When I wrote that last post, I was sleep deprived (still am!) and high on the Legal Drugs (still am!). For the “record”, I did not mean to imply that I am against chiropractors, because I’m not. I just mean to say that I would rather not have any kind of treatment until I know what is causing the pain. The last thing I want it to make it worse, you know?
Last night, after I finally was able to go to bed sometime after 2 in the morning, things took a turn for The Weird and Scary.
Long story short, my body went into shock from the pain.
(Hey! Let’s play a game. Every time I use the word “pain” you get to sock me in the throat!)
Of course my mom wanted to blame the vicodin (you’re having a reaction! Stop taking the drugs! Just pray!) But the ER nurse said it was NOT a reaction to the vicodin, but my body’s way of trying to deal with the overwhelming (rhymes with) Rain.
So, today I have appointments with 2 doctors. Funny how a little a little bit of uncontrollable shaking can make people take your pain seriously!
Whoops. I said it. Go ahead. Sock the SHIT out of me.
You know you want to.
My Neck, My Back, My Vicodin’s My Crack
I want to write all about my MRI experience, but I am too busy obsessing over a question that the Technician with a Personality Deficit asked me when he looked at my face as I was about to lay down on the table.
“Is that permanently tattooed eyeliner?”
Obviously, something about my eyeliner struck him as odd (or tattooed) and well, I was stunned for a second because “what’s my eyeliner got to do with any of this, man”?
I tried to act like I wasn’t at all thrown by the question and was all “hahaha! Um, no, it’s not! It’s Revlon! I’m too chicken to tattoo my eyelids.”
Now, I can’t stop thinking about it and why he asked me that. If it were a standard question, would they not have that on the official form of questions, right next to “have you ever had brain surgery?”
Was he just so impressed with my perfect eyelining skillz that he couldn’t resist asking if it was professionally done?
Or…
DO I NEED TO RE-EVALUATE MY EYELINING APPLICATION TECHNIQUE?
I just don’t know why he asked me that (WHY DID HE ASK ME THAT?) and it’s going to bother me for days.
Speaking of days…
My doctor will not receive a copy of the report for ten working days, which means that for at least another, what, two weeks? I will not know what is wrong with my neck.
Ten.
Days.
That’s just too long to wait– Especially when the thought of living with this pain for another MINUTE is too much to bear. And not knowing what’s wrong is starting to scare me. What if it’s something serious? Like, “eyeliner that has been permanently tattooed onto ones eyelids” serious? (That is me, not letting it go!)
Lena’s all up on my jock strap to go to a chiropractor. She swears I just need an adjustment. And it’s hilarious to me how DISTURBED she is that I haven’t booked an appointment yet, because IT WILL WORK! YOU WILL BE HEALED! GO FORTH AND GET THINESELF ADJUSTED!
She’s probably right, however! I am afraid to SNEEZE for fear of paralyzing myself! The thought of letting someone hold my neck in their hands and TWIST IT without first knowing the results of the MRI make me so scared that my vagina feels weak and is trembling.
Luckily, Lena knows how delicate I am when it comes to my body and is being patient with me. (Patient, yet, disturbed.) She remembers the time that I actually claimed my kidneys were “shutting down” from standing in line for seven hours. And I was serious. I was all “My kidneys are faaaaaiiiiiiiilllllling! Standing in line has cost me my kidneys!”
If I can be serious for a minute, I can’t wait for ten days. I don’t think my body can take it. The lack of sleep and exercise is wearing me down. Not to mention the pain.
Oh God, THE PAIN.
I plan on speaking with my doctor tomorrow. He doesn’t know what’s going on, as he’s been on vacation and it was an urgent care doctor who ordered the MRI. Hopefully, he’ll have mercy on me and expedite the test results so that we can figure out the problem and fix it.
I just want to be fixed so that I can enjoy the summer with my kids, so that I can sleep. (What time is it? 2am? It is!)
God, I miss sleep.
And sex.
And the ability to touch my chin to my chest so that I can draw attention to my double chin.
Ah, the little things, people. They’re what make life so great. Enjoy them while you still have a healthy neck because tomorrow you could try to get all fancy in the gym and TEAR THAT SHIT UP.
