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Well Hey There, Sexy Bitches

25 Oct

Whenever I’ve gone on a long hiatus from blogging, I usually come back with “I know it’s been a while…” or “I know I suck for not blogging but I’ll do better….”. After saying it so many times, it doesn’t come across as sincere. You all know by now that:

  1. I have three kids (four if you count the hubby) that I’m constantly cleaning up after, nursing through another pukefest, chauffeuring to yet another birthday party or trying to get fed, bathed and in bed.
  2. I have ADD and anxiety so keeping me focused on anything beyond what I absolutely have to do is a feat of monumental proportions.
  3. My job was getting real shitty there for a while and just plain sucked all the funny out of me.

Let’s all just agree that I’m a sporadic blogger at best and be thankful when the occasional blog actually comes to fruition. K? Alrighty then. Moving forward!

Here’s a few items of note that have happened in my absence.

The Girl is Growing Up

Little Miss started kindergarten in August. She has lost not one but two teeth in the last couple of months. We celebrated her 6th birthday this week. She is growing up WAY too fast. It’s cliché but it’s true. I caught myself staring at her the other day just in awe at how much she has changed this past year. She has gotten taller, her facial features have changed a bit, the olive skin she inherited from her father is still beautifully bronzed from spending the summer at our aunt’s pool. *Let it be noted that I, too, spent the summer at the pool and did not come away beautifully bronzed. Does “ruddy” qualify as tan?  I know we all think our kids are beautiful but I gotta say, my girl is downright stunning at times, when she’s not covered in dirt or something sticky. When I meet other parents for the first time at birthday parties she is invited to, they always comment on how beautiful she is. Strangers stop us in the grocery store to tell her how pretty she is. It amazes me that made that. So sometimes I just sit and stare at her. Occasionally she’ll catch me staring, look at me with a smile, then fart. Giggling, she’ll say, “I farted, Poopy Mommy.” Yep, I made that.

My Job No Longer Sucks

For the better part of two years, my work life sucked. A job I once LOVED had become a source of stress and anxiety that took every ounce of willpower I had just to get out of bed and show up for. I was chronically late due to procrastinating every morning by sitting in my car. I had to talk myself into walking into the building. And those that know me, know I loathe being late. Why did it suck so bad? Lemme tell you.

I essentially had been doing two full-time jobs for two years. For two different bosses. On two different floors. Both bosses were demanding, in different ways.

“A”, who was my “original” boss, is the quintessential “Tiger Mom”. She is a perfectionist to a fault, unable to congratulate a job well done, and always has unrealistic expectations. I started working for her as a reporting specialist. Basically, I would create various accounting reports for the firm showing budget variances, productivity numbers, client averages, etc. I also edited SQL queries, created Crystal reports, automated manual reports, learned how to write macros in Excel, etc. Mind you, this is not anything I did before working at this firm. I learned all this on my own by absorbing any training material I could find, researching online and just by trial and error. I got really fucking good at it. And I loved it. While she irritated me to no end most days, I learned a lot working under her in that role and she pushed me to get a better understanding of everything I worked on. Then they fired the administrative assistant.

Since it was near year-end and some partners felt we (the accounting department) were already overstaffed, I was asked if I could step in and help with the administrative tasks until they could hire a new admin after the new year. I say I was asked, but we all know I didn’t have a choice – I couldn’t say no. Plus, I naively assumed they were being honest with me about hiring a new admin eventually. Once that happened, I would go back to being a reporting specialist and continue on my path to becoming the financial analyst for the firm. Then they hired the new Executive Director.

I was told a week before the new director, “D”, started that I would need to help him administratively as well. I was already struggling my workload from reporting and assisting “A” with her menial administrative tasks. Now I have to add this dude’s menial tasks to my ever-growing to-do list? My anxiety level rose to 11. From day one, “D” acted as if I was his – and only his – admin assistant. I was befuddled. I was just a fill-in until they hired the REAL admin. Right? Wrong.

In less than two months, I was relocated to his floor, typing meeting minutes and memos from pages and pages of handwritten notes (seriously, this dude has never used Dragon and cannot type using more than his index fingers), setting up endless meetings and lunches, slowly dying on the inside. Even worse, we did not gel at first. In fact, only a week after moving to his floor, he told me I pissed him off because I didn’t immediately respond to an email he sent me. Never mind the fact I was uploading time for every attorney in the firm that morning so we could bill clients millions of dollars, but no, I should have totally stopped what I was doing to respond to your email asking me for something you could have totally looked up yourself. After a brief meeting with HR, a meeting was set up between me, “D”, “A” and HR. I was told it was to smooth out the edges, lay out all my current responsibilities and define my responsibilities going forward. I was going to use the meeting as a chance to inquire as to when they planned to hire the REAL assistant so I could go back to my job and continue on the career path I was told I would be on when I was hired. Then they ambushed me.

