When the reality is not as cool as the idea

FACT: There are quite a bit of brochures depicting smiling white women in a surgeon’s office. No, actually all of them are smiling white women. Some of them are gardening, some of them are at the beach, some of them are having coffee on their porch — but they are all smiling white women, and occasionally there will be a man in the background smiling at her, as if to say, “I’m so glad you got that procedure! I can really love you now!”

But I digress. I have an enormous boatload of work I should be doing, but I am stuck in bed with a hole in my stomach. Not my belly button, or a hole that should be there, a hole. A small gunshot sized hole that I have to have packed and dressed twice a week for six weeks and will leave a scar that in 10 years I can come up with a completely ridiculous and false story to impress people. I’ll tell the grandkids about “grandma’s rough gang days” or the one time I got in a fight defending the honor of a vegan in Texas. Words were said. Weapons were drawn. THEY WERE DARKER DAYS, KIDS.

The doctor attending to my hole did not appreciate my second belly button jokes, or the moment in which I quipped that he needn’t have that concerned face, this is a perfectly appropriate place for me to put my hummus dip for my pita chips on movie night.
Regardless, I can’t focus on anything but the enormous dressing splayed across my stomach as a seeming overreaction to this little part of my body that basically turned in its resignation and ultimately decided to quit being a part of my body (and probably moved back in with his parents. ugh).

Of course, I didn’t get shot or have a cool injury; I merely sustained a minor amount of tissue death as a normal risk (well in 5-10%) of surgery. And let me tell you, of COURSE with my luck. OF COURSE.

This seems to be a theme this week. Where the reality really isn’t as cool as the idea we have ascribed to it. (Weddings and platform shoes, for example). Other pertinent examples:

  • The laissez faire and “totally chill” guy you knew in your 20s? Well you’re both 30 now and it turns out he’s just apathetic and lazy.
  • The avante garde chick you knew in college? Turns out she’s just really picky and doesn’t eat tomatoes unless they’re ketchup.
  • The super fun guy who you HAD to have at your party is really just an alcoholic, and you don’t call him anymore because you literally cannot support that kind of booze habit at parties. Bills.

And of course, very importantly, this little gem I ran across while checking out the internet: http://vitamintalent.com/vitabites/no-you-are-not-running-late-you-are-rude-and-selfish.

Veils are being lifted! Men behind the curtains are flopping out, in all of their fat, awkward nervousness and “shit what will I say nows!” I think this is largely a time saver, in all respects because spades can now be spades, and we can now get back to whatever we were doing (like work! So much to do BUT THIS DRESSING IS ITCHY).

And I’m still grumpy about this new scar I wasn’t planning on, so I ate four “two bite” brownies in only four bites, full of defiance and indignation, got some Taco Bell and bought a fuzzy blanket and then crawled into bed to rewatch Wolf on Wall Street (it’s Dicaprio’s 40th birthday, I’m not a monster). Apparently I act like a petulant stoner when frustrated. Who knew.

Despite having too many experiences this week to see people and things for what they really are, I, however, will be still racking my brain for a cool story to go along with my little gunshot sized scar that will be mine forever and has to give me more grandma street credit than a surgery complication. Gladly taking creative submissions below!

It gets easier after the first time!

This is where you are supposed to introduce yourself and state why you even started a blog in the first place (short answer: Dilaudid and narcissism), but I think it better to dive right in, much like learning to swim by being thrown into the deep end of the pool. While that has never been proven to work, it’s how I know how to roll (thanks Mom!).

The basics:

I have 11, 8, and 5 year old boys, a ridiculous amount of movie knowledge, a collection of all things Alice in Wonderland, a thing for mermaids, a house, a husband, a Goldendoodle named Turkish (yes, because of Guy Ritchie’s “Snatch”), an ex-husband, an English degree I don’t use, a penchant for dyeing my hair ridiculous colors, a very real need for more black eyeliner, a badass curry recipe, a budding pickling business via my oldest kid, an addiction to spicy food, a love of Sigur Ros and Depeche Mode maple donuts and wine, confusion about middle America, feminist ideals, remorse over having to drive a minivan, more black in my closet than anything else, and a habit of eschewing traditions to make my own (more on that later).

A lot of that will be covered throughout, as well as some rants, tips, tricks…who knows.

So let’s get started.