Seriously.
Probably the most boring post I have ever written and yet, I’m hitting publish.
The MRI is scheduled for 8:50 this morning.
I’m relieved because I want to know what’s wrong with my neck and how it can be fixed. I can’t live with this kind of pain. I’m also nervous as hell because I’ve decided to NOT take the valium that was prescribed to me. I felt too guilty asking my mom to drive me there and back so early in the morning (see: Issues with accepting help.) I won’t know if that was a bad decision until the moment comes that I’m laying in that God awful contraption, but I am hoping all of the “techniques” that I learned for dealing with anxiety will help carry me through.
The pain became unbearable this weekend and I ended up in urgent care (and you have to believe me when I say my tolerance for pain is THIS HIGH. Proof: No epidurals for me.) That was a complete waste of time. I waited for an hour and a half for an Asshole Doctor to basically look at me like “Um, you have an MRI on Monday, so, WHY ARE YOU HERE AGAIN?”
He also scolded me for only taking vicodin at night. “You must take it every six hours for this kind of pain!”
Well, excuuuuuuuse me for having 3 kids to take care of throughout the day and wanting to be alert and conscience CONSCIOUS to make sure they are safe!
I do it for The chiiiiiiiiiildren.
I was able take it every six hours this weekend, since PigHunter was here to watch the kids and let me tell you, 1,000 mg of vicodin every six hours = Good Times.
At first, they made me horribly sick, and I would cry. But by the last dose I took before bed last night, I was saying things like “man, I can see how people get hooked on this stuff!”
(But don’t worry. I’m too afraid of organ damage to get addicted to pills. I am afraid to take Tylenol, people. However, if they can’t fix this pain, then you should probably start to worry.)
50 minutes until I must leave, I suppose I should stop typing and get ready to meet the MRI Machine.
Shit.
I love you THIS HARD
Last night I opened up (Ha! Ha!) to my husband about just how nervous I feel about speaking on the “Our Bodies, Our Blogs” panel at Blogher.
I was going on and on about how I feel shame that I had chronicled my weight loss and how so many amazing women (and men!) sent me emails telling me how I inspired them to get healthy. And now, I’ll have to sit up there on the panel sporting half of the weight I lost back on my ass and Oh! The Embarrassment!
Being the ever loving and helpful man that he is, he said “Just tell them how your husband thinks your sexy just the way you are, because he loves to have that extra cushion for the pushing.” (I wish you had been here to see it, because the entire time he was saying those words, he was doing the MOST EXCELLENT slow motion dry humping moves. Probably the greatest I have ever seen. He actually had his hands out, as if they were around my enormous waistline and he was hittin’ it from Da Back. Pure Awesome.)
I started to laugh. He wasn’t laughing. He got Very Serious.
“Babe, I’m serious. I love the way your body feels. (notice he didn’t say “looks” but that’s ok!) I love it so much. And to be honest, I don’t think I could ever boink a skinny girl. It wouldn’t feel as good.”
(I’m thinking that was a L-I-E because, um, when we first got married, I weighed 120 pounds and boyfriend was hittin’ it multiple times a day.)
Then he went on and on about how attracted he is to my body and because I tend to get uncomfortable when people say nice things about me, I lifted up my shirt, grabbed a chunk of gut and said “You’re telling me you find THIS attractive?”
“I find YOU attractive, yes.”
“that’s what I asked. I asked if you find THIS (*waves around the belly fat*) attractive.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s healthy, but baby, I love your body. I LOVE IT ALL.”
“BUT DO YOU FIND THESE FAT ROLLS ATTRACTIVE?”
“Baby, come here… Do you feel THIS? DOES THIS ANSWER YOUR QUESTION?”
I had to believe him, because, dudes, Boners! Don’t! Lie!. And really, if my husband pops a boner while I’m waving my fat rolls in his face, I am inclined to believe him when he says he’s attracted to my body.
I believe The Boner.
Pain in the Neck.
You know that post that I wrote about hitting the gym early in the morning? Yeah, well, I wrote that sometime last week and had it in draft mode until yesterday. Since I wrote it, my body decided to freak the hell out on me and well, I’m currently doped up on vicodin and muscle relaxers.
