Opening Pandora's Bra?

I was watching the movie, Glory, the other night. I seriously love that movie. The first time I saw it, twenty years ago (gulp!) I cried for 45 minutes after it was over. I broke my rule of not crying in front of my family too. Maybe it was the sight of all those chest wounds that got me thinking, "I haven't done a breast exam since before I was pregnant with The Comedian". So I did one right there as I sat in my darkened den taking in the Civil War flick. What? As if weirder things haven't happened on your couch.

That's when I found it. The gumball-sized lump laying underneath my right nipple. I should have known there would be something. It had been sore for the last day or so and I had just said to H that weekend, "You know, I am always dealing with your little sprains, bouts with crutches, stitches and ER visits. It just makes me think that you are going to have to deal with something big with me." Cue ominous organ music.

I felt some more. I felt the left side again too. Then I asked H to feel it. Yup. There is indeed something there. It was tender to the touch and not the least bit pleasing. H told me I was a hypochondriac who was just freaked out about some email I had gotten regarding larvae infesting a woman's breasts through her bra. Gut instinct however, told me to call the doctor. Especially after noticing some swelling and not being able to sleep on my stomach any longer. There seemed to be some discoloring as well.

The doctor looked it over, felt me up and proclaimed it, "I'm not sure. Let's get an ultrasound to see what is going on there." She gave me sad eyes that seemed filled with concern and uncertainty and sent me on my way. I'm icing it per her advice and the swelling has gone down. I have an ultrasound scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I think it will turn out to be a cyst or a clogged duct left over from weaning The Comedian a few weeks back. However, one can't be overly confident about these things. I had to get it checked out. After all, it could be something else entirely and I just need to be sure. For my own sanity's sake and if I want to get all morbid, for my kids sakes as well.

I would really like to keep remembering 'Glory' as the film I cried for 45 minutes over and not something else.

Retching via my Blackberry

I was all set to blog about my nervous feeling regarding my impending 5k this weekend, a first for me. That is until something decided it wanted to make a bloody good mess of carving out my insides this morning.

At least that is what it felt like.

I did the whole doling out the vitamins routine, changed the night time diaper, made a spectacular batch of oatmeal for TD and then WHAM! Just as I poured the dog food the queasy stomach I had been nursing for the last day just sucker punched me and I was soon lying on the floor of my foyer in a soaking wet, cold sweat. TD, being the good and dutiful classic eldest child fetched me a pillow from the couch and used her step stool from the bathroom to reach my phone so I could call H and almost vomit into the phone at him. If the sound of your wife retching into a trashcan via her Blackberry doesn't move you I don't know what will.

The fetal position never felt so good. In minutes my t-shirt was soaked through and I didn't care that there seemed to be a lot of cracker crumbs coating my limbs as I lay prone on the floor. I just wanted the awful sick feeling to go away. At some point I managed to get up and give The Comedian a bottle. Poor kid was laying on the kitchen floor sucking away while I lay nearby taking deep, cleansing breaths.

I'm not feeling 100% but I'm keeping down some toast which is a plus. Also? I think I have developed a new fashion trend- Prada glasses and sweat-soaked, floor matted hair is the new grunge.

Wouldn't You Like to Get Away?

Yesterday was just like that bad. I had my woman doctor appointment and I got that whole "I'm mad that I'm female thing " going on, which rarely happens, except when I'm the one who has to deal with the whole birth control issue and my craptastic insurance won't cover what is probably the "best" option for me and I decide fuck it, I don't care. I'm getting the fucking IUD and I'll just make payments on my uterus or what have you. Thanks Mirena! Does my uterus owe you interest each month too? Anyways... then I head to my gym determined to be in a better mood because HUZZAH! it's time to sign up Dash Two for the gym daycare. Only there's this big ol' note on the front door and while it's after 9 a.m. the gym is really dark. Huh. Oh right- because they are closed. For. Ever. WTF?! And then I drag the heavy ass baby carrier with Dash Two in it back to the car in the freezing rain and cry.


My gym was like my 'Cheers', people. Enter dark thunder clouds of all out pissiness and overwhelming sadness over the loss of my freedom in one hour increments for the handy payment of $29.95 per month. Oh right, yeah, ahem... working out. Loss of working out. Right.


Fast forward through the rest of the whatever day and it's the dinner hour a.k.a the Witching Hour, which must be named only because it's when I turn into a royal Giant Capital W of a Witch due to the mass frenzy of toddler crankiness and newborn devil spawn like behavior that happens in my house. It is at this time that I find out H will be home late and while I try to persevere with the night. The days pursuit of finding a new child-friendly, budget-friendly gym has yielded a big fat zero and I'm feeling defeated and on the edge. On the edge of wanting to down fistfuls of potato chips, double stuffed oreos, while puffing six cigarettes at once (no one said I don't know how to stay classy), dreaming of running at night without being accosted by a mugger or rapist because I'm a girl, and wanting a box 'o' wine to be pumped into my system. Wait, make that a shot of vodka every fifteen minutes. Just like the epidural. Mmm... yeah. That's the good stuff. Hit me again. Huh? What?! Right. I'm pissed. I'm pissed that I'm a woman who has to deal with the whole birth control issue and that I have to be the one to deal with child care at the gym. I'm sick of my nipples being used as chew toys and I swear if Dash Two with her razor blade digits doesn't stop trying to pull the Five Finger Exploding Heart Technique on me while nursing her jowly-self will be nicknamed Milhouse or Tricky Dick (Ooh another TD!) on this here blog instead of the bland Dash Two.