There would not be a new admin assistant – I was and would always be the admin assistant. Since accounting was overstaffed my former position could no longer be justified. However, just because I’m so awesome, I still get to keep all my reporting responsibilities on top of supporting two executives at the same time. Yay! Did I say two full-time jobs? I meant three.

Can anyone blame me for hiding out in my car every morning? Juggling three different roles (without any extra pay by the way), being as ADD as I am, just drained me. I disappeared from here, from Facebook, from my friends. The thought of doing ANYTHING after I go off work was too overwhelming. I jumped into the hermit hole with both feet. Then someone in accounting got demoted and moved out of the department.

I was told repeatedly accounting was overstaffed so there wasn’t a position for me in that department even though I still had accounting responsibilities. So when I found out a position in billing was opening up because someone was being demoted, I immediately threw my name in the hat. It also helped that I am close with the billing supervisor and I was already her back-up for several tasks when she’s out. Of course, both of my bosses didn’t like the idea that they’d have to find a new admin, but they conceded and I got the job. All I had to do was wait until they hired my replacement and then train them. I wound up waiting two months. TWO FUCKING MONTHS. “D” took that long processing applicants to fill my job. I could take that as a compliment – that it was that hard to fill my shoes. I know that’s not why it took that long, but it’s better for me to pretend he wasn’t being an immense, nit-picking douche. Luckily, his nit-picking paid off. The new admin catches on quick, is a self-starter and a pretty cool chick.

My anxiety level has already decreased exponentially. I have only been in my new role for a few weeks now, but my work life no longer sucks. I don’t hide out in my car anymore and I haven’t been late. Life at work is good, definitely on the way to being bitchin’.

Pukefest 2015

All three of my kids have been puking on and off since the beginning of September. You don’t truly realize just how many stuffed animals your kids have until they’ve puked all over their rooms and you have to wash and dry every single last one of those bastards – twice. If any of you ever buy my kids a stuffed toy, I will hate you for a hot minute.

It started with the Oldest who puked every day for two weeks. He went to the doctor a few times, though nothing they gave him kept him from puking. He only puked at night and it didn’t seem to be caused by any foods he had eaten. The doctor put him on reflux meds to help control stomach acids but the puke continues. Over the past year, the Girl has sporadically puked and then been fine the next day. Again, only at night and not associated with any foods. The doctor also put her on reflux meds some time ago. Lil’ Man didn’t want to be left out, so he has joined in on the upchuck games occasionally, too. There’s no fever, no other viral symptoms – just puke. Lots and lots of puke. The only other symptom is headaches. The Oldest had to go to the doctor for the headaches and they suspect he is developing migraines.

At a loss as to what is wrong with my kids, and unwilling to accept that all three of them have spontaneously developed reflux, I started asking around to see if anyone had heard of this. Our aunt (the one whose pool gave the Girl her glorious tan) searched until she came across something that seemed like a fit. CVS – Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome. It only happens in 1 out of 100,000 children, but they think it may be caused by an inherited gene which could explain why all three of my kids would have it – if that’s what they have. Kids eventually tend to grow out of it, but tend to develop migraines later on. I have emailed an association set up for this syndrome in hopes they can give me contact info for someone close to here that can evaluate the kids to see if this is what they have. Until then, wish me luck and a strong stomach for the next time I have to clean up yet another puddle of puke. Also, don’t buy any stuffed toys for my kids – EVER.

That’s more than enough for now. Thanks for sticking around and asking for more blogs. It fills me with more happiness than you can ever know that someone out there wants to read about what’s going on in my life or my opinion on this, that or the other. I love you all.

Later Bitches!

 

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Broken Booty-Butt

25 Jun Peed a little!
A bit out-of-date but appropriate nonetheless.

It’s funny because it’s true.

Bitch of the Moment:

Booty-Butt. That’s what the Girl calls her ass. Not a behind, butt, booty, keester. Booty-butt. The Hubby and I tell her all the time to just say one or the other but nope. Booty-butt is her preferred term for backsides. I must admit, when she says it in her high-pitched little voice, usually with a smile on her face and giggling (because butts are funny,) I can’t help but laugh.

I even laugh when she refers to my ass as a broken booty-butt. It’s about to get all T.M.I. up in here so if you’re squeamish or a dude that doesn’t like to hear or read about girly-part problems, you may want to skip this one. Those that know me in “real” life know of my past medical dramas, to some extent anyway. You’re about to know the full extent. A week and half ago, I had yet another major surgery. Here’s why:

Seven years, five months and nineteen days ago, I welcomed a beautiful baby boy into my life. I was so overjoyed and overwhelmed with love for this little guy who was finally in my arms after trying for so long. I was also very, very drugged – happily so. I’ve always said women who give birth au naturale intentionally must be gluttons for punishment. Hate on me if you want, you Queens of Granola Land, but the pain of childbirth is a badge I did not want to earn. I have a high threshold for pain, except when it pertains to hoo-hahs and medical procedures (I once almost passed out just from having an IUD placed in my cervix – not one of my stronger moments in life.) Anyway, thankfully the epidural was in full effect when my precious 8 pound, 9 ounce, bouncing, baby boy was delivered and stayed in effect for a while after. I am thankful because it hid the fact that all 8 pounds, 9 ounces of baby caused me to have a fourth degree tear. He literally tore me a new asshole. I had asked for an episiotomy beforehand but my dipshit nurse had told me, “Oh honey, it’s better to tear naturally” smiling smugly while walking away. Ladies, we know our bodies, we know what we’re capable of and I knew I was not made to have babies naturally or tear naturally. But, being timid and figuring my doctor and nurses knew better than I since this was my first medical rodeo, I deferred to them. I was a fucking idiot.