I don’t know if I hurt myself at the gym or if something else is going on with my body, but I am waiting for a phone call to have an MRI done ASAP. I have severe neck pain that has reduced me to bed rest. I think I may puke at any time and can’t stop crying because it hurts so fucking bad. I can’t move my neck, it hurts to cough, laugh, lay down, sit down, walk. Basically, it hurts to exist.
The doctor is concerned because I have a “significant deficit” of strength on the left side of my body, which is why I have to have an MRI and also a neurological exam.
(Phone call already placed to doctor regarding my options to be KNOCKED OUT during the MRI because hello? Am claustrophobic! Think I may die in there!)
I’m pissed off because I was told no working out until we figure out what’s going on with my body and well, I’m going to be speaking on a panel at BlogHer. A panel about weight loss blogs and I have been trying to damn hard to lose this weight and now I can’t even get out of bed without crying and saying things like “I can’t liiiiiiiive like thiiiiiiiiiiis.” Man, I’m going to feel like a big asshole on that panel. “I lost a lot of weight and blogged about it and haha! Look at me now!”
I know that’s not the point of the panel, but on a personal level, it’s hard to not feel like a jackass. (That said, if you’re going to be at BlogHer, I hope you’ll come see me speak, I promise not to be “Debbie Downer”. In fact, if you ask nicely, I may even do The Monkey for you.)
Anyway, I probably shouldn’t be writing anything while under the influence of legal drugs, so I think I’ll wrap it up for now. Just please keep your fingers crossed that nothing serious is wrong with me and that I’ll be back in the gym very soon because I NEED TO BE IN THE GYM, PEOPLE.
Grumpy (fat) Butt
I was thinking of renaming this blog to www.the-car-accident-blog.com. But, I think it would be easier and less annoying if I just stopped talking about the freaking accident.
HOWEVER.
There were two very Exciting! Updates! that I must write about. And then, I will never speak of it again, for it will be dead to me and alive to God, because I am giving The Accident to God.
Exciting! Update! #1. We got our deductible back.
Exciting! Update! #2. It is now an uninsured motorist claim. The other driver (who was at fault, and who I will now refer to as The Perp, as in The Perpetrator.) is no where to be found and someone who lives at her house told our adjuster that she is “out of town” until “sometime late July.”
How precious. She causes a major accident, avoids the law and flees town. I really hope God blesses her life in a beautiful way. (Pray for your enemies! Treat them with kindness! Do not be bitter! Blessings and love to all, even uninsured assholes!)
Moving on.
I recently made the decision to switch up my workout schedule. Rather than going to the gym in the evenings, I decided that I’d start hitting that bitch early in the A.M. So, yesterday morning I arose at 5:30 and made my way to the All Wimmins Gym.
Whoa.
I was NOT prepared for Early Rising Worker Outters.
I’m used to going to the gym after 7pm. The people who are at the gym when I get there are tired, quiet and somewhat grumpy. They don’t want to talk about their day and they don’t care about how you’re doing or what your plans are for the weekend. They just want to do their curls and squats and get the hell out of there.
But the Morning Worker Outters are a completely different kind of people.
They are happy! And perky! And glad to be alive! And coated in a thick, vanilla scent! And generally annoying!
They’re all “Good morning!” “How are you?” “Ready to burn some of that oh so abundant fat?” “Jesus loves you and so does the treadmill!”
There were a couple of women on the treadmill going on and on about how great they felt and how happy they were to be there on the treadmill burning the calories and how they were planning a bridal shower for their best friend and how fucking HAPPY they were to be doing it.
Here I was, ready to roundhouse kick any vanilla scented vagina that came within 10 feet of my personal space and these women were like “omygod, I’m so glad you’re here… GROUP HUG AND THEN HOWZA’BOUT WE DO SOME CRUNCHES, GOD’S CHILDREN!”
I wasn’t prepared for such love and friendliness so damn early in the morning.
I was genuinely in awe of these women who purposely get up early to go to the gym and are so gosh darn happy and excited to be there.
