Saturday, March 08, 2008

• I'm having surgery today, nasty people at the mall, writing contest, and I've got Vicodin...

  I wrote part of this post earlier this week and have just had it marked 'private'.  I do that because I sit down to write a post and can never finish it because Mommy is not allowed to have ten seconds to herself and must wait to do anything till the wee hours of the morn.  Please do not yell at me because (as usual) this post IS long.  I may not be posting for a week or two so I had a lot to squeeze in.

  Today (technically), it's just after midnight, I have to have my wisdom teeth removed and I'm scared shitless.  I don't like surgeries.  I don't like being under anesthesia (I'm afraid I'll get butt-raped, drool all over myself, fart really loud or something while under, or die...not necessarily in order of importance).  I really am not looking forward to this.  Not at all.  I'm afraid my blood won't clot and I'll bleed to death.  I've always been a slow healer anyway.  I'm afraid of dry socket.  I'm afraid of pain.  I SWEAR to you that I honestly think dental pain is far, far, far worse than the pain of labor.  If I were asked to go through labor again tomorrow to shoot out an invisible baby rather than have pain in my mouth, believe you me, I would do it.  Tooth-related pain sucks more than that Noriega "betch" from American Idol.  (Yes, the husband and myself are currently addicted to the Kelly - 'Shoes' video. (Probably not safe for work unless people at your place of employment routinely scream 'F--- YOU!!!' at each other while hula-hooping in flaming hula hoops.  In that case, then yeah, sure.  Play it at work.  Loud).

  I felt so inclined to write this to let people know that I may not feel well enough to even get to the computer and blog or answer comments for a few days (or weeks).  I don't know yet how I will handle having things yanked out of my mouth.  Because I don't know how I will handle the pain, I'm planning on spending a lot of time in bed staring at the ceiling fan above my bed and overdosing on Vicodin that I have stashed away for a rainy day.  My medicine cabinet is a narcotic's paradise.  I have the heavy stuff and I'm one of those people that won't take a Tylenol unless I feel like my headache will kill me (epidurals are a different story - give me the drugs!).  I stock up on those prescriptions because I have the irrational fear that armaggedon will come and I'll be one of the few survivors left and will need to have a leg amputated or something and can say, "Hey, look!  I saved my Vicodin!".  My mom always did say I had one hell of an imagination.

  So if you don't hear from me, I'm not dead...well, I HOPE I'm not dead.  I've seriously heard about people that died from having wisdom teeth removed...young people!  That scares the crap out of my old ass me.  A few were people that had problems because of anesthesia and others were those whose blood did not clot and they bled to death.  I'm a slow healer.  That scares me.  I really am not ready to die yet.  I've got so much to do.  You can bet if I died, I would be PISSED.  I would be haunting that dentist and smacking him in the head whenever I could saying, "You couldn't just leave them alone...you had to remove them so you could make some money.  You @#$%er.  Now I will haunt your a$$ until Larry Flynt makes it to heaven."  Then again, I get to die when I'm still young and look bitchin' so nobody will remember me old and wrinkly and looking like a raisin.  That would suck.  I was looking forward to my old and wrinkly years and being that cantankerous old woman that pinches male attendees' butts when I'm in a nursing home that smells of piss and old age.

  So if I die, someone play 'The Trapeze Swinger' by Iron & Wine over and over while getting drunk in my honor...and burn lots of candles.  One person do it and I'll be happy...and you'll be blind drunk.  And life will be good...and for me, I guess death will be good.  Unless it's all fiery hell and damnation in which I guess it won't be good because I will be cursing myself for not going to church more and for questioning religion so much in my growing years.  If I saw my dad, it might be cool.  Maybe he could finally teach me a way to make it through those barre chords without saying the 'F' word every single time I play one.  I don't know why I do that.  Oh yeah, and someone tell my husband to never, never, ever read my burgundy/pink colored journal...because it's the place I vent every time he pisses me off...which means hundreds of pages of meanness that has caused my relationship to survive thus far.  Rather than call him names to his face, I've written my anger down to get it out.  It's the best form of marriage counseling out there.  I don't want what kept me afloat in life to be what killed him after my death.   I've already got journals written for my kids blabbing on and on about them to the point of being sickening.

  Anyway, enough with the epitaphs and eulogies.  I have my whole funeral planned out in my head but nobody ever pays attention to those things and I guess it really doesn't matter.  You die, they stick you in a box, people cry, people who hated you suddenly act like they were your best friends, and ten years later they forget you.

  ---

  Okay, so you really have to hear about this next thing as this kind of thing only happens in the movies...