Once the drugs wore off, I was in the most pain I’ve ever been in. I thought it was par for the course and that I was just being a big puss because of my known hoo-hah cowardice. So what if I could barely walk and the pain meds seemed to be nothing more than sugar pills? I had a beautiful boy and I’d heal……someday. It wasn’t until after about three weeks that I knew something was really wrong.  Here’s where it gets gross so you have fair warning to back out now. I had to…..go. Due to the pain of bowel movements after childbirth, I was already cringing at the mere thought of having to go but this time it really hurt. But not where it should  have hurt. It hurt up front. I immediately called my doctor and got his cunt of a nurse. I told her that I thought things were coming out of the wrong area as delicately and discreetly as I could. I could not bear the humiliation of actually saying what was happening to me – I was morti-fucking-fied. She basically told me I was mistaken, that couldn’t be happening, but since I insisted she guessed she’d make me an appointment (I really fucking hated that nurse.) My doctor saw me the next day and after inspection told me that there was a “communication error” between my va-jay-jay and ass. Seriously? A communication error? What the fuck does that mean? It meant that the stitching he did on the wall between my vagina and anus that had been decimated by my child’s huge head and shoulders had fallen apart. Excuse me? Apparently, my ass had decided to take a vacation and leave the dirty work to my Miss Priss and she wasn’t having it, and neither was I.

I was referred to a specialty surgeon to correct my communication error. I found out he mostly did surgeries on cancer patients and the type of fistula repair I needed wasn’t one he performed that often – especially on patients not riddled with cancer. Ummm? And his bedside manner was…. it sucked. If he used that same demeanor in his personal life I’m sure he never got laid – which could explain why he was such an asshole. My Hubby is a self-proclaimed asshole and HE thought this doctor was an asshat. He did my first official reconstructive surgery and much like his sex life I’m sure, it was a complete failure. On to the next one.

I was finally referred to someone who specialized in asses. He actually referred to himself as “The Butt Doctor.” I mean, if you have to deal with assholes all day for a living, you might as well have a sense of humor about it. And of all my doctors (and there have been many – I guess I’m a doctor-slut) he is my all-time favorite. He listened to me, cared about me, and took my age and lifestyle into consideration before he tried anything. You see, he could have started out drastically with major surgery which meant wearing a bag to divert “things” while letting my repaired ass heal. Knowing that was not something a 29 year-old, new mother wanted to deal with physically or mentally, he tried several different approaches that weren’t as evasive. Unfortunately, my ass is an asshole and was still on strike. Four surgeries later and I was still having communication errors. Time to take evasive action.

Hello, I’m BitchinMommy, and I had a colostomy bag. They’re all the rage. With an array of powders and adhesive patches, you too can feel utterly disgusting and humiliated. Everyone wants to buy clothing two sizes too big to conceal the latest in shitbag attachments. Let’s not forget, you have no control over the noises that emit from it because you cannot feel when things are “moving” so you have the added bonus of providing your own personal soundtrack wherever you go. I wore that fucking thing for four months. Worst time in my life and I’ll tell you, that’s saying something. But, it worked. On December 27th in 2006, I had the bag removed and my ass was finally put back to work, the bum that she is (ba-dum-dum!)

Don’t feel sorry for me. I lived. I pretty much got to stay home the entire first year of my son’s life while getting paid by short-term disability. Silver linings and whatnot. My stomach is scarred and I’ll never wear a bikini again (even when I got really skinny last year) but hey, I got something even better in return for my troubles. I got a brilliant, unbelievably handsome little guy out of the deal who I love to the moon. Who needs a fucking bikini?

Much to the amazement of most everyone I know, I still chose to have two children after that debacle. It’s because I knew that the doctors would be forced to deliver via c-section (like I wanted the first go round) and my ass would never have the opportunity to go on strike again. I already had so many scars you could play connect the dots on my stomach so the idea of more incisions wasn’t even a remote concern. Though, having two more kids jump around on my bladder did its damage. Jumping on trampolines, running, and even sneezing could potentially create embarrassing instances for me so I cut the two of those out that I could (no love lost there anyway.) Also, due to being pregnant three times in the span of four years and nursing all three babies thereafter, I didn’t notice anything awry in the period department because I wasn’t having them. Boy, oh boy, did I get a rude awakening after I finished nursing Lil’ Man.