Fah-reaks.
I plan on becoming an Early Worker Outter, because I absolutely loved not having “I have to go to the gym” hanging over my head all day long, but I can promise you that I will never be one of those vanilla scented freaks who sports a smile on my face and radiates Gods Love from my overweight soul while doing bicep curls before 7 in the morning.
Introducing… The Replacement Van.
FIVE WEEKS after some woman (whose insurance information we still do not have) thought it was ok to NOT look both ways before she pulled out into on coming traffic causing my husband to hit her and total The Van, our insurance finally gave us a settlement on The Van (but withheld the deductible, even though the police report states very clearly that the other driver was at fault.)
When we first found out they had totaled our van, we were mad because we didn’t want to get a new car. We were only a year away from paying our van off, OH! THE UNFAIRNESS!
But then, I was all “you know what? We do not have to buy a new car! We can just buy a used Ass-tro van (because I have Deep Love for Ass-tro vans) so that we can be in the same position that we were before the accident! Surely, we can find an old Ass-tro van for less than 9,000!”
Ha! Ha! Haaaaa!
Did you know they stopped making Ass-tro vans in 2005? And did you know that people who bought Ass-tro vans before 2005 NEVER TRADE THEM IN? Because they run forever! And because they hold 8 passengers! And are built on a truck chasy!
I was not alone in my Ass-tro love. The world loves Ass-tros.
We did find a couple that were in our price range, but the mileage was outrageous and they were thrashed on the inside. And I wasn’t being picky, either. I was willing to accept a few dings and scratches, but I was not willing to drive around in a car that had chunks of plastic missing and holes in the carpet.
I spent hours on Autotrader and looking through newspapers and calling dealerships and visiting dealerships and telling car salesman to STEP OFF.
We were getting desperate, because we’ve been renting a car since the accident happened and did I mention that we’re paying for that out of our pocket because we still don’t have the other person’s insurance information? (And we’re not allowed to knock on her door and ask her for it, because that would be a “violation of her civil rights”?! HAaaaajajaAAsasaa2!@!!441!!)
Last night Tony stopped by a dealership to check out a non-ass-tro van.
He liked it.
He liked it SO much, that he spent 7 hours at the dealership, trying to work out a price/payment we could live with.
At 10 pm last night, he rolled up to the house with the salesman in the van.
“If you like it, we’ve worked out all of the financing and it’s yours. BUT THERE’S NO PRESSURE TO BUY IT, even though the sales guys drove it all the way from another city that is 45 minutes away! Seriously! No pressure at ALL!”
The good news for everyone was that I loved the van. Not as much as I loved The Ass-tro. (Ok, maybe I do love it more than the Ass-tro, because it is luxurious and it has a center console! And a cd player that works! And the front bumper that isn’t tore in half! But, I am not ready to admit it yet, because, like Lena said, I am not ready to let go of the “Let’s go for a ride in Mah’ Big Ass Bumperless Ass-tro Van!” joke just yet.)
I took it for a spin around the block and loved the way it felt to drive. I loved the way the dash looked; I loved that the payments will be cheaper than my van and not for SEVEN YEARS. I loved everything about it.
Well, everything except the smell. Thank you, dear smokers, for ruining The New Car Smell for me. I really appreciate that, asshole/s.
The papers were all written up and ready to go, all I had to do was say “Yes!” and write the check for the down payment.
Oh, the power!
I said yes, whipped out the checkbook and in less than 5 minutes, I was the proud owner of This Van.
I’m happy that we were able to put an end to THAT portion of a Car Accident Nightmare, but man, we still have a lot of crap to settle. Like, you know, getting the other drivers insurance information so we can get our money back for the rental car and getting our deductible back from our insurance company who really had no right to withhold it in the first place.
I never imagined we’d still be dealing with this shit FIVE WEEKS LATER.
Anyway.
Did I just write an entire post about buying a van? I did, didn’t I?
The (Junior High) Graduate
On Friday, my First Baby graduated from junior high. I had been on an emotional roller coaster in anticipation of the event for weeks. It was very much like the summer before he started Kindergarten. I cried for an entire MONTH that summer. Every time I would think about leaving my son in a classroom with a bunch of people he didn’t know, I would begin to sob.
