Doctor said I need an asseotomy*

In case you haven't been following my ass saga, here's the short version:  I've had chronic tailbone pain since I got pregnant with R (actually, the sore tailbone was the first inkling I had that I might be pregnant a second time). I've been seeing an orthopedist and trying a bunch of stuff that hasn't worked, including anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxers, cortisone shots, chiropractic adjustment, voodoo, etc. At my appointment this week, my doc told me the time had come:  I need surgery. Neat.

My surgery is scheduled for next Thursday at 12:30. I'm having the last two vertebra of my spine removed (all the inflammation and ouchieness is between the second- and third-to-last vertebra). You'll be shocked to hear this isn't a common surgery - my doctor has only done it twice before. The good news is that those two patients had their pain completely go away after surgery. Sounds like a fairly simple procedure (except for the risk of a perforated colon), but I might have to stay overnight if the pain is bad.

So. I'm having my ass removed next week. I know you're jealous.

* Before you say anything, I know it's technically an "assectomy" (ass removal) rather than an "asseotomy" (ass cutting or opening) - if I learned nothing else in high school anatomy, I learned that** - but that's not how the Half Baked quote goes.***

** Well, that and it's "seniorosis," not "senioritis" (though if you have a particularly skanky group of seniors, "-itis" might be appropriate), and if you let the girl who refuses to touch the dissection cat name your cat, you get a cat named Pickles.

*** How come the only movie I ever seem to be able to quote is Half Baked? I think that probably means there's something wrong with me, doesn't it?

Sleep deprivation is a dangerous drug

I had some stuff to get done in the evenings last week, and I decided to skip my sleeping pill so I could stay awake past 9:00 (and, uh, remember it all in the morning). I got SO MUCH DONE that night. So I kept skipping. I haven't taken one in over a week. I also haven't slept more than about four hours a night in over a week. I haven't slept this little since before the lovely sleeping pills made an appearance in my life over two months ago.

I am tired. And I'm getting stuff done! But I'm tired. But my bathroom is clean! But I'm barely able to keep my eyes open right now. But, but, but CLEANING! ANSWERING E-MAILS! CATCHING UP ON BLOGS!

I'd forgotten how productive I used to be after all three boys got to bed. I'm a night owl by nature; I love doing my work late at night. Unfortunately, the glamorous life of a fake lawyer/mother of toddlers isn't super conducive to burning the midnight oil.

It's addictive, though. Last night I stayed up super late, and I didn't even have anything to do. I was practically falling asleep on my keyboard, but I stayed awake. Just because I could. It's like I've reverted back to toddlerhood. You know, fighting sleep just to prove I can. It's not good. I think I'm going to give up the (no-sleep) drug and go back to the (knock-me-out) drug.

Until I find a new sewing project that I just HAVE to get done after bedtime, that is.

Confessions of a Snuggie convert

I have a secret. A shameful, embarrassing secret. I've been keeping this secret for almost two years. The arrival of cool evenings and a calendar that tells me I'm not yet allowed to turn on the heat make me feel like this is the perfect time to confess.

My name is Emily, and I love my Snuggie.

That's right. Not only do I own a Snuggie, but I love my Snuggie. (Not so much that I'd wear it out in public and/or dance the Macarena in it, but, you know, enough that I'm willing to publicly admit it).

It all started on Christmas Eve 2009. My father-in-law bought each of the "daughters" a Snuggie. I'm pretty sure he did it just because it amused him - he has a reputation for doing that (see, e.g., the Stinky the Garbage Truck he bought W for his second birthday). I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who kept my Snuggie.

Several days later, we returned home from all the festivities. I must have been drunk (ok, that's not true. I was just cold), but when B dared me to bust out the Snuggie, I did it. And I fell in love.

It's soft. And comfy. And lightweight, but so, so warm. I love being all covered up and still being able to use my hands for such important things as surfing the internet and changing the channels on the TV. It's heavenly.

It also embarrasses the hell out of B when I wear it, which is just an added bonus.

I can't be the only one, right? What about you? Do you love your Snuggie? More importantly, are you willing to admit it to the internet?

Professionalism 101

I got the following (slightly redacted) e-mail today: 

"Greetings * * * Grievance Committee Chair: 

"We have received what is frankly a bunch of gobbledygook from former Dr. [Nutjob].  She appears to have been convicted of various crimes * * *.  She has also lost her medical license with the Med Board.  We sent her grievance forms to try to get her to at least associate specific allegations with specific individuals.  She has done this.  Kinda.  Seriously, there must be some back story to this lady.  She seems pretty wacky from her writings.  She claims to have filed several grievances with your committees* * *.

"Can you confirm whether she has filed with you, whether you are doing anything if she has, and whether you know what I’m guessing is the juicy back story on this thing?

"Thanks.