Boys, here’s a T.M.M. moment so you can avert your eyes (Too Much Menstruation.) When my periods returned, they brought new meaning to “Crimson Tide.” We’re talking the biggest pad you can buy AND a super plus tampon and still having breakthrough bleeding. I would have to change out every two hours. This went on for about five days and then it would stop. I could almost live with that, my panty supply not so much, but if I set a timer and slept on towels I could manage. But Aunt Flo was a real cunt and would return after only a day’s reprieve and go on for another week, week and a half. That’s right, almost two and a half weeks worth of that raging bitch ruining my body, clothes and sanity. But did she wait another 28 days before showing up uninvited again? Of course not. She would show right back up a week and half later. I should have bought stock in Always pads and O.B. tampons.

During my birthing and nursing stint, the absence of my period hid that fact I had developed two massive polyps in my uterine wall which caused the excessive bleeding and abnormal length of my cycles. Eureka! We have found the problem. This shouldn’t be too hard to fix, right? Wellllll….. kinda sorta. My first option was to take birth control pills – the ones that let you go three to four months without a period – which just seemed so wrong considering I had a tubal after Lil’ Man and thought birth control was a definite thing of the past. My second option was to take a prescription that would lighten my periods considerably but would do nothing to lessen the amount of time I spent enduring them. Using either of those options meant taking pills until I reached menopause which is not anytime in the near future. The last option was a hysterectomy. Great, another fucking surgery. As much as it pained me, I went with the first option.

I tried to put a positive spin on taking birth control again by thinking Hey, at least the adult acne I have recently developed might clear up. Not only did that shit not happen, but I gained twenty (20!) pounds in two months. Alright folks, I have been a lot bigger at certain times in my life than I was at this point, even after the 20-pound gain (I got especially large during the “communication error” era when I had to eat a low-residue diet. Low-residue = foods that don’t make you shit like vegetables, you know, HEALTHY DIET FOODS.) Just a few months before the hellacious periods began, I was thinnest I have ever been and was tired of people telling me I looked sick or older. It also pissed me off when I was informed that people thought I had become anorexic or bulimic. I could deal with putting on weight and honestly, I welcomed my once fabulous ass back as she had flattened out a lot when I got skinny. What I could not deal with was no longer fitting any of my clothes and having no money to buy a new wardrobe. With each passing month I was bloating more and more from the damn periods and packing on ten pounds a month was a no-go for me. Since option number two did nothing to lessen the length of my periods, I skipped right on over that one and started the hysterectomy discussion.

I had to do several tests before they discovered the polyps, one of which lead them to also discover that I had a prolapsed bladder. Ah, so that’s why I pee a little when I sneeze. Time to see yet another surgeon who could correct this at the same time as the hysterectomy. I like this surgeon almost as much as my butt doctor. He is a Urogynecologist and has the same kind of sense of humor about what he does so he’s a keeper. If you can make me laugh and feel somewhat comfortable while I am almost upside down with my feet in stirrups, half-naked and bleeding, you’re alright. He also does the same surgeries as my butt doctor so he can help me with my upkeep ’round the corner (and yes, there is substantial upkeep – it’s a battle against the bag for the rest of my days unfortunately.) Anyway, once he determined the level of severity of my prolapse (ever peed on an electronic toilet with an audience? No? Well I can cross that off my bucket list thankyouverymuch,) he gave me my options to correct it.

I needed a bladder sling. There’s a very long, technical name for the actual procedure but I can’t be bothered to remember what it is called nor could I spell it if I did remember it. Basically, they use one of a few different materials to raise the urethra up and away from the wall of the va-jay-jay. This allows better control and hopefully no more “I peed a little” moments when I cough, sneeze or pick up anything heavier than Lil’ Man. The different materials they use for this shocked me a bit. The first option is having parts harvested (creepy) from me. They harvest tissue from the lower abdomen to create the sling. This causes longer recovery time and more evasive surgery. No thanks. The second option was to harvest tissue from a pig or cow to create the sling. Ummm, a sphincter says “What?” Look, I have enough body issues; I don’t need to add being part pig or cow on to that long, self-deprecating list. The final option was a sling made of fine, yet very strong, mesh. The only downside to this sling is that it could lead to erosion of the vaginal wall if placed too close. However, the fix for that if it should happen is a five-minute, outpatient procedure that would have little-to-no down time. Sold! I am no longer in danger of emitting oinks or moos from my person.

So, back to the point of this long post of ickiness, I had both surgeries done on the 14th of this month. Luckily, I only spent one night in the hospital and my husband took over a week’s vacation to stay home and tend to me during recovery. I did come home with a catheter that had to stay in for a week. If you ever get the chance, I’d pass on that. I was confined to sleeping on the couch due to how the catheter bag had to be set-up. It was horribly uncomfortable and I actually developed a slight bladder infection. I’m fortunate that I was able to get it out after only a week. Some people who have this bladder surgery can go up to a month with a catheter. Shit on that shit. Also, just like after childbirth, no sexy business for six weeks. I should be okay but the Hubby may just die, poor guy. I should be back to work on Monday so all-in-all, recovery has gone well. I’m looking forward to never giving Always or O.B. another dime of my money, that is, until the Girl comes of age anyway. Here in a few weeks I’m gonna take a stab at jumping on the kids’ trampoline just to be sure the bladder surgery worked. I will say, I have sneezed quite a few times and didn’t have to change clothes. This makes me so happy I could pee (but only when and where I’m supposed to.)

