCK YOURSELF, BECAUSE MY BLOG IS ONLY FOR SMART PEOPLE (AND SURGEONS).

3.  How much wine can I mix with Percocet before it kills me?
       Let's first remember that I don't NEED the Percocet.  Seriously.  Dr. K made me throw back two of them preventatively when I decided I was high-tailing it out of the hospital only three hours after the hysterectomy, which was fabulous because I was high as a damn kite for the rest of the evening until I promptly passed out in my bed from being up since the crack of dawn.  It's fun to be high on Percocet-- I get so pleasant and happy and just plain lovely.  This is in direct opposition to my usual self, who is unpleasant and sarcastic and just plain malevolent.  (By the way, that's my favorite word--malevolent.)  So I save the Percocet for times when I NEED to be nice but it's JUST SO HARD, like trips to TN (note that I will still have most of them until my Mom visits again, after which they will be depleted).  Anyway, you know me and wine-- the two of us will never break up, so I might as well figure out how much the two can overlap, no?
       According to the prescription bottle, one should NOT mix ANY alcohol with Percocet.  According to Google, one can mix ONE GLASS of wine with a couple of Percocet and be okay.  According to HALEY, who thinks that Google isn't much of a risk-taker, one can, actually, mix an entire bottle of a good red blend with two Percocet and still wake up the next morning.  (Slightly drunk and still high, but also really pleasant and happy.)  *Disclaimer:  If any of you try this and die, it's because you are not as seasoned a drinker or Percocet-taker as I am.  Sorry for the confusion.  And the death.

4.  Are there any tropical islands that do not have any snakes?
       I'm really cold here in Virginia.  Thinking about it, I'm cold almost anywhere I go.  I despise snakes more than anything on this planet.  So I keep prodding B to load us up and move us to a year-round warm climate that has no snakes.  B says such a place does not exist.  I say, "The hell it doesn't."  Google says that Madeira Island, just off the coast of Portugal, is such a place.  Now, I got REALLY excited about this until I went to the Madeira Island website and saw that the cover photo on the home page IS OF A BUNCH OF PEOPLE SITTING AROUND AT TABLES  BY THE SEA WEARING LONG SLEEVES AND SWEATERS.  Yeah, you heard me.  Sweaters.  WHAT THE FUCK, GOOGLE?  THAT DOESN'T SOUND REAL "WARM CLIMATE" TO ME.  Some further research informed me that Hawaii COULD be such a place, as it has no native snakes, but that people keep finding them now because other people are bringing them over from other places (despite the 200k fine if you get busted) and turning them loose.  WHAT KIND OF AN ASSHOLE WOULD DO THAT?  That's pretty much one of the dumbest things I've ever heard.  Are there that many people who want to take their pet snake on vacation with them, then set it free on the island?  Is someone doing snake dead drops?  Seriously.  LEAVE THE ECOSYSTEM ALONE, PEOPLE.  IT'S ALREADY IN BAD ENOUGH SHAPE AS IT IS.  

5.  How do you keep your kid from becoming an asshole once he/she is a teenager?
       Google says there is no way to avoid this.  Bellamy is 10 and on the express train to Hormone Town.  When Bells hits puberty, all hell is going to break loose.  My first thought was, "Oh, I'll just make sure I'm dead by then."  Then I realized that honestly, since I don't smoke and I wear my seatbelt, unless I'm gonna off myself (I'm not) then I really only have maybe, like, a fifty-fifty shot of that happening (please note that statistics were never my strong point, which only makes me SO MUCH more interesting to you all).  So if I can't be dead, I'm going to have to have a plan in place by 2016, which is the year Belly hits 13.  The cherry on top is that a mere two years later when she is 15, Sutt will be turning 13, and then we'll have two teenagers on our hands for a few exciting (i.e.  fucking miserable) years.  As of this moment,  B and I have no idea how we're going to live through it.  Please feel free to email me with any suggestions that you may feel are worthy of our consideration.

