I am a slug at blogging. Worse, I am the slime on the underbelly of a
slug at blogging. That sticky trail that
you step in while going barefoot on a summer evening that adheres to your foot
like gorilla glue and has to be scraped off with an old knife…. that would be
me. Gag. Bad. And yet I still find myself writing posts in
my head. I just can’t seem to get them
into blog format.
The song by the Rolling Stones…”You can’t always get what you want, but
if you try, sometimes, you get what you need” is playing loudly in my head
today. What I want is a breast lift and
liposuction on my thighs, what I’m getting is a hysterectomy. I figure, if I’m going to have major surgery I
should be able to see amazing visible results, but my SOB/GYN feels otherwise. And so next week I will have my hateful uterus
removed. Not my ovaries mind you. Only my uterus. Because why would I want the
bitchy part of my reproductive system removed?
No! I’ll just save those a couple more years and get all the good I can out
those wildly fluctuating hormones; wreak
as much havoc as I can with those babies while they’re still producing. Besides they are probably what are keeping my
breasts from touching my knees. I
thought you should know this, just in case you’re wondering what has been
happening in my little world.
My family (specifically my mother)
tells me I share too much on social media.
Actually, I share very little. But
if I can make a humorous story from my everyday happenings and share it with
others who might be experiencing similar circumstances, I think why not. The mundane details are what constitute life
and if you only share the amazing, you’re simply not being real. I love real.
My impending surgery has sparked
a streak of cleanliness in me that I haven’t experienced since my first
pregnancy. It’s like the nesting
syndrome on steroids. I have cleaned,
straightened, and organized every corner of my house. By the end of this week my refrigerator will
be stocked and in my freezer you will find meals frozen and ready to bake. All my towels are folded the same, beverage
glasses aligned and my plastic ware sorted and stacked. I have
eliminated excess and even plan to get my hair cropped shorter. My
pantry is alphabetically arranged and an Excel spreadsheet exists with the
household inventory. If I die, I want
the nosy people who come to visit my family impressed. I’m
not talking about friends who know my foibles. They’ll
laugh with me even in death. I’m
talking about the ones to whom I’m a mystery and nothing is never exactly as it
appears. I want the last glimpse of my
world viewed like a quirky BBC movie.
That’s just who I am. Or was, as
the case may be. But chances are above average that I’ll
survive and in that case, I will have made my life easier for my family whilst
I am bed fast. Isn’t that what
women/mother’s do?
I’ve been somewhat reclusive for
the past two months. December is a
difficult month for me. I battle
depression anyway, but I physically felt terrible too. I wasn’t good company so I took the whole
month off work. January ushered in a
raging flu season and I’ve purposefully stayed away from crowds trying to keep
myself well so my surgery could stay on schedule. I have worked in January, but I am
questioning the general public’s intelligence regarding illness. They get sick, stay home from work/school with
a temperature of 104, go to the doctor, are diagnosed with bronchitis, pneumonia,
strep throat and the stomach bug, then stop by the library on their way home to
get movies, check Facebook and play Farmville all the while coughing,
sneezing and vomiting. Hand sanitizer
and Lysol are my best friends. It’s a
mystery to me. Stay home people! Just stay home!
And so that is where I am on this
21st day of January, 2013, Martin Luther King Junior Day and Inauguration Day
of which I’ve watched none because I’ve been too busy shopping at Hobby Lobby,
eating at Chick-fil-A and cleaning my gun.
Just kidding people, just kidding.
Maybe.
Thanks for reading, Rosie.