Bitchin Moments:

The Hubby and I are coming up on 14 years of marriage. I know he loves me and he knows I love him, although we don’t always show it in the best way or often enough. There are  moments, though, when I am completely taken aback by a display of kindness, thoughtfulness or sacrifice on his part to make my life better. They are usually really simple in nature, but to this bitch, his efforts are monumental and make me love him even more which I didn’t think was possible. Here’s just a few tidbits over the last couple of weeks that made my bitchy heart melt and made me laugh when it physically hurt to do so:

* During my night in the hospital, they changed my pain medication to a less potent variety and I started to really hurt. When they came in to give me another dose, I told them it wasn’t working and my pain was increasingly getting worse. The night nurse was not as understanding or as pleasant as my day nurse had been and tried telling me I was suffering from gas pockets. Yeah, gas pockets that just coincidentally fell right around all five incision points from my robotic hysterectomy. Uh huh. She left me writhing in pain and crying. It got so bad that the mere act of crying made the pain worse because I kept contracting my stomach muscles when I sobbed. My Hubby finally had enough and made the nurse come back in the room. He told her there was no way I was going to be able to sleep hurting as bad as I did and that she needed to do SOMETHING to alleviate my pain. She finally got off her ass, called the doctor on duty and got me switched back to my original pain meds for the night at least. Funny how the more potent pain meds helped me finally get rest, but the nurse assured me pain meds wouldn’t do anything for gas pockets. I think it’s safe to say they weren’t gas pockets. I seem to attract cunty nurses. My man stood up for his bitch and came to her rescue.

* I’ve always had issues with catheters not draining on their own. I have to do this roller coaster type deal, lifting and lowering the damn tube to get the pee to go into the bag. Through many hospital stays, the Hubby has taken it upon himself to do this for me. This time was no exception, at the hospital and the week at home with the catheter. Not many men will volunteer to reroute their wife’s piss, so kudos to him for taking on such an unsavory task and making me so much more comfortable.

* Being confined to the house (re: couch) for a week and having very limited mobility and flexibility meant that when I did take a shower, they were short in duration and for the purpose of hygiene only. Meaning: there was no extra stuff going on like shaving. You have to bend and twist to shave and that wasn’t happening. Since I was due to see the bladder doctor the next day to get the catheter out, I was a bit distraught about the condition of my legs; I had become part yeti. Without hesitation, the Hubby rolled up his sleeves, sat on the side of the tub and shaved my legs for me. Ladies and men alike know, this takes a huge amount of trust on our part to allow our partner to shave any part of our body. He was very careful and took his time and I did not have one nick when he was done. Sure, he missed a few here and there because he may have been too gentle but I’ll take stray hairs over nicks and cuts any day. I also got a few laughs (although pained) from the experience. Listening to him say, “How do y’all shave like that? If I did that, my face would be butchered!” or watching him feel around for hairs instead of just noticing where shaving cream was still perfectly intact to find remaining stubble. I think he was just copping a free feel personally, but he definitely earned it. I should have milked it a bit more and conned a toenail painting out of it. 🙂

* In an effort to get up and around and prevent those dreaded gas pockets from actually occurring, we ventured out of the house once the catheter came out so I could walk around. I’m a bridesmaid in a wedding taking place next month so I wanted to look for shoes to go with my dress. My rugged Hubby trucked along with me to several shoe stores in search of the perfect pair of silver heels. This is not so easy we found out as silver shoes can go from sexy to garish to old lady real quick. Yeah, a lot of men begrudgingly tag along with their wives to shop for shoes. But remember, I cannot bend and twist due to my stitches and bruising. The Hubby had to put the shoes on my wide, hobbit-like feet, fumble with straps and buckles, then give his opinion on each pair I tried on while I strutted around the aisles. “Do you like them? How do my legs look? How does my ASS look? I only wear heels to improve the appearance of my ass so make sure it looks good.” Many other asinine questions and prerequisites were thrown at him as he sat there, dutifully answering each one. And for the record, he picked the ones that eventually won out over all the others. And my ass looks fantastic in them.