6.  Will drinking a ton of wine actually make me fat?
       I've been a solid wine drinker now for almost 12 years.  I'm not fat, but I'm willing to admit that from time to time (before I'm a few gallons in) I wonder, "Huh.  I wonder if all this wine will make me fat."  I wasn't sure I could trust Google on this one (who knows when the National Liver Association--if there IS such a thing--could be manipulating our Google system) but I Googled it anyway.  What I found was a whole bunch of articles and scientific studies claiming that, while wine has a lot of empty calories, women who drink more actually TEND TO BE THINNER.  (Please note that this is not because they have cirrhosis and have lost their appetites-- I mean, sure, that comes later, but during these studies their livers were still alive and kickin'.)  WHAT THE WHAT?  I don't know how it all magically works, ladies, but go ahead and top off your glass.  Cheers!

7. Who is playing Four in the Divergent movie?
       Does anybody besides me watch "Vanderpump Rules" on Bravo?  (I told you I would watch anything without a Kardashian-- here's proof.)  If you do, then you know the story of poor Tom Sandoval, the Sur bartender who just couldn't quit cheating on his girlfriend with bottle service girls in Vegas, yet still had his heart broken when the crazy bitch girlfriend screwed his best friend in Tom's own living room, while Tom was in the next room asleep.  ANYWAY.  The whole time I was reading the Divergent series, the character Four looked like Tom Sandoval in my head.  I don't know why.  Four is tall, Tom Sandoval looks average.  Four has really short hair, Tom Sandoval's favorite gift of all time is his flat-iron (true story-- I saw this on an episode last season).  Four's blue eyes are repeatedly mentioned in the books, Tom Sandoval's look.....brown, maybe?  They're dark, I think.  Four is a badass, Tom Sandoval uses more skin care products than any woman I've ever met AND he gets regular spray tans.  ANYWAY (again), there's no real reason for me to picture Tom Sandoval as Four.  And considering his IMDB page, there's no reason to think that he has the acting talent to pull off the role (I, honest to God, think his best-rated movie was ranked at a half-star.  Not joking.)  But THAT'S WHAT'S IN MY HEAD.  It is NOT, however, what is in the movie.  In the movie, Four is played by Theo James, best known for his short run in the series "Goldenboy," although to the Downton Abbey fans, he's the Turk whose bed Lady Mary snuck into in Season 1.  Theo James is handsome.  He's a decent actor.  I think he'll be an okay Four (despite also having dark eyes) but I CAN'T SEEM TO WRAP MY HEAD AROUND IT ALL.  Maybe it's the wine and Percocet mixture coursing through my veins.  But it's weird for me to think about.

That's enough Google for you today.  I still have A LOT to talk about regarding the trip to Italy, but I haven't sorted it all out in my head yet.  I kept a journal while we were traveling, though, and I'm going to bust that out and take it from there.

Soon.  I promise.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Pulling Through At Murderview