  My husband took me out to go shopping last Thursday.  I never go shopping.  Ever.  You think I'm kidding, you should see my closet.  I have clothes from 1992 in there that I still wear sometimes.  I did retire the 'Mom jeans' but I still wear my old t-shirts around the house.  The truth is that I'm a horrible shopper.  I can't pick out clothes.  I can't pick out shoes.  I have zero clue as to how good something looks on me.  I just try on and buy to get the hell out of the dressing room most of the time.  Most of the stuff I buy ends up shrinking and not fitting right or something.  I also do not buy "quality" clothes.  I have a heart attack at the idea of paying $50 for a shirt.  I will not do it.  $30 nearly kills me to shell out for a shirt.  As said before, I am a girl in dire need of a gay, male friend.

  The funny thing is my uncanny ability to pick up on what the next trend is going to be and wear it before it's even popular.  In 1994, I was made fun of at school for wearing "bell bottoms" that I'd picked up at Goodwill.  Hello.  Can you say flare-leg jeans?  Same thing, different name.  Feckin' hell.

  Figuring since I am still years away from that 35 mark when you are supposed to cease being trendy...which is sometimes a stupid rule.  I don't see anything wrong with a 50 year-old being trendy as long as she does it in a smart way and the style looks good on her.  Why is there this stupid rule that if you're over 29, you are suddenly D-E-A-D?  Anyway, I went to Forever 21 right off the bat.  I used to love that store five years ago...but everything in there looked hideous to me.  Either fashion is in a serious slump, right now, or I'm just getting old.  My husband steered me to American Eagle.  I typically hate that store.

  I hate Abercrombie & Fitch.  I hate Hollister.  I hate Aeropostale.  I hate any of the little teenybopper stores for yuppie kids with their boring t-shirts in boring colors that bore the everliving piss out of me.  I hate paying $40 for a t-shirt...a T-SHIRT!  Because it has a brand name scrawled across it.  I don't give a crap who makes the shirt.  Maybe that's because the whole t-shirt and jeans thing has never been my "look" and if it was, you're damn right I'd waltz myself to Wal-Mart and buy a $5.99 plain t-shirt rather than buy overpriced crap because it has a name on it.

  I managed to walk out of American Eagle with a shirt and a pair of jeans although the dressing room experience nearly gave me a nervous breakdown.  It's not easy to go shopping for the first time after having kids (yep, 18 months later and I'm just now going shopping for new clothes).  Your body just inexplicably isn't the same as it used to be and it's aggravating.  Everyone kept telling me that after having kids my hips would get bigger.  Wrong.  My hips are the same size!  My butt, hips, thighs all look great.  For some reason, it's my whole upper body that has morphed into weird proportions.  I have fat on my shoulders now.  It irritates me.  Especially when I'm laying on my stomach and look over my shoulder and see the shoulder fat bunched up.  My stomach is a nightmare.  It's like the whole upper part of my body is coated in four extra layers of fat that weren't there before I had kids.  I desperately need to go on the Body For Life plan again and stay on it.  I lost a ton of weight after the kids and then I just quit.  Cold turkey.  Bad move.

  Seeing yourself in the fluorescent glow of a store dressing room is eye-opening.  If you are not sure you are fat, go try on clothes.  Many diet contracts have been made with oneself upon exiting a dressing room.

  After my harrowing experience in American Eagle, I was about sapped out on the stress-factor scale.  We went into Charlotte Russe. Unlike Forever 21, I was liking just about everything in that store and had about 11 items of clothing heaped on my arms when I entered the dressing room with a shy-looking salesgirl.  I was only allowed to bring six items into the room with me so I had to leave the rest hanging on the outside of the door.

  I was only on the second shirt when I heard this loud-mouthed girl that had been browsing the store go in the dressing room next to me.  She looked like an overweight, more unattractive Mischa Barton if you can imagine that.  Her boyfriend was one of those annoying clingy boyfriends that won't stop hanging on their girlfriend.  He was a big Pacific Islander/Hispanic dude wearing a white t-shirt, grey sweatpants, and these slip-on sneaker things....grandpa-on-the-boat-dock shoes, if you will imagine.
  "I'll just try this on..." she was saying and I heard her lard butt slamming into the sides of the room next to me while I was trying to get a shirt over my own lard shoulders.  Then, a few minutes later I heard her open the door to her stall and say, "How does this look?"

  He started mumbling about how sexy she looked and then I could disgusting kissy sounds.  The kind that make you want to barf.  Then, I heard her say, "Gee, I've never done this before..." as the dressing room door slammed shut.  I saw a grandpa shoe peeking out underneath the dressing room stall.  Holy shit.  He was in there with her.

  All I could hear were disgusting smacking sounds of them kissing.  It was really making me nauseous so I tried to hurry it up.  I still wasn't even through the first six items.  They got really silent.  I bent down to put on a pair of cropped jeans when I saw Ugly Boyfriend's grandpa shoes and legs...and her one leg...and they were moving in a rhythmic pattern.  That was when I nearly lost my lunch.  Those two nasty ass people were having SEX in the dressing room right next to me!!!  For shit's sake, these dressing rooms were only about 3x2!  I was bumping my elbows trying clothes on...and here were people having sex a few feet away from me.

