Today I’m seeing my gynecologist for my 4 week post hysterectomy exam. Which is just a fancy way of saying my doctor will have both of her hands and a couple of salad spoons shoved up my vagina. For medical purposes of course.

Which is awesome.

I’m *really* looking forward to it.

You know what this means though, don’t you. I have to shower. For obvious reasons. And if it’s *not* obvious why I must shower before going to the vag doc, then you’re a man–or a disillusioned woman.

Anyway, I’m over at Aiming Low today. Go there and read about how women misrepresent themselves. Thanks, Nazi Trainer, for the blog fodder. It’s nice to see you’re good for something other than inflicting Japanese water torture on innocent blondes.

Oh, and just for fun, I thought I’d share what Monday night looks like at the Glenn house.

Don’t judge me.

Sometimes pie *IS* the answer.

you know how so many times i get on here and scream that i need an intervention?

well, this time i’m not kidding.

i need a intervention and i need it NOW.

i’ve known for some time that my scale is a f*%#!ing liar, but now my jeans are turning against me. where the blasted scale is concerned i’ve always thought, “hmm, the sticker on the bottom of it says it’s made in germany and well, the germans secretly hate all americans (because we shave and practice good hygiene), so they’ve probably rigged it so it reads heavier–just to fuck with us.”

but people, jeans. do not. lie.

i slipped on my favorite pair yesterday (and when i say “slipped them on” i mean i wriggled about and wrangled them over my enormous ass and had to suck in to zip them up. and then i had trouble breathing…and walking.) side note: anybody missing a small calf? i found one attached to my backside. he’s cute as a button, but he cannot stay. with him there, there’s absolutely no room for the pig and i refuse to become a barn for farm animals. one animal attached to your ass is a novelty, 2 or more–chaos. and i’m pretty sure animal control would get involved. i’m no expert, but i think you need a permit for these kinds of activities.

i bent up and down and up and down, trying to stretch them out. i blamed their tightness on the fact that they’d just been washed. but then i noticed a giant queso stain on the upper thigh and was quickly able to debunk that theory. blasted holidays.

maybe the problem is the sweets that are currently atop my kitchen counters. correction, the sweets that USED to be there. i’ve single handedly taken care of them. there are none left. somehow they’ve morphed into rolls of fat on my hips and thighs.

i blame the media. no, i blame the liberal media. all this talk of hope and change has really screwed with my good sensibility. i’m the first one to say that cupcakes and all you can eat buffets are not the answer. yet, i seem to have thrown all my smartness out the window! something has to change. if not, i’m going to be featured on one of those tawdry talk shows. you know the ones. they’ll feature the fat girl (me, in this scenario) in my home where i’m a prisoner in my bed because i can’t get up. they’ll raise money for a crane to knock out a wall so that the smokin hot firemen can hoist me on a flat bed trailer and ship me off the fat camp. the audience will cheer. i’ll be so happy to feel the sunlight on my face at the same time wondering if the food is any good where i’m going.

please send help. but whatever you do, don’t send food! well, unless it’s chocolate chip cookies. i can’t resist those.

all i wanted was the day off.

it started out ok. it was early morning. everyone was asleep and i decided to catch up on the few episodes of oprah i’d missed. i was 10 minutes into last friday’s show when tommy came in the room and said, “wanna go to breakfast with me?”

“what do you mean? i asked.

“i mean, let’s throw on some clothes and go eat breakfast.”

“with everyone?”

“no. just us.”

i looked at the television screen and then back at tommy. a good wife would turn off the tv, put on clothes and go eat with her husband.

i hate being the good wife.

so i put my clothes on and we drove to the restaurant to eat. we ordered our food and food to go for our 4 sleeping children we’d left at home.

we had a nice time. of course i was in a hurry to get back. after i was finished eating, i pushed away my plate and gathered my things. i hadn’t meant to be so blatant about it, but i wanted to resume ‘dia de la slug’ and this was cutting into it.

i looked up and tommy was still eating. “you in a hurry?” he asked.

i put my stuff back down on the booth and said, “no. take your time.”