       Sometime in 2012, I started having a weird pain in my lower, left abdomen and realized that, if I poked around on my stomach, I could feel a lump in there.  My first thought was, “Oh.  That’s can’t be good.”  So what did I do?  I waited two years to see a doctor about it, of course!  (Okay, that’s not exactly true.  I had a good friend who is a general surgeon poke it with his finger and say, “Huh.  I don’t know what that is.”  I considered that a preliminary diagnosis and put further exploration off for six or eight more months.  Then I had my gynecologist do an ultrasound on my ovaries and say, “Huh.  Your ovaries look fine.  I don’t know what the problem is.”  And then I just ignored it for another year and a half.)  It hurt like HOLY FUCK, but not ALL the time—just, like, two weeks out of every month.  I knew it wasn’t a muscular pain, as I’ve pulled and torn muscles before and know what that feels like.  You know those little prickly brown balls that fall off some trees?  (No, I can’t describe the trees they come from any better for you.  I know jack shit about trees, although I do find them lovely and enjoy buying them for B to plant.  I don’t dig holes.)  Anyway, whatever was in my abdomen looked, in my imagination, like one of those prickly balls.  Round and full of sharp points that stabbed me in the gut even when I sat perfectly still. 
Eventually, after two years of carrying around a prickly ball that hurt like fiery hell, I figured I should probably do something about it, so I went to a different gynecologist.  I figured she’d put me on some version of The Pill (that, I've deduced over the years, is the gynecological answer to anything from irregular periods to world hunger), the little prickly ball would go away, and we’d all live happily ever after.  I had already positioned this plan in the forefront of my mind as I sat in Dr. K’s office while she asked me questions and typed away at her fancy computer with her perfectly manicured nails.  (Obviously that stereotype about doctors working a zillion hours a week is WRONG, as Dr. K clearly has plenty of time for manicures.)  I was bored and it was freezing outside, so I just wanted to get out of there and go back home to hibernate and drink wine, which is basically what I do from January to April, unless I’m working.
Fifteen minutes after I sat down with Dr. K, and without any previous medical records OR an exam (Dude, how often do you go to the gynecologist’s office and get to keep your pants on?  NOT OFTEN, I TELL YOU.) she looked up, batted her pretty blue eyes at me and said, “I’m pretty sure you have adenomyosis.  You need a hysterectomy.”
Well, fuck.
I really hate surprises.  ANY surprises, barring something NO ONE can hate, like an unexpected flower delivery, or the library calling to tell me that a book I requested them to put on hold came in.  (Yeah, I’m exciting.  I know.  I didn’t fucking ask for your opinion, though.)  Hearing the doctor say “hysterectomy” came as a huge fucking surprise, and definitely not the flower-delivery kind.  I mean, I have no particularly attachment to my internal lady bits.  I don’t really have any use for them anymore, seeing as how I’ve birthed more than enough babies for this lifetime.  But still.  Having them chopped out?  That just felt…..weird.  Hysterectomies are for OLD bitches.  This bitch is only 36.
Dr. K sent me on my way giving me some time to think about it, and told me to call her up when I had figured out what I wanted to do.  I could keep all my reproductive organs, likely including the prickly ball that nobody had yet been able to diagnose but that Dr. K felt sure was something ugly in my uterus, or I could throw in the towel and let her cut that sucker out.  The upsides to surgery:  no more periods, no more pain (hopefully), and a ‘scrip for sweet pain meds.  The downside:  well, aside from the surgery being performed at a hospital called Maryview but that everyone I know refers to as “Murderview,” I really didn’t see any.  And honestly?  Surviving surgery at Murderview might make a DAMN good story someday.  So I high-fived myself and scheduled to have everything except my ovaries hacked out, including the tubes.
Now, you should know that during this decision-making process, B was very supportive.  Even when I waffled back and forth a bit, he “did encourage” to me.  Possibly, this was to see if I really would survive Murderview, thinking worst case scenario, he got to return to the dating pool.  Possibly this was to get me to quit bitching so much about my abdomen hurting.  But I think the most likely scenario was that he knew that I could never again bail on one of his McPhail and Extended Family Extravaganzas and blame it on cramps if I had no uterus to cramp (I tend to use this excuse at least twice a month.  No one seems to have caught on yet.)  And once I made the decision to go through with it, he did what any kind and loving husband would do for his wife—he threw me a “Happy Hysterectomy” Party.  (Here we have a slight bit of disagreement.  The actual name he gave the gathering was “The Superfluous Uterus Party.”  His reasoning was that my uterus WAS superfluous, and that he really wanted the challenge of finding an appropriate word that would also rhyme with “uterus.”  I, on the other hand, feel that, not only do “superfluous” and “uterus” NOT truly rhyme, but also that THAT’S A FUCKTARDED NAME.  Therefore, I renamed it the Happy Hysterectomy Party.  My lovely friend Heather even made uterus cupcakes for the occasion (as in, they had frosting uteruses drawn on them, not uteruses as part of the ingredients, in case you are too stupid to figure that out on your own).  The whole shebang made me feel loved and supported, and then the following Tuesday rolled around.  Surgery time.