So, I sit down with TD about to eat dinner and Dash Two starts in with her non-stop crying jag number 15 for the night. It's a classic. It should be on her Greatest Hits CD if she ever gets around to putting one out. There isn't much demand for that one though. It's not like she's Tom Jones or Tupac or anything. H comes home and it's at that moment that I dissolve into tears about my shittyass day and I'm all blubbery. Cut to ten minutes later when I all out lose it because TD has crawled under my chair at the dinner table. I'm already backed into the corner. The dog is encroaching on my territory with saucer eyes of want and neglect and Dash Two is (drumroll please!) screaming again. I just book it. That's right. I just walk out the door and onto the deck shutting them all out behind me. The darkness is my friend. The cold air. The icy rain. I just don't care. I imagine that I'm smoking out there and not caring a wick about lung cancer. Like a record going off course the door opens and H asks, "Where's Dash Two?!" Seriously, dude? She's in the house. What? You thought I put her out on the curb with a box of puppies saying, "Free to good home"? I head back inside and it's at that moment that I see TD doing her millionth rendition of 'I like to Move It' of the day (kids got killer jazz hands is all I can say) and I realize this-


Two black turtlenecks.

Two pairs of dark jeans.

Two heads of crazy, insane blond hair and two sets of big brown eyes.


TD and I are have become this-



Holy crap! It's come full circle. I am JC. I spiral into darkness and .... scene.

No, You're a Douchebag

From the files of : Things I will not be reviewing now or ever comes...

Waterworks Natural Vaginal Therapy. Works just like your ordinary douchebag without upsetting your "vaginal ecosystem".

Yes, really.

I'm not even going to go into how I cannot review a product like this in my current prego condition and I don't review items I cannot actually use or believe in using before writing them up. Nor will I get all twitchy about how yet, again, the PR company did zero research on who they were marketing to and how this is not something I would "endorse."

But this? This just killed me.

"Stainless Steel and Water. Using stainless steel with running water is a recognized method of eliminating the volatile sulfur compounds (VSC) that cause odor. The combination of a stainless steel soap bar and tap water is used by chefs as the most effective way to eliminate odors such as garlic, onions and fish from the hands of food preparers. WaterWorks uses the same principle to reduce or eliminate vaginal odor."

Oooh. I'm all volatile and such. I just love me the idea of stainless steel mixing with my delicate nether regions, don't you?! And um.. how about comparing vaginal odor to chef's, food preparation and the ever-present fish anecdote? Seriously? This is going to sell to women? Stellar marketing department right there. I read that and think, "WHAT?! You talk about garlic and onions and my twat and expect me to buy your product?"

Who writes this shit?

Pee. It's Not for Drinking.

Walking downstairs from my bedroom to the kitchen (because where else do you store a jug o' pee? Yup. Right there next to that bottle of Chardonnay that is not for sipping but cooking only now.) I tell myself, "OK. Remember, right hand is your water. Water is CLEAR. Left hand is the cup of pee. Pee is not for drinking. Don't get all baby brained out on me at the last second and try and sip from the pee cup, got it?"

Yes, I'm mentally telling myself not to drink my own urine. It is a sad state of affairs.

I wasn't feeling so hot this past week and when I developed a pain in my upper right side I decided I didn't want to go down the bed rest route like I did with TD a full ten weeks than when I was pregnant with her so I went to see my doctor yesterday. Just like last time I'm going in for more tests today and I've been peeing in a fabulous orange jug for the last 24 hours.

I'm feeling better today but that is probably due to the fact that I'm trying to learn the subtle art of lazing around with my kid while watching episodes of A Baby Story and sneaking in bits of The Hills when she leaves the room.

No, I can't go for that. No can do...

(Are you singing Hall & Oates now? What about now? Am I crazy for lovin' them? H says it shows my remarkably bad taste in loser music.)

Because it is day 45 (no I'm not pregnant) and I feel like I've been pmsing for the last million days (To those who live near me, I'm sorry. I don't like it either. I'm really trying to be nice, cuddly and such but my hormones are whack yo and it makes it hard to feel human-like) I'm posting things that irritate me or I just plain don't get.