so he did. we talked and talked. i could tell he really wanted to engage in conversation. it had been about a week since we’d done that. after 30 minutes of catching up with each other, he asked, “you ready to go?”

so we drove back home to find all four kids lying in our bed, watching cartoons.

chaos ensued when they saw us and they jumped off the bed and yelled, “finally! our food’s here!”

from there i started the laundry, emptied the dishwasher, helped the e-man change into yet another outfit, and prepared yogurt surprise for 4 different people.

it was only 9am.

around 10, tommy handed me a sheet of paper. i looked at it and then back at him. it was some sort of menu. at the top it read, BREAKFAST OPTIONS.

i won’t type the whole menu here because my head might explode, but i’ll give you a sampling:

• 1 cup of quinoa, rinsed and drained
• 2 cups plain almond milk
• 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
• pinch of sea salt of koser salt
• 2 medium peaches or 1-1/2 cup of frozen peaches
• 2 tablespoons of flax seed (ground)
• 2 tablespoons of chopped hazelnuts

so i looked at my beloved, somewhat confused, and said, “what’s this?”

“these are some options of what i’d like to eat every day.”

i handed him back the menu and said, “good for you.”

he pushed the menu back towards me and said, “that copy is yours.”

what the….?

“why do i need a copy? i’m not eating that. i can’t even pronounce some of the things on that menu. what the heck is a quinoa anyway?”

he seemed to be getting annoyed. “no, it’s for you so you can know what i would like for you or patricia to make me to eat.”

try not to kill him. it’s dia de la slug, remember? if you kill him then there’s more than likely going to be blood, then a huge mess and then there will be NO time whatsoever to watch oprah. try and remain calm.

he cocked his head sideways and asked, “is this ok? can you do this for me?”

be the good wife. be the good wife. be the passive aggressive martyr. oops. be the good wife.

“sure,” i managed to say behind gritted teeth and clenched fists.

and that event seemed to change the course of dia de la slug for me. it just wasn’t the same after that. i kept thinking, “when am i going to have time to run if i’m preparing alien food? where am i going to find these obviously made up ingredients? why is quaker instant oatmeal–peach flavored, no doubt–not good enough?

an hour later, the kids were yelling that they were hungry again. by now it was 11. and all i really wanted now was for dia de la slug to be over with. i trudged back in the kitchen, made queso, heated up leftover pizza, doled out numerous yogurts and cut up strawberries.

it was also the day that ethan pooped every hour. i was constantly in the bathroom with him wiping his butt. after every poop, he’d change clothes. it was exhausting.

in the afternoon, the older girls had soccer practice. it was also my turn to pick up other players. on the way, my 13 year old called me and said, “mom, i forgot i have to bring a historical fiction book to school tomorrow or i’ll get a zero.”

great.

“give me some titles of some books,” i said.

“i don’t have the sheet of paper.”

“then how are we going to get the right book?”

“i’ll call a friend.”

good. because i could feel the blood seeping out of my eyes.

i dropped off the girls at soccer, drove home, picked up my 8th grader and then we headed to the bookstore. i refused to go inside. i hadn’t showered or bothered washing my face or my hair. i handed her my credit card and told her to hurry. 15 minutes later she came back to the car without a book.

“what happened?”

“there were like no books left. like every other kid from my school were like in there.”

side note: middle schoolers say “like” way too much.

so i told her to call the other barnes and noble. she did. no go. i told her to try borders. no luck. we drove back home and she got on the phone and was able to find the book she needed. it was at the downtown barnes and noble. it was also time to pick up the girls from soccer. so we raced downtown. i circled the block while she ran inside and then my 14 year old called and said, “mom, where are you? practice is over.” i didn’t mean to, but i yelled, “hold your god damn horses–we’ll be there in a minute!” she said, “ok, mom, sorry..” and before she could say anything else, i hung up the phone.

these people and their needs. i was so over it.

finally, after dropping off the girls that didn’t belong to me at their houses (which came after going thru the drive thru at sonic for milkshakes and also picking up dinner for my family from the mexican restaurant) we pulled in my driveway. it was 6pm.

dia de la slug hadn’t exactly turned out the way i’d planned.

ethan was whining from not having a nap. he followed me around the house crying. harley was complaining that she was starving and she wasn’t thrilled with what i’d brought home for her to eat. tommy entered the room then and said, “what’s going on?” both kids turned on me then. they whined, cried and complained to him. (this is where it gets good) he looked at me and said, “why don’t you give them what they need. YOU’RE THEIR MOTHER and it seems like their needs are not being met.”

i swear to god i had to literally will my body not to thrust forward at him, thus punching him in his ward cleaver like face.

