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2:35 p.m. - 2010-08-18
Off and Odd.

I'm in an odd place. Emotionally, I mean. My house is pretty normal. Slightly grungy but otherwise an average middle class, middle-aged sort of home.

At first I chalked my odd feeling up to Wolf being gone, but I know the "Uh oh, something is wrong" feeling I get when my kid isn't around. That feeling is akin to that other 'off' feeling where you keep patting your pockets, checking the stove, and rattling already locked doors to see if they're shut tight. The vaguely anxious "Did I leave the coffee pot on?" thing about my absent child isn't what's getting to me right now. Besides, thanks to the miracle of cell phones I've spoken to Wolf nearly every day despite his being out in some of our nation's most far-flung wilderness areas. The kid's okay and I'm not fretting over him.

(Just between you and me I've actually got a case of the smirks over Wolf's aggravation with his cousin, Special K aka: The Most Spoiled Child on Earth. Special K is an Aspie, of course, {my ex's gene pool is nearly incapable of breeding non-Aspies, honestly these people should come with a warning label}, and Special K's status as THE Only Child- ergo we must indulge his every whim- just makes his single-minded, annoying as all hell behavior a 1,000 times worse. That Wolf is old enough to see how wearying a 10 year old who knows no boundaries, barges into and hogs every conversation, repeats himself until you want to shake him until his teeth rattle, and is completely and totally innocent of the concept that other people exist [outside of their function as audience and providers of all things] is really most amusing. Hey Kiddo, this is what you can expect if you shoot your genetically flawed demon seed into your future wife. You guys might seriously consider adopting. Trust me.)

I'm not feeling off-kilter because Mick is ill. He's got a digestive bug of some sort that's kicking his butt (literally and figuratively). He feels so lousy he even called in sick at work, a first this summer. Mick's upstairs sleeping now. I've fed him as appropriate and am keeping him hydrated. Nice thing about having an athlete in the house, always a large stock of sports drinks, handy for re-hydrating the puking and the squirty.

I'm not flipping out because I'm scheduled for surgery. (Oct 4th, save the date!) Saw the gyn-surgeon yesterday and handily convinced him to include an endometrial ablation while he was in there. At first he just wanted to do the previously recommended hysteroscopy and the attendant Polypectomy, with a D&C thrown in to scrape out the fibroids and then do the ablation a few weeks later. However, I pointed out that the initial procedures alone won't guarantee a reduction in my outrageous bleeding and I am certain I don't want any more kids and I have problems with anesthesia anyhow, so please don't dope me up twice just because that's the usual routine. The ablation will help tremendously and including it with the other stuff is simply the efficient way to go. Thank the goddesses he saw reason.

I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to donating the rest of my ginormous stockpile of menstrual protection products to the local battered women's shelter. Whatever residual bleeding I'll get for the next few years will be scant and easily contained within the lightest of product. The Always™ saddle blankets, Kotex™ cotton bales, OB™ shotgun shell tampons? History for me. Help for someone else who can ill afford to pay the vig to the Period Mafia. (Yes, I'm talking to you, Procter & Gamble and Johnson & Johnson! Gougers, menstrual hostage takers, all around profiteering shitheads.) As of Oct 4th no more menstruation marathons for me! YAY!!!!

Truly the only thing that's irking me about my surgery is it's being done at a Catholic hospital. The idea that I will be undergoing a gyn-ob procedure in a venue dedicated to putting breeding above the mother's health is worrisome. At 47 they might be willing to let me slide, but I know goddamn well that if I were 27 the ablation would be verboten. Why should I get a pass because I'm old when another woman still deemed a viable uterus for Jesus would be told she's ineligible because some celibate (HA!) cleric who owns zero responsibility for the hardship of repeated (and unnecessary) pregnancy puts on a woman and her family, yet feels entitled to make a judgment call about how she manages her reproductive health? How can anyone or any place that is supposedly dedicated to the physical well being and medical care of people put crazily medieval doctrine above the facts? Above proven science? Above the moral obligation to those already here? Sick. Demented and sick. And if I had ANY choice in the matter I'd be opting for the county hospital, rampant staph infections be damned.

My goodness, I'm rather ejaculatory today. What can I say? Religion in the form of policy making in any guise makes me crazy. Your imaginary buddy and penalty-giver (aka: The Big Sky Daddy) shouldn't be the arbiter of MY life. I don't go around dictating how YOU arrange your health care, relationships, dress code, children's education, and entertainment. Be fair, why don'tcha? And butt out of MY life. I couldn't give a warm crap who you marry, how many heads and arms your god has, and whether your skirts are long enough. I can't be bothered to monitor what you read, what you do on Sundays, or what the heck you believe. Just keep your dogma off my lawn and we'll get along just fine.


Out of sorts, but still right of mind and morals, ~LA

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