1. Chit-chat in the Express line at Safeway (aka the Seventh Ring of Hell). It's the EXPRESS line people. I'm all for a friendly customer-cashier relationship and all but when the line is four and a half people deep and that half person is trying to use the conveyor belt as a place to do the moon walk, read/throw magazines and drool snot on other people's purchases can't we just HURRY IT ALONG?! Do you need to stop? Not bag groceries? Not scan items? Just chit-chat to someone who is clearly a stranger? You've bonded that fast?! It's the EXPRESS line?!

2. Getting rear-ended. We are putting this in the "irritate me" category. Lady, you cut me off and then you rear-ended me. Don't think I didn't see you reading that piece of paper either. I just forgot to tell the insurance company about that. Don't then think you can tell them I had previous damage to my bumper. Until you, the only damage to my car was on the inside inflicted by a tiny dictator which was more like a hurricane of cheerios. That and H getting late night McD's and leaking those tiny maggot-like onions covered in ketchup all over my drivers side seatbelt and seat. Seriously. Sick! I thought the cheerios were spawning bugs for a moment.

3. Two girls. One cup. Not the spoofs either. Look it up if you must. I'm not putting the link here. I don't need traffic that badly. I'm blaming E for making me wretch and gag for days afterwards. I just don't get it. Or the girls in it.

4. The cards in the back of library books. They no longer stamp them. They aren't scanned. Yet the library can't seem to quit them. So they leave them in and they are bright blood red now. Why bother library? Why? I find them all over my car now after each trip because they fall out all the time and serve no purpose but to waste more paper.

5. The appeal of Rick Salomon. Don't get it. The dude looks like a poster-boy for venereal diseases. He was married to Shannen Doherty. Now Pam Anderson. Starlets flock to him and he's always wearing that stupid ski hat. Does the clap make you cold? Does anyone call it the clap anymore?


I don't get the appeal of the Olson twins either. They haven't done anything but slouch in years but they are still somehow 'relevant'?

Share what irritates you today! It's a free for all over here! Don't get something? Put it in the comments. It's all about sharing today. Plus I need to be entertained.

Here's some bloggy love too while I'm at it. I can't be curmudgeonly all the time now can I? Stimeyland is getting the love today because through her I turned The Mummy Chornicles into this. I always wanted a Ninja Cat on the site! That and I should have named my kid this. Rambo indeed. I mean she did shoot her blanky after all.

P.S. H? Are you hearing this? Your daughter totally rocked out to Hall & Oates this morning.. bwahhahaa!

Urgent Smurgent

Why do they call it Urgent Care... if.. well you get my drift. It's NOT!

Urgent for those of us using it. Not so for the people working there. Maybe it's just the place I went to but it was a two hour wait for four people. Just for the waiting room. Where no one had any outward appearances of being sick. They must have all gone in for a UTI like me.

Yesterday, I found myself suffering from some burning lower back pain. All too familiar to my kidney infection two years ago. I procrastinated in a state of denial all day until H came home. Then feeling slightly dizzy I decided to join the oh so happenin' party that is the Urgent Care waiting room. The possibly pregnant teen with her mother. The movie the 'Little Princess' inexplicably playing on the VCR. The weird guy next to me who kept locking himself in the bathroom only to emerge after his name was called three times with soaking wet hair. I mean dripping. When I went to pee in my little cup later? That's right, urine all over the floor. WTF? Was the guy pissing on the floor or showering with it?! I felt sufficiently diseased after that.

After reading almost half a book I was finally called in. I dutifully peed in my cup and handed it over. There was no direction as to what I was supposed to do with the cup or myself afterwards. The entire waiting room saw me with my cup o' pee since the bathroom is in there and not behind a closed door. I didn't feel compelled to join them again. So I stood around the back area awkwardly waiting for my cue. Five minutes later a mumbling nurse ushered me into a room that might have seemed fresh in 1986. Was that when beige sponge paint was all the rage? I cracked open my book again as I listened to the doctor berating a pregnant woman next door. Seems they did a bunch of tests before she revealed her pregnancy. I felt like I was listening to an incredibly bad and old soap opera next to me. The ones with the organ music added for dramatic emphasis.

Finally it was my turn. Five minutes with the doctor gave me an instant sample of anti-biotic, two scripts for pain killers and a diagnosis of- nothing. Seems I peed it all out? Huh. Anyway, the test strip I could have bought at my local CVS told them nothing. To send it to the lab would be against my insurance policy. Nice. When I asked the doctor about that- how can it be that no lab work could ever be done? She promptly snapped, "Go yell at your insurance company then." Because we all know that will solve EVERYTHING.

Tired, in pain, and now mad at the U.S. Health care system, I drove to CVS praying that my two plus hours at the Not-So-Urgent Care would not leave me stranded with no pain meds. An hour later, with two pill bottles, a bag of freetos and a new plastic shower curtain (I got bored!) in hand I left CVS to head home.

Today I am tired. I've already said things like, "Well, stop feeding Lex (the dog) your Cheerios and then you can eat them" about a bazillion times and I just want to crawl into bed and see everyone later. Like tomorrow. Just be sure to slip my meds under the door every few hours.