* He still, after all the disgusting things he has seen and had to help me clean up and bandage, the crying, pity parties, mood swings, weight gain, scars, sleepless nights in hospitals, and on and on, thinks I’m a sexy motherfucker. His interest in me has not waned and there’s not a day when he doesn’t let me know that. On days I feel I look like utter dog shit, he has never reinforced my feeling that way nor will he put up with me saying that I do in fact, look like a huge, steaming pile. I get perturbed sometimes when he gets “grabby,” especially if I’m cooking, dealing with my three monsters or whatever else is distracting me at the moment. When the estrogen runs high, the inner-feminazi will sometimes come out and scream (in my head, of course,) “I’m not a piece of meat! You do not own this! I am more than a walking vagina!” But you know what, the day he stops will be the day I’ll have something to scream about. His efforts to be close to me reinforce everyday that I am still loved and desired. Even if I have dried snot on my shoulder from this week’s sick kid or I’ve gained 35 pounds, this man wants only me. Folks, you can’t pay for that kind of reassurance.

He has done many things throughout this recent medical drama, and our marriage for that matter, that require commendation but I cannot possibly list them all. You’ve all been here long enough as it is. For my dear Hubby (who also dutifully reads his wife’s blogs though never comments on them directly or indirectly,) you are my everything: my rock, my bitch,  my provider, my best friend, my biggest pain in the ass, my human dictionary and grammar coach, my resident asshole, my lover, my life. Without you, I could not be me. Thank you for all you have done, are doing and will do. I love you more than you think probable and then some. (Everyone else look away, this is private – HA!)

Hugs and kisses on all your pink parts,

Your Bitchin Wife

Later Bitches!

Too Busy to Bitch

15 Apr

Bitch of the Day:

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. When have I ever been too busy to bitch’? I really have been, though. I’ve been too occupied to even glance at my blog, much less post to it. I’m still playing catch up after the plague. Unfortunately, my chore list didn’t cease to exist just because I felt like shit.

Why is it when I’m sick, I not only have to fend for myself, but also continue to take care of everyone and everything else? None of the slack gets picked up when I’m down for the count. Even though I wait hand-and-foot on the husband when he is sick and do my best to make sure he is comfortable, does he take the initiative to do more around the house when I feel like death? Does he takeover caring for the children so I can rest? Does he even do the chores HE is responsible for doing? The answer to that would be a big, fat, fucking NO.

Yes, my husband got the plague, too. And yes, he had it bad – but – he was the last to get it. Which means he could have stepped up when he was still well and I just wanted to die. It sucks being sick and having to watch the state of your house disintegrate – especially when you are as anal-retentive about your house as I am. Keeping up with your kids’ medication times and dosages when you feel like ass and can’t focus on anything is risky at best. But worst of all, having to do your husband’s share of household responsibilities while ill just so you can attempt to make your home somewhat inhabitable is like being kicked in the teeth.

Now that we’re all well (relatively speaking,) has the negligent hubby uttered one word of thanks or appreciation for taking care of everything and everyone? Please refer to the previous questions for the answer. Karma’s a mofo, though. The plague wreaked havoc on the hubby and gave him a ruptured eardrum. I’m not saying he deserved it or that I derived any joy from him suffering – I didn’t. I’m just saying…..   He’s fine, so don’t go thinking I’m horrible. His hearing will come back, eventually. The $60 in prescriptions I had to pay for will most assuredly cure him of his ails.

So, yeah. After all that, I’ve been running around like a crazy woman disinfecting the house, catching up on laundry, working on the yard, grocery shopping, yadda yadda yadda. I have been in the yard everyday since Saturday spreading grass seed and attempting to get it watered so we’ll have something more  for the kids to play on besides poison oak and fire ant hills. I say attempting because my hydration apparatuses were not sufficient at watering the whole lawn in a day’s time. I finally found a few oscillating sprinklers the other night that will cover a  large expanse of yard and it made me so giddy I could have pee’d. No one should be this happy about sprinklers. Ever. Too bad I didn’t find them sooner. Otherwise, I might have saved myself from the dumbest sunburn I have ever had in my entire life.

Since we have no grass, only weeds and ants, wherever there is water there is mud. Down here, when there is mud, you wear your “Sorrento Reeboks.” For all you non-coonasses, Sorrento is a little podunk town close to where I live in which a lot of good ol’ boys wear these “Reeboks” otherwise known as galoshes, rain boots, etc. These:

Look at the boots, not my absurdly pregnant belly

So yesterday and today as I was making mud, I donned my boots whilst wearing shorts. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Behold! The world’s dumbest sunburn:

You can even see the little notch from the back of the boot

I don’t even begin to know how you even that out. If anyone has any suggestions, I’m all ears. Also: Ouch. It is on FIRE!

Bitchin’ Moment of the Day:

Even though it is the root cause of my ridiculous burn, I am very happy about my yard. One of our relatives called in a favor and had someone come out and tame the jungle that was my lawn. My yard hasn’t looked this good since we moved in. I was able to spread the grass seed and roundup all the areas we don’t want grass to grow. It’s one more monkey off my back. So thanks, Cuz! I owe you a Strawberry Abita or a Banana Split Daquiri. 🙂

In other news, even though he is entirely too much to handle some days, my son amazes me everyday with how smart he is. My son is five years-old, hasn’t started kindergarten yet and he can read. I couldn’t spell my flipping name when I started kindergarten. As we’re riding down the road or watching something on t.v., he’ll ask, “What does _____ mean?” When I ask where he heard the word, he’ll point to where he read it. He takes it upon himself to sound words out and only asks for help as a last resort. Don’t get me wrong, the kid isn’t reading Nietzsche or anything, but the fact he can read his books by himself is pretty freakin’ impressive. If you ask me, anyway.