“I BEG YOUR PARDON!?!? THEIR NEEDS ARE NOT BEING MET? WHICH ONES? WOULD THAT BE THE ONE WHERE I WIPE ETHAN’S BUTT 3 TIMES BECAUSE HE INSISTS I’M NOT GETTING ALL THE POOP OFF? OR WOULD IT BE THE ONE WHERE HE SCREAMS AT ME BECAUSE I CAN’T PULL THAT THIRD PAIR OF PANTS OVER THE OTHER TWO HE’S ALREADY WEARING? OR WOULD IT BE THE ONE WHERE I PREPARE EVERY FOOD ITEM IN THE HOUSE AND IT STILL ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH? WOULD IT BE…”

he waves his hands in front of my face and cuts me off saying, “alright, i get it.”

but i was on a roll. “tommy, you have no idea what all i do or have done–just today. sometimes i feel so unappreciated.”

“so do i,” he snapped.

well, i’d just about heard it all.

but i didn’t want to fight with him. i wanted to punch him, but i didn’t want to fight with him.

so I apologized and left the room before i changed my mind and kicked his ass. oh, you laugh, but i could have. i had my mojo working overtime.

i went in the kitchen, poured a tall glass of red wine, and went in the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. ethan ran in the room, peeled off his clothes and said, “we can play my toys in the bathtub.” so we did.

all i wanted was the day off.

oh well, i’ll try again next sunday.

*i like to integrate a little spanish in with my english. i’m a big fan of mexicans and the mexican language. i’ve found that they (the mexicans) really appreciate when gringos splash in a little espanol every once in awhile. i’m all about integration. adding an hola or a bueno into the mix kind of spices it up a bit. plus. the food. don’t even get me started on the mexican’s food. que rico. (that means “yay rick” in espanol–don’t ask me who rick is–maybe ricky ricardo?)

anyhoo, part dos of the story begins now. when we last left our heroine (that’s me, not the recreational drug–side note: why is heroine an illicit drug AND the name for a female hero? are all female heros considered high? or are we just running out of names for things so we have to recycle already used ones? if you know the answer please email it to idontreallygiveashit.com.

so i woke up in the hospital after having surgery for a twisted ovary that wasn’t. ooh. new movie on lifetime? the twisted ovary that wasn’t, starring judith light and john stamos. i can so see it now. must make mental note to write treatment (that’s showbiz talk for “screenplay”–you non showbiz people kill me with your naivete). anyway, shortly after waking from the surgery and finding myself in a depressing, prison cell-like room, i wanted to cry out, “why me? why, why?” but it came out in babbly baby talk. shortly after, a nurse appeared, took my vital signs and then hooked me up to a demerol pump that was attached to a cord that had a button on the end of it. she placed the button in my hand and said “this is your pain medicine. you can press the button every 6 minutes”…or something like that. i think she actually used more technical, robot terms, but it came across in slow motion charlie brown style…you know, “whaa whaa whaa, whaa whaa…” so of course i’m completely zonked out of my mind from the anesthesia but i can understand what she’s saying so i’m pressing the button then pressing the button, then pressing the button again. she grabs my hand and says, “every. six. minutes. you’re going to break it if you don’t stop pressing the button over and over again.”

and then i swear she called me a junkie while smiling at me through gritted teeth. really? is that so? you think i would go through such theatrics to get pain medicine oh wise nurse with the power tools and the liquid gold? fake a pain so convincing that my brilliant doctor would slice me limb from limb to find absolutely nothing wrong with me? side note: no actual slicing. 2 teeny tiny incisions. one in my belly button and the other in my bikini line. side note #2: i take such issue with waking up with a half shaved crotch. i mean seriously, it had been awhile since i’d groomed that area, but please. if you’re going to start a job, then please finish it, i hardly have the time, what with planning fake surgeries and all. side note #3: my general rule for grooming is this: am i going to sit poolside today? no? then what’s the point? hair grows there for a reason. who am i to question it?

