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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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12:46 p.m. - 2010-10-15
SUCCESS!!!! The timing could have been a bit better, just so the actual results would be without question, but this week I cycled through my first post-op period. Whoo hoo! The dove came back with the olive branch. The Flood, my friends, is over. Day 1 started out just as heavy as ever and I was tweaked. Calmed myself with the knowledge that A) it had only been a week since the procedure so things were still healing up down there anyhow, and B) the doctor had said that it might take a few cycles to see all the improvements. But I didn't have to fret very long, by sundown I was back to the teeny drip I'd had since the surgery and despite the cramps I was one happy dancing fool. Even the cramps weren't as bad. Of course the surgery isn't going to effect my cyclic emotional thrill ride, nor will it do anything about the frequency with which I ride that rocket sled through Hormone Hell, but the physical manifestation is reduced by about 1,000%. WHEEEE!!!!!!! Tell you what, soon as the budget allows I am buying myself some really nice underpants. And khakis or maybe even some white jeans. Okay, maybe not white jeans. Even without the lurking specter of the Menstrual Menace white clothing and I have a dubious relationship. I do wear a lot of white shirts, usually only once. If I manage to get through a meal without dribbling on myself I stand up from the table and find out I've dunked the underside of the girls in my plate. The Rack That Smothered Cleveland has a mind of its own and has yet to be tamed by corsetiere restraints or understand that no matter how often it helps itself to the marinara sauce it's not going to enjoy it. I own at least 2 dozen white shirts with op-art splotchy stains that no amount of bleaching or stain remover can get out. Why keep buying them? Because hope springs eternal and I am a fool. Because I look good in white and for that brief shining hour before the shirt meets its doom I am happy. Because like the horrible cheap-o underpants, I buy my white shirts with the understanding their fate is sealed from the get-go and never spend more than $3.00 on one. Old Navy and I have an agreement, they keep putting white tees and tops in their clearance bins and I'll keep buying them. Everybody wins, even my obstreperous boobies with their ridiculous thing about tasting my dinner for themselves. I freaked. He loves that Norelco. He's had it for a zillion years, ever since his competitive bodybuilding days where in the effort to look the most macho and manly the contestants shave off all their body hair. (Don't ask, I've never understood that one either. You're more manly because you shave your legs? Okey-doke. Whatever. I'll be over here cultivating a mustache to be more girly.) Where the hell could that stupid razor head be? I took the bathroom down to the bare walls. It's not a very big bathroom, in fact it's pretty dinky. I emptied the trash can, the baskets, unrolled and shook out the towels, even checked the toilet. Nada. Nothing. Oh man, this was bad. The ex has gone off his chump and is refusing to pay child support (a whole other story, gah) and we've been left twisting in the wind financially, add in my recent surgery and Wolf's suddenly obnoxious puberty-fueled behavior, and Gram's yahrzeit this weekend, and my poor mannie is riding the ragged edge. The inexplicable loss of his beloved Norelco would be One Thing Too Many. (Sounds dumb? Think about the comfort you have in your own favorite things and how much it sucks to have them go missing or broken.) I couldn't even dash out and buy a replacement, there is absolutely no budge in our budget right now. Sad, I called Mick and told him about the Norelco. Best to give him the time and privacy to do his Rumplestiltskin rage dance alone. When he got home he wasn't angry with me, but was just as confused and maddened by the sight of his decapitated razor with its missing head as I was. Mick gave me a hug and went off to mope and mourn upstairs in his den. With a heavy heart I began to put the torn apart bathroom to rights and opened the hamper to dump in the towels. And there it was. The missing razor head. HOW??? How did that thing manage to get inside a CLOSED hamper? I cannot explain it. Einstein couldn't explain how it happened. Somehow, some way, that chunk of plastic and steel bounced off a countertop and looped down below it and then upward to the back beneath and then into a CLOSED wicker hamper. Bizarre. Impossible. Against all known laws of physics and reality. But it happened. I let out a shriek of surprised delight that brought Mick running. Stunned and stuttering I explained where it had been and held out the miraculously reappearing razor head to Mick who promptly put it back on the Norelco. Then he turned to me with that arched eyebrow speculative look he gives me when things go weird around here. The look he gives me when I know who's calling before the phone rings, when the pennies from Heaven show up in the mailbox, when Life had gone crooked and mean and fubar and then is suddenly impossibly straight again, and he snorted. Then laughed and kissed me. Shaking his head he snorted and chuckled all the way back upstairs and just before he closed the den door behind him I heard, "� witch." I shouted after him, "I'm not a witch! I'm your wife!" And from the living room my most excellent child chimed in, "Anybody want a peanut?"
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