Lastly, I got to go out tonight! Can I get a hell yeah? Can I get an Amen? I went out and had wine (and chocolate fondue omfg) with one of my favorite co-workers.  We sat outside, enjoying the nice weather with our wine and chatted. It was nice to get out of the house after being bound there for so long by the plague. It was also very refreshing to talk to someone  her age (23) that is focused on her goals and determined to meet them, no matter what. Even if it means leaving all she knows in order to make it happen. That’s bravery. A rare quality these days. You go, girl. I’ll say I knew you when… 🙂

Later Bitches!

Da Plague! Da Plague!

3 Apr

Bitch of the Day:

Tattoo should totally be on my roof, screaming that phrase to all that pass so they dare not enter here. *If you don’t know who Tattoo is – ohmygodyoureyoungandimfreakinold – you youngins can Google him. He was the midget on Fantasy Island (he preferred to be called a midget rather than ‘little person’ much to the chagrin of all other ‘little people’ activists.) Who knew he was French? Raise your hand. You really do learn something new everyday. Moving on.

The crud has once again fallen upon my house. Every being in this house is sick. The cat is even acting peculiar. Seriously, isn’t there some kind of lifetime cap on how much snot one person has to deal with? There sure as shit should be. If so, I’ve met the designated quota for twenty lifetimes. You bitches without kids can thank me for taking your share. You know you’re a mom when: You go to work thinking you’re look really cute, work all day serving customers and eight hours later come home, look in the mirror and notice what your customers have been seeing ALL DAY. Dried snot, all over the shoulder of your cute little black dress. I am SO hawt.

Since this past Tuesday, we have been to five different doctors. I have spent $180 on doctor visit copays, $86 on prescriptions, $10 on disinfecting supplies and $12 on ice cream. Why did I include ice cream? Because it’s all I can effing eat. After all that, you’d think we were all fine and dandy. Well I can’t say that. As George Carlin once said, “Not me. I never say that. You know why? Because I’m never both those things at the same time. Sometimes I’m fine. But I’m not dandy. I might be close to dandy. I might be approaching dandy. I might even be in the general vicinity of dandyhood. But not quite fully dandy.” We aren’t on the same planet as dandy. Not a single one of us is better for the time, money and snot spent trying to get well.

They won’t give Lil’ Man hardly anything when he’s sick. I understand the hesitation to treat children under one year-old. But I don’t understand how his doctors can see the way he is suffering, how truly miserable he is and how he has made absolutely no improvement this week using the same old crap they prescribe him every single time and not at least consider trying something else. Or for Pete’s sake, give me some ideas on what I can do at home to try to alleviate some of his symptoms. If I hear ‘It’s just gotta run its course’ one more time, I’m going to go postal. I’m not a hypochondriac mom. I don’t take my kids to the doctor for every little thing. I do try to let things run their course, but when my ten month-old’s eyes are caked completely shut with green ooze which has also aggravated his eczema to the point of huge, red rings of raw skin under his eyes, has completely clogged nostrils that somehow still run incessantly and a cough that is constant and wakes him up all night long, I tend to worry.

I took Lil’ Man for a second visit today to a different third world country quack with no bedside manner whatsoever doctor since I was going to get checked out for a second time as well. The only thing I gained from his visit today was that the ear infection he was treated for on March 18th (!) has apparently never cleared up. Seems his effing pediatrician could have spotted that when she saw him two days before. I’m truly hoping that the antibiotic the new quack prescribed actually works for his ear AND treats some of his other issues. She also prescribed drops for his eyes used to treat pink eye. But he doesn’t have pink eye. Someone is getting screwed and I didn’t even get flowers first.

This was the first day. The red rings of raw skin didn't show up until the third day.

The girl was slow to get the “sickness” as we’ve started referring to it. She was the last one to get the ooze and cough. She always seems to have snot for some reason. We started to treat her eyes with the first pink eye prescription which was an ointment (again, they’ve told me over and over the kids DON’T have pink eye.) Her eyes cleared up quickly so I got excited. It was short-lived. She awoke this morning with eyes sealed shut and one was swollen to the size of a golf ball. WTF? Her cough is the most concerning. The small hypochondriac mom deep inside me thinks whooping-cough every time I hear it. It hurts my soul.

The oldest was the first one to get it, as usual. If there is a definitive downside to being a stay-at-home-KID, it’s that their immune system doesn’t get the workout that a daycare-kid’s does. Since he started public school, our household has suffered various stages of the “sickness” pretty much all year-long.