  I thought that maybe if I made my presence known, they would knock it off and he would get the hell out of there so I started mumbling obscenities as I was getting stuff off hangers.  The obscenities were more aimed at them than anything.  I made it pretty clear how it felt to be trying on clothes a few feet away from people who had all the modesty of monkeys at the zoo.  I tried to keep trying on my clothes, but after that, it was near impossible and after Fat Farm Mischa moaned, it was time for me to get the hell out of there.

  I grabbed up the clothes and went out to where Blaine was looking as bored as...well, as bored as a Marine whose wife drug him to a girly store to shop.
  "How did everyting look?"
  "Are you kidding?" I hissed, "I'm not Wonder Woman!  I can't change that fast!  There were people having SEX in the changing room next to me!"
  "I know exactly who you're talking about...that fat chick and her boyfriend..."
  "YES!  THEM!  Oh my GOD!"
  Before I could stop him, he was grabbing the shy store clerk, "Excuse me, Miss, but is there any way she could get another changing room?  The people in the one next to hers were having sex..."

  The girl looked at us with wide eyes and her nose crinkled just slightly enough to show she was disgusted.  I feel like she also took my husband's complaint as if he were pissed of at her because she kept apologizing to me.  She looked like she had no clue what she was supposed to do and went and got another girl who worked there.  I went to find some shirts in bigger sizes since a few were too small.  I also didn't want those people to see me standing there when they were confronted.  The shy girl found me again and asked what dressing room I had been in...I told her it was the one with the green dress hanging on the door and they were to the left if you were looking at that one.  She went back up to the front desk and another girl went back there.

  We saw the guy come out about five minutes later straightening his clothes in the mirror.  Finally Fat Farm Mischa joined him.  Her hair was all messed up and tucked into her jacket.  They held hands and walked through the store as fast as they could and out the door.  We were disappointed.  We were hoping security would come bust them.

  I don't know why people think having sex in a public place is so cool.  For the other people around them, it's just plain disgusting.  Thanks for ruining my shopping trip you pieces of shit.  After that incident, my husband was just ready to leave so I had to hurry up and try on the other few items and go.  So much for my first real shopping trip in years.

  In other news, I won the 2nd Ebay auction of my life the other day - a lot of 21 Maybelline SuperStay lip glosses.  Anyone tried them?  I bid on them because a) it was a great deal and b) people on www.makeupalley.com (one of my fav beauty sites) gave them pretty good reviews and c) If I may be getting veneers in the future and may be smiling for the first time since I have been conscious enough to realize I have f'd up teeth, you're damn right I want to frame those babies with some sexy color.

  Another thing, we're going through a giant life crisis right now...the whole Okinawa thing is up in the air.  We very possibly won't be going.  Shit is hitting the fan and I'm wearing white on picture day (think about it).  I'll explain all that when I am feeling well again...by then, I will probably have more answers anyway.  Let's just say my life is in total disrepair at the moment.

  Hope this long (but hopefully entertaining blog) will hold you Xanga junkies over until I'm well enough to feel like typing again.  Oh yeah, and check this out...I entered a writing contest on this site called StoryMash.  You write a chapter continuing a story that someone starts and people vote on their favorite submissions...I nearly crapped my pants when I saw my name on the 'Current Front Runners' list with the highest score and it's my first entry EVER on the site.  I don't know if you have to be a member to vote, but vote for me if you think the submission is worth a damn.  I think the top prize is $500.  I think I would pass out winning that  much considering making $40 from selling about 12 articles nearly gave me a heart attack in a happy way.  Maybe I should get all my half-finished or outline novels done.  I've got at least three or four that I've kicked around and never finished.  I am 'Dresdendoll' on that site and my submission is under 'My Mother's Secret IV'.  That was originally my nicky given to me by an old neighbor who had read too many V.C. Andrew's books...and eventually, after marrying a Marine, the nickname morphed to 'Devildog's Doll'.  Yes, there is a story behind the name.  Cool huh?

  Wish me luck with the surgery...and tell me your horror/everything-will-be-just-fine stories...it might ease my nerves.  Until next time, I'll be singing 'The Vicodin Song' by the kick-ass Terra Naomi to myself, though with a swollen mouth it will probably sound more like, "Awwh gwoh vwhicwojan dyooo wahwah coowoahohvah..."  And thank you, thank you, thank you to about eight or so people who replied to that depressing post.  I needed some virtual hugs and really, really want to thank you guys.  I will do so by giving you comments and eprops and thingies when I return to Xangaland.

  • 5:12 AM
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