*Quick side note:  those of you who have followed my blog for some time know that I FUCKING DESPISE TUESDAYS.  Tuesday is the worst day of the week, and HORRIBLE things always happen to me on Tuesday.  We’re talking the DEATH AND DESTRUCTION kind of horrible.  So OF COURSE Tuesday was the day that Dr. K performed surgeries.  So OF COURSE, my surgery was scheduled for a Tuesday.  At fucking Murderview.  OF COURSE.  WAY TO GO, UNIVERSE.  THANKS FOR THAT.
            B and I got to the hospital right on time, but found that we had to sit in the waiting room (dingy, creepy, looked-like-it-was-filled-with-child-molesters) for a bit.  Then a rather grumpy nurse named Amanda came out to get me and take me back for pre-op stuff that included, but was not limited to, a near fistfight with another nurse (named Carla—if you’re ever at MV and run across her, I encourage you to punch her in her damn face) who refused to put my iv in the crook of my arm, rather than my hand, even though I told her that I KNOW MY OWN FUCKING VEINS, BITCH, AND EVERY TIME ANYONE PUTS A FUCKING IV IN MY FUCKING HAND, THE VEIN RUPTURES AND THEY HAVE TO TAKE IT THE FUCK OUT AND PUT IT IN MY ARM.  AND NOT MY FOREARM, AS THOSE VEINS ARE IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND AND IF YOU FUCKING STICK ME MORE THAN ONCE I AM GOING TO FUCKING RIP YOUR HEAD OFF AND THROW IT AT THE NURSE’S STATION, HOPING TO HIT AND IMMOBILIZE THE FIRST FUCKING NURSE I SAW WHO WAS ALSO A TOTAL  BITCH.  Jesus.  I have always had a tremendous amount of respect for nurses, but after the hysterectomy experience, that respect is limited only to nurses who do not work at Maryview.
*Another side note:  I won this argument after the anesthesiologist heard me swearing up a storm at the nurse and came over to see what the problem was.  When she told him, he shrugged and said, “Yeah, you can put it in her arm.  I don’t care.”  BAM, BITCH.
Once that was handled, the anesthesiologist told me he was going to give me something like liquid valium in the iv to calm me down (he was likely terrified of me after watching psychotic hissy fit I threw) and then once they got me to the operating room and settled on the table, they would knock me out with general anesthesia.  His iv valium must have been some excellent shit, though, because I have no memory of ever leaving the little curtained pre-op area, reaching the OR, or getting on any table.  I just remember something cool trickling through my veins, and then I woke up.
Waking up around 2pm, I saw that I was in yet another curtained area, where both B and his dad (where did HE come from?) were staring at me.  As promised, the first thing B told me was that they didn’t chop me open and find a bunch of cancer (this had been a possibility— Dr. K was doing the procedure laparoscopically, but she said if she went in and saw anything that looked bad, she was hacking back through my c-section scar and scraping out anything she could get her hands on.  AWESOME).  Once I heard that things were okay, in my head I passed back out, but in reality it seems that I was EXTREMELY happy and conversed at length with the orderly assigned to drive my bed up to the 5th floor where they planned to park me for a day or so.  (I’m told I was highly impressed with his bed driving skills, as I “can’t even push the racecar shopping carts at the grocery store without crashing into shit.”  Hey, at least I was honest.)  A lot of laparoscopic surgery cases get to go home the same day as the surgery, but with my diabetes and everything, the doctor wanted to keep me to help manage my blood sugars and whatnot.
Thankfully, I sobered up quickly, realized the nurses on Floor 5 sucked just as bad, or potentially even worse, than the ones in the pre-op section of the hospital, so I took out my own iv, got dressed, and said, “Come on, B, we’re going home.”  And that’s exactly what I did.  B took off work the next day and forced me to rest, but when he returned to work on Thursday, I got up and resumed my life. 
For the record, I realize right now that you are thinking, “That Haley is a BADASS.”  Why yes, yes I am.  I might be bleeding through my steri-strips, but I’ll be damned if that’s going to keep me from doing the fucking laundry.  I didn’t even take my pain meds (well, I didn’t take them for PAIN—I did take some in order to spend a few hours with my sister-in-law and not go postal). 
Tomorrow I will be two weeks out from surgery.  The prickly ball in my abdomen is gone (turns out the adenomyosis diagnosis was correct, says Pathology, and that created both the lump and the pain).  My belly button is looking far less gross (it was pretty bruised and bloody-looking for a couple of days).  I may be missing a few parts now, but whatever.  How many people come through this life with everything intact?  Not many people I know.  Belly is missing her tonsils.  My Mom is missing one of her boobs and all of her sanity.  Sutt just lost a tooth (not sure if that counts, but I’m adding it anyway).  The point is that I came out of Murderview alive, and actually, better off.  I’m calling that a win.  YAY ME.

Catching Up is Hard To Do

I'm way behind on my blogging.  Yeah, I suck, whatever.  Since I last blogged, B and I spent a good chunk of October traipsing around Italy, the holidays came and went, Sutt has become a Pinewood Derby Celebrity, and I lost a few of my internal organs. 

They won't be in order, but I promise to blog about them all.  First post goes up in about ten minutes. 

Try not to hurt yourself as you deal with the excitement.