so after explaining the delicacies of the 6 minute demerol, i dozed in and out of sleep. every little while i was awakened by someone new shoving pills down my throat and asking me bizarre questions like, “where’d you hide the body?”*

*actually, that could have been the tv. it’s not a real clear picture, but i’m pretty sure i served 3 years in prison for a murder i didn’t commit.

the next morning i woke up in a fog. what had happened? it was all a blur. i touched my face. yeah, still me. i didn’t appear disfigured at all. nor was i a duchess. or a bull rider. note to self: when under the influence of controlled substances, it’s probably not a good idea to keep the tv on the lifetime channel–all night long.

breakfast (in the form of liquids) was brought to me by celangela. seriously, i can’t make this shit up. “breakfast” consisted of jello, tea, beef broth, and a popsicle. can i just say that beef broth is just wrong. who eats this? well, besides the russians. i smiled at celangela, thanked her for the bountiful feast, pressed the button and closed my eyes again.

when my doctor popped in around 9, she told me what i had heard before. no mangled ovary. in fact, she said i had the prettiest pink ovaries she’d ever seen. ovaries are pink? eewww.

we talked about what to do next and she asked me about the pain. i had to think about it for a minute. i couldn’t exactly tell if i was in pain or not. i was sore, that much was clear, but i had also just had surgery. i told her the meds were so good that i couldn’t tell if i was in pain or not–and then i asked her why the room was starting to spin. she laughed (i’m telling you, i’m hilarious), said she’d ordered some more tests and that i would see her the next day. and to not hesitate to press the button. so i pressed it in her honor and closed my eyes again.

later, my cell phone rang. although, i didn’t realize it at the time. in my drug induced sleep i thought it was a bee, buzzing around my head. i opened my eyes, saw the glow of the screen on the phone and picked it up. i answered, “hello?”

“mom,” you ok?

“who is this?” i asked.

“it’s riley.”

“who?”

“RILEY. your daughter?”

“i’m sorry. you must have the wrong number. i don’t have a daughter named riley. i have a shetland pony named mrs. wigglesworth.”

“MOM!”

“huh?”

i sat up in the bed and looked around the room. where was i?

“mom? you there?”

“yes. i’m here. what happened?”

“mom, it’s riley. i’m at school. i’m going to the cafeteria. i just wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“oh riley. my baby. how are you? you ok?”

and then i started sobbing.

“mom, i gotta go. i just wanted to tell you i hope you feel better.”

sniffing, “send whataburger. with cheese. no tomato. and fries. no, make that onion rings.”

“mom, i gotta go. love you.”

and then she hung up.

i pressed the button and fell asleep again. some time later (who’s keeping track of time? i barely know my name!) i woke up to find tommy sitting across from me, whataburger bag in hand. awww. he’d come through for me. he really did love me. i didn’t bother asking the questions i should have–like “when did you get home? how are you? how are the kids? when do i get to go home?” no. i looked in the bag and said, “no ketchup?”

i practically inhaled the food in one disgustingly non-delicate/ladylike fashion.

what? the girl was hungry.

after eating every last french fry and licking the salt off the bottom of the bag, i decided against pressing the button again for awhile. i needed to know what was going on with me and that required my being sober.

turns out i had been to ex ray and had a ct scan earlier that day. the likely culprit of my pain? a small blood clot in my abdominal wall–a side effect from having that tummy tuck last year. huh.

you know what? still. totally. worth. it.

i mean, have you SEEN how flat my stomach is?

it’s good to be home.

cat at pinkasparag.us reviewed heaping spoonful on her website. check it out!

thanks cat!

i’ve been featured on a couple of sites this weekend!

check out this on good mom/bad mom out of houston (thanks jenny!) and this on secret agent josephine’s site.

i’m SO feeling the love.

and thank you, cat, for taking the wheel while i was away.