This time, convinced he had pink eye, I took him to see the doctor instead of waiting it out. As a second thought, I asked the pediatrician to check his ears. Let me fill you in about the boy’s ears. I have never seen the kind of wax that is in his ears. They are like rocks. Round, hard, nasty rocks. I’ve known for a while there had to be something wrong going on in there. I mean, who the hell has wax-rocks in their ears? He never complains about his ears, though. The pediatrician always looked in his ears at prior visits and she didn’t say anything other than he had build-up. He had a physical in February. They said his ears were full and to use over-the-counter drops that would “bubble” it out. Yeah, not so much. So I figured since we were there anyway, she could check them again for us.

The news was not good. Both ears were completely blocked. I knew all hell was going to break loose. My son is a drama king when it comes to any medical procedure, no matter how small. The doctor pulls out a plastic tool that resembles a crochet hook. He sees it and instantly freaks: covering his ear, screaming, crying, embarrassing the ever lovin’ shit out of me. I coerce him to cooperate by threatening to take away one of his favorite new activities – judge me, I don’t care – it worked. She started extracting some of the wax and realized early it was too hard to get out without making him scream. I told you, rocks. She goes back-and-forth between water irrigation and using the hook. She still can’t it all out. There’s more after all that????? She moves on to the other ear. There’s a large piece that she can’t get out with the hook. She gets a tiny alligator clip to pull it out. This is where he has to be held down. Not because it hurt. Because he saw it and thought it was a needle and wouldn’t accept it wasn’t. She got the disgusting object out and found a bad infection behind it. I am a horrible mother.

We made another appointment to come back in two days to check the infection after she prescribed antibiotics for the infection and drops to soften up the stuff we couldn’t get out. When we went back she was able to get more out with the hook and water irrigation but his eardrum was completely compacted and there was no way she could get it without busting it. Long story short, we went to an ENT doctor and they got the remainder out, screaming notwithstanding. They tested his hearing and he didn’t pass on certain parts. He has fluid behind both ears. If after six weeks the fluid doesn’t dissipate,  we’re talking tubes. The doctor starts asking me questions about his behaviors at home and school, “Does he do this…..Does he get in trouble for this…..?” When I answer “Yes” to most of his questions, he tells me that my son is not acting up nor is he not paying attention, he CAN’T HEAR. I am the worst mother on the planet.

I’ve written-off a lot of his not listening to me or not paying attention as him being defiant for a while now. It never occurred to me he really couldn’t hear. We have to have him moved up in class so he can hear the teacher and give her the report showing his test results. Maybe now she won’t be such a raging bitch to him all the time. I doubt it, but we can hope.

The hubby and I have the funk as well. I’ve missed two days of work and am no better for the two doctors visits I’ve been to. Neither of them gave me anything for pain or swelling in my throat. They gave me antibiotics for sinusitis and an upper respiratory infection even though they don’t know for sure that’s what I have. I told the third world country quack with no bedside manner whatsoever that I couldn’t swallow my own spit much less the horse pills the other doctor prescribed me. What’s she do? Prescribes me more pills, none of which are for pain. Thank goodness I still had a small stash of pain meds from my last c-section and a surgery I had a few months ago. Without them, I have no idea how I would have made it through the weekend. I am feeling better this evening, finally. It helps when your throat isn’t closed shut and you can swallow your medications. Time for a new pediatrician and after-hours clinic. They won’t get another damn dime from this bitch.

Bitchin’ Moment of the Day:

I’m really racking the old brain to come up with anything positive to say here. This week has truly been hell. Even though I was really sick, one of the worst in my opinion, I still got stuck with the brunt of all the caretaking, cleanup, feeding, chauffeuring to appointments and disinfecting the house. I thought about doing bad things to the hubby while he slept all day yesterday. Ever the martyr, I just bit my tongue and wiped snot all day. But he paid this morning. I waited until 1:00 a.m. to tell him HE was on morning duty and I was sleeping as late as I wanted to.

I still got woke up several times by Lil’ Man since he sleeps in our room. I also had to get up to call into work, but it’s still the most sleep I’ve had in months. I’ll take it. Sleep is seriously underrated before children. Why does no one tell us how lucky we are when we can sleep in every weekend if we wish? Instead, the evil-doers who already have kids always want us to get up early, go do this, that and the other and then they bailout early to head home when we still have morning crusties in our eyes. I understand NOW why they had to do things early and why they had to be home by certain times but did those bitches enlighten us then? Nope. They wanted us to think having kids is all coos, sweet giggles and kisses. They couldn’t wait to see us suffer as they did, and we do. Wait, this was supposed to be the happy part. I got sleep, and it was good. Moving on.

Even amidst the sickness, I finally got my truck fixed. The ‘check engine’ light that has been a red, glowing reminder of how poor I am for the last two years has finally been extinguished. It only took spending $835.50 so I could get an $18.50 inspection sticker for my truck to avert getting tickets. My a/c is still not fixed but at least I won’t be polluting the pristine air quality of south Louisiana with my minute carbon emissions.

Later Bitches!

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