And for the past few weeks, every time I would think about that same little boy walking across a stage to receive his promotion certificate, I would cry.
I was pretty much alone on The Emotional Roller Coaster, because My Baby’s Daddy is one of Those Men who do not cry.
Crying is for wimps! Men do not cry! If I cry you will think that I am weak!
He has had a few moments in which a tear has formed in his eye and rolled down his cheek, like when he watched my vagina stretch to the size of a pumpkin as our babies were born, or when Shelby died on Steel Magnolias. And I swear, each and every of those 6 times that I saw him (almost) cry, I started sobbing because “oh my God, it’s so beautiful when you show me you’re emotions!”
Last week, we were sitting on (not) our bed talking about various things—like all of the Car Accident Drama (because OMG, there is drama, people.), how much we hate our insurance company (which rhymes with Jerk-ury), Kobe Bryant and our children.. My husband began talking about our oldest son and how hard it is for him to believe that our first baby was graduating from junior high.
All of a sudden, he started to cry.
I mean, really cry.
And because I honestly can not watch my husband cry without breaking the hell down, I started to cry with him.
We just sat there and wept about how fast our First Baby has grown. We talked about all of the thousands of memories we’ve made with him over the past 14 years. We sobbed as we pondered how the saying “enjoy them while their little” is so cliché, but so damn true. Because one day he was running around in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles jumpsuit showing off his killer ninja moves and we blinked our eyes and he was filling out high school paperwork and checking “Military” as his career choice. (But let’s not even TALK ABOUT THAT right now.)
We sat there talking, crying and laughing about this beautiful child that we conceived in love—the child who was obsessed with Snow White as a toddler and would cry and scream at nap time because he wanted to watch “Hi Ho!” The child who really isn’t a child anymore, but a budding young man, with a fuzz’stache and Man Voice who will be walking onto a high school campus as a freshman in just a few short weeks.
We talked about his promotion ceremony. How would we feel when they called his name? I predicted we would cry, because if just thinking about it made us sob like sissies, how could we NOT cry in the actual moment?
Friday came and that moment I had imagined in my mind for the past few weeks finally happened. I was sitting there, with my good for nothing camera, waiting for them to call his name. Tony started poking me on the shoulder.
“There he is, Y. There’s our boy!”
I turned to my right and saw my son standing there, looking all handsome (and awkward) in white shirt and tie. I felt this wave of emotion take over my entire body. I took a deep breath, expecting to break down in tears.
But I didn’t. Instead, I felt this unspeakable joy.
And love.
And pride.
They called his name from the loud speaker. I jumped up out of my seat and started to cheer as he walked across the gym floor.
“Whooo! Hoooo! Way to go Andrew! WHOOOO!”
I was so excited and caught up in the moment that I almost forgot to take a picture.
Luckily I was able to snap this picture (with my piece of crap camera) before it was too late.
I’m a little sad this is the only shot I got of that moment. Because that’s a moment that I never want to forget, for as long as I live.
I don’t write much about my son on this blog, and some may think it’s because I don’t love him as much as I love my daughter, but those people would be so very wrong. I stopped writing about my son when he stopped being a little boy and started being a young man out of respect for his privacy. I don’t ever want my son to hate me because of a blawwwg. But, today I’m making an exception. Because promotion from junior high is a milestone that must be acknowledged and because I am so proud of that kid and the man he is shaping up to be.
(I’ll have to ask for his forgiveness about the “Hi! Ho!” reference, though. Thanks to Joelle for pointing THAT out.)
That young man, whether he knows it or not, holds a huge chunk of my heart in his still growing hands, because no matter how grown he is, in my eyes, he will forever be the baby that made me a mother.
Birfday
Today is Ethan’s birthday.
Guess how old he is?
I’ll give you a hint.
And I’m all “Ha! Ha! SO FUNNY! He’s 10.”
Ten years old.
*Weeps*
Every year, I bring some kind of treat to his class on his birthday so that his classmates can share in his birthday celebration. And that treat is always store bought cupcakes. I always have great intentions of baking something really special, but I am not one of those mothers to which those kinds of things come easily.