"[Lawyer who's probably been around long enough to know better]"

In case you haven't figured it out right now, this isn't really the kind of thing you should put in writinhg and sent to another lawyer. Particularly when you work for a government agency. I know it's not as salacious as some lawyer e-mails out there, but you take what you can get when you're a fake lawyer. My colleague who also got the e-mail stopped by my office to comment on it. I'll be honest, the only response I have to this is "She's batshit crazy." But I know better than to put that in writing on a government e-mail account where most - if not all - of what I write is public record. I plan to call the sending lawyer tomorrow to let her know my thoughts. Because I really don't want Dr. Nutjob to have any written ammunition to use against me when she sues everyone who's ever looked at her funny.*

* I'm fully aware that this post constitutes written ammunition against me. But there's not really much useful stuff here. I hope.

The stories you can't share

Anyone who's blogged for a while without alienating or pissing off a lot of their real-life friends/family/employers knows that some stories are not the blogger's to tell. You know you're an integral part of the story, and you want, need, ache to share, but the story isn't really yours. You're stuck. You just know you can't tell the story because of the repercussions it would cause. So it sits inside, waiting for the time when it might be ok to come out of hiding.

Dare I say it was...fun...?

The boys and I stayed home Monday and Tuesday due to my little plague rat's bout of croup (yeah, wasn't a teething fever. My bad). By Tuesday, W was getting a bit stir crazy from being stuck home without other children to run around with. I wouldn't let him go outside while R was awake because running around made R's breathing worse. I finally consented to some time "ow-ide" during R's nap.

We ran several races around the yard - I don't know how, but I managed to lose every time - and then spent a long time driving some of his little plastic trucks down the slide. W's laughter was infectious and his enthusiasm was contagious. And you know what? I had fun. I actually had fun playing with my kid. Real, actual fun. It was almost mind-blowing.

This is probably no big deal for most of you. You probably have real, actual fun with your kids all the time.

For me, though, this is huge.

Flushing my toilet with impunity

I mentioned a (WHOLE FREAKING) month ago that our sewer was clogged with tree roots. First, B told me his friend had the equipment to fix it. He didn't. Then B tells me the chemical stuff he bought would help. It didn't. Then B says he's going to call a plumber (whose phone number and price estimate I provided him). It never happened.

During the month of sewer clog inaction, we had to regulate our water and sewer usage to make sure we didn't flood the whole basement (we only flooded a minor portion of the basement near the floor drain). The changes we had to make included:  adopting an "if it's yellow, let it mellow" philosophy; keeping showers to five minutes or less; only doing one load of laundry ever four or five hours (and not at all if the dishwasher needed to be run or the children needed a bath). Any time we did any of the "forbidden" activities (especially if two were done close in time), the floor drain filled and spilled over, bringing with it the stench of sewage. It was gross. No, repulsive is more accurate.

Once I finally got it through my head that B was clearly not going to take care of getting the sewer cleaned, fate stepped in. R woke up with a teething fever this morning that was low-grade, but enough that he would have been sent home from daycare as soon as the motrin wore off. So we all stayed home. Around 8:00 this morning, I had the brilliant idea that I could call the plumber, since I was going to be home all damn day. So I did.

They came around 2:00, spent an hour cleaning out tree roots, and assured me that the sewer line looks great - my greatest fear was finding out we need to replace the whole line. He did say the manhole by us is filled with tree roots, so we need to call the city and have them come look at it. He also told us we were doing far better than the house down the street whose sewer they had just spent hours pulling baby wipes out of. I thought baby wipe 101 was "NO WIPES IN THE TOILET!" Someone down there must have missed the memo.

So the sewer saga is over for now. I still need to take gallons of bleach and gallons of Killz to the floors and walls down there to kill any sewer nastiness that accumulated over a month of floor drain overflows. But I'm now able to flush after every potty trip, and shower long enough to shave my sasquatch legs (for the last time of the season, might I add). That's success for now, I suppose.

Operation Bleach the Eff Out of My Basement commences tomorrow.

Tattoo fun facts

It's been almost a year since I got my tattoo. My BFF got her tattoo at the same time. Her tattoo is named Fred*. Fred has adventures:

See, Fred went to the beach.

This is important later.

My friend Amanda turns 30 tomorrow (Happy early birthday, Amanda!). To celebrate, she's getting a tattoo. I suggested she go see Crazy Pierre**, who did my tattoo. He was kind of nuts - we got to hear all about his anarchical beliefs and his baby mama troubles - but he did good work. Honestly, the only reason I saw Pierre was because Hot Ryan** was no longer at the shop I went to. But he turned out to be a pretty good choice.

Amanda took my suggestion and called to schedule an appointment with Pierre. I got this e-mail later that day:

SO. Just so you know. I made an appointment at [shop] to get a tattoo on Monday and Pierre doesn't work there anymore. Turns out he is wanted by the police and fled the state. HA!

