The Bloggess

This post doesn’t have anything to do with the title.  It’s not even a real post.  It’s just an update to tell you that my friend Maile drove me to have my surgery tubes removed today, and then my doctor forced her to pin me to the table so that I wouldn’t punch him when he yanked the tubes out of my stomach.  And Maile looked at both of us for a second to see if he was joking and he super wasn’t, so she shrugged and totally pinned me to the table.  This is the sign of a good friend.  Or a terrible one.  Maybe both.

Then the doctor unstitched me and yanked, and it felt like if you’d accidentally gotten a jump-rope wrapped around your liver.  Or like if I was a one of those dolls that talks when you pull the string on her back.  And the thing that I said was: “Ughaaah.”  Which equates to “So now I know what a yo-yo feels like and also why people want to punch you.”

Also, there was butthole art all over the wall from Debra Messing, and there was also an art display of healthy versus unhealthy assholes.  (The literal ones.  Not the figurative ones.)  But it sort of made sense because my doctor just borrows the office from the rectal surgeon who works there.  I didn’t even notice the assholes until we were leaving and Maile thought that was weird, but I think it was weirder that she was so eager to pin me to the table as someone practiced battlefield style, bite-down-on-this-bullet sort of medicine on me.

Then my doctor started talking about catacombs and corpses and he closed by telling us that he would probably die soon but he felt blessed about it because we were all doomed and that the end times were possibly near.  He said it very cheerfully though.  The man has a hell of a bedside manner.  As we were driving home Maile said, “This shit could only happen to you.  It’s like you manifested the exact kind of crazy, fantastic doctor to fit your life.  I would never believe it if I weren’t there.”  And, yes, that’s sort of how my whole life goes.

PS.  I took a picture of the butt-hole art and I wanted to link to the artist, but when you google “Debra Messing Butthole” you really don’t get what you think you’re going to get.  Or you get exactly what you think you’re going to get if you’re interested in pictures of Debra Messing’s butthole.  Which I wasn’t, but I understand why google would be confused.  This time it’s on me, Google.  I asked for too much.

(I wrote this before my surgery but I forgot to publish it before I went under, and then drugs happened.  Sorry.  I suck at timelines.)

This isn’t a real post.  It’s just a small recap of what’s been going on behind-the-scenes lately.

We moved a few months ago, continuing our pattern of buying a house, fixing it and then putting it up for sale about 15 minutes before it actually feels like home.  When Victor decided we should move again I told him that this house will be the last one because I wasn’t moving again unless it was in a coffin.  Then he waited until I was out of town and bought an old (but very sweet) house that needed massive repairs, had lots of issues, and could probably kill us.  In short, he bought the “me” of houses.

When we moved we all three decided on the one thing we each wanted in “the perfect house.”

Victor wanted something safer in a gated community because I had a bit of a stalker problem last year (Please don’t stalk me.  I’m very boring in real life, I assure you.)  I wanted a smaller yard with big trees and a lush lawn.  Hailey wanted a pool.

The week we moved in to our new gated community a man rammed the front gate and had a full shoot-out with the local police department.  Luckily for him, the police have extremely bad aim and arrested him.  The gunman in question lives on our street.  We have succeeded in locking the crazies in with us. Also, we got a flier from the homeowners association that there’s a neighborhood mountain lion on the loose that’s eating puppies.  (Not a joke, although it sounds like it should be.)  And I just assume the sewers are filled with panthers.

Three weeks later I watched as a man ardently sprayed what I thought was ant-killer all over our green lawn.  He was ardently spraying plant poison.  He had the the wrong address and was supposed to be destroying the yard on the next street so they could put in different grass.  He did an excellent job.  We are now dirt farmers and the harvest is plentiful.

Last week I decided to just take a break from all the insanity of busted pipes and roof replacements and angry mountain lions and simply relax in the pool.

Someone bring me a damn pina-colada.

PS. Everything will resolve itself eventually and in another few months I will either have some fabulous stories, some very pretty “after” pictures. or possibly a nervous breakdown.  Maybe all three.  Why limit myself?

PPS.  My home-health nurse came today and says all my vitals are good and that I should be healthy enough to have my surgery tubes removed on Wednesday.  If this surgical shit goes as well as the remodeling has gone then I suspect I will be filled with dead possums and missing several important appendages by Thursday.

The selfish things I wish for most often:

I wish I were a little less scared.

I wish I were a little less sad.

I wish I’d mastered subjunctives well enough to definitively know if I used “were” correctly in the previous two sentences.

Your turn.  What do you wish for?  (You cannot wish for world peace or for more wishes or give your wishes away.  So, really…what small – or large- thing do you wish for right this very moment?)

As of today, my book has been translated into several different languages, which is awesome and also very, very confusing.  Most recently, it’s come out in Turkish.

I don’t get any say on the foreign covers until they’re already come out, and when I saw this one my first thought was “Hang on.  Am I…smelling my own crotch?”

But then I realized that it was actually a really flexible, thin version of me who was slamming her head into the keyboard.  Which makes much more sense.  Unlike what occurred when I tried to translate the summary of the book:

I’m pretty sure Neil Gaiman just told us all to go to hell.  In Turkish.  Best. Insult. Ever.

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And in entirely unrelated news, it’s time for the weekly wrap up:

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