You know which moms that I’m talking about– the ones who can turn a fart bubble into a beeYOOtiful chocolate cupcake with twirling ballerinas on top. You probably ARE one of those moms. I am, in fact, the complete opposite of those moms.
I am The Mom who stresses out for weeks before every cupcake occasion because I want my cupcakes to be totally awesome, but I know deep down in my heart that no matter how hard I try, they will never be as good as The Mom who turned her fart into a singing cupcake. So, I usually cry a lot the night before because “I’ve failed as mother. I’M A FAIIIIIILUUURRE” and go buy a few dozen cupcakes from Costco instead.
Today was different though. Today, I had this freaking Rad with a capital R idea. “I’ll buy these cute little heart shaped tin foil cups, and I will put pre packaged cookie dough inside of them and I will bake them, and then I will frost them and THEN! I will carefully write the number “10” on each and every one of them to symbolize 10 years of life!”
Honestly? Those treats were not hard to make and yet by the time I was done, I was sweating profusely and ready to lay on the floor and die. I wasn’t going to let the kids see me sweat though. When I got to the school, I put my brave face on. I walked over to the benches with my trays of heart shaped cookie cakes and was all “HAPPY BIRTHDAY ETHAN! Who wants a cookie?!”
You should have seen the kids faces. They were really impressed with my cookies. I’m talking seriously impressed. I started to feel better about myself, maybe even a *little* bit proud, but then some kid in a red shirt had to go and ruin it by shouting out “where are the drinks at?” (In a very judgmental tone, I might add.) Oops! Drinks! Riiiiight. Of COURSE I forgot about the drinks. But, in my defense, it’s hard remembering things when you’re trying to make perfect #10’s while your daughter is holding onto your leg, sniffing your butt. (No, Seriously. That’s my daughter’s new thing—sniffing my butt.)
I almost felt like a failure of a mother, until I looked up and saw the smile on my son’s face. He was so happy that I had taken the time to make these little treats for him and his friends. And he didn’t care what they looked like, or that I forgot drinks. (And napkins. Ha ha) All he cared about was that I was there, acknowledging his special day. All he cared about was that I took time out of my day to do something special for him.
I love that kid.
Pee Pee
On a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being YOU’VE RUINED YOUR SON FOR LIFE) how bad is it that I yelled out “make sure you go to the bathroom before you get on the bus!” to my 8th grader as I dropped him off at school for his field trip to an amusement park today?
I sometimes forget that my son isn’t 5 anymore and doesn’t need for me to remind him to go potty before taking a long trip. But, I can’t help it. I worry about his bladder. I don’t think I’ll ever stop worry about his bladder. In fact, I’m pretty sure that on his wedding day, I’m going to shout out “MAKE SURE YOU GO PEE BEFORE YOU WALK DOWN THE AISLE!”
I have bladder issues and all that really means is that I have to pee every 5 minutes and I get scared when I take long car rides (or attend important events) that I will have to pee and there will not be a restroom for me to use. Just ask anyone who has driven in a car with me for longer than 15 minutes and they will tell you that I panic when I feel the urge to pee, even if I just did pee at Starbucks 10 minutes earlier.
I know It’s wrong of me to project my bladder issues onto my children.
It’s funny how your kids grow up and graduate from junior high and yet, they’re still your little boy and you still have this intense desire to protect them from harm (and from having an accident on a bus ride to the amusement park.). Suddenly, something that you’ve said to them for their entire life –like “go potty first”– is no longer appropriate or necessary because “oh my God, mom, I am going to be a freshman in high school next year, I think I know that I should go to the restroom before I leave.”
But no one tells you about this aspect of being a parent. No one tells you that one day your son will no longer need you to remind him to go potty and so one day you just shout it out because you love him and don’t want him to be stuck on a bus with a full bladder and no where to go pee. Then, you realize what you’ve done and you can only hope that the only person who heard you was the proctor directing traffic in the parking lot so that your son doesn’t hate you for the rest of your life because you felt it necessary to remind him to go pee before he got on the bus.