I laughed like an idiot when I read this. It seemed so fitting for Pierre. I found it so amusing that I passed it on to my BFF. Her response (via Facebook):

Based on info given to me by Emily S[], we must now call [Fred] "felony [Fred]."

Since I made the appointments and picked the shop and artist, I suppose I'm sort of responsible for Fred's new name. That's why I took it upon myself to create Fred's next adventure. I present to you "Fred goes to jail":

You can tell he's a felon by the orange jumpsuit.

With any luck, when I go to visit BFF (and Fred) in November (less than two months! SQUEE!) Fred's newest adventure can actually be realized!***

* Name changed to protect the innocent.


** Names not change, but slightly embellished.


*** Ok, not really. Felonies = law license suspension, and I kinda like my law license.

The other me(s)

My surnames (maiden and married) are not the most common. They're nothing super strange, but they're no Smith or Jones, either.

If you google "Emily MaidenName," you'll find results for me and two other Emily MaidenNames (I'd use the first initial, but it's the same for both of my last names). One is in some branch of the armed forces, runs marathons, and, coincidentally, is also a lawyer. The other is an awesome photographer who's also a Fulbright scholar. I...well, let's just say that I don't appear in the first 10 pages of the google search for my old name any more, but when I did, the stuff that came up was a couple of mentions on the honor's college website from my alma mater and maybe the title of my undergraduate thesis. Nothing cool.

Until recently, I was the only "Emily MarriedName" on the interwebs. Suddenly, though, another one has appeared. She's still in high school (which explains her lack of internet presence before this), and searching for her gives you such gems as her MySpace page - yes, those do apparently still exist - and some comments on her sophomore English class' summer reading blog. The search for my married name is nearly as boring as my maiden name search (Emily's a lawyer! Look at Emily's publicly available lawyer information! Emily got married and had a wedding registry!), but it's more exciting than a 16-year-old's, I suppose.

I think it's kinda fun to see who else is out there that people might find when they're looking for me. Luckily for me, none of the other Emilys are major douche bags or anything awful. I definitely wouldn't mind being confused for either of the other Emily MaidenNames (particularly the photographer one. She seems pretty damn awesome). Emily MarriedName is, well, 16. She's cute and seems perky, but she's still 16. I don't think anyone over the age of 21 would want to be confused with a 16-year-old.

Does anyone else do this, or is it just me? Ever found out anything fun about one of the other yous?

It got weird, didn't it?

I realized tonight that blogging and Twitter have kinda killed my sense of internet boundaries. When I was new to the whole "internet" thing, I was cautious and reserved when it came to commenting on others' blogs. I was one of those "I hope you don't think I'm weird..." kind of commenters. It was strange for me - a girl who is highly socially awkward and terrible at making friends without making an ass of herself - to just write about something someone else put out there. I felt like it wasn't my place because I didn't know these women. I eventually figured out that commenting on strangers' blogs was sort of the point, so I kept doing it.

The longer I've been doing this stuff, the more comfortable I've gotten with interacting via the interwebs. But sometimes I think I've gotten a little too comfortable. Sometimes I think I get creepy, which goes back to the whole "socially awkward, terrible at making friends" thing. When I feel a connection - real or imagined - with another blogger, I tend to jump in with both feet. It's like, in my head, we would totally be friends in real life, so I act like we already are friends in real life. I need to pull back on that. I really don't want to be known as that one creepy blogger girl whose communications make others feel uncomfortable.

Can I get an elective hysterectomy at 28?

I've know for years that I have issues with hormones. It's only become apparent recently how serious those issues are. I've noticed since my crazy days (and possibly the month or so before that...my brain has wrapped those days in a very soft focus so I don't remember those couple of months perfectly clearly) the week-ish before my period hits, I go off the deep end again. It's like clockwork. And it's baaaaaaaaaaad. It's also really bizarre.

It also happens to occur right about the time I have a psychiatrist appointment scheduled, so I go into that appointment feeling like absolute shit about myself, even when I'm happy(ish) and smiling (sometimes) the other three weeks of the month. I'm going to write this down so I can mention it when I go to my next psychiatrist appointment feeling like permanently disappearing under a rock.

I think my best possible solution at this point is a hysterectomy. They let you do those electively, don't they? Before you're 30? Menopause can't be that bad...lots of old ladies live through it every day. I wonder how long my GYN will laugh at me before telling me no.

But that's really the only plausible solution I can come up with. Unless there's some sort of super-dose psych medicine I can take for a few days before I start my period that will at least keep me level-ish until my uterus does its thing and I can get back to being (relatively) happy(esque) the rest of the month.

Anyone have serious-but-semi-stable depression/anxiety/other mental health issue that takes hormone-related nosedives once a month? What have you done to combat the problems? Is there anything out there other than ute-yanking? There has to be, right?