That day I thought my head was exploding. Or alternate title: my first post of 2012 and I'm writing about this?

Warning: If you are related to me (or Rich), work with me, do karate with me, or know me personally in any other way you need to click that X up in the top right corner of your screen and come back another day.

Seriously.

This is not the blog post for you.

No really, I'm serious.

I will know if you don't, especially if you can't look me in the eyes tomorrow!

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Okay, now that everyone I know IRL has moved on I feel the need to share something, because I'd rather hear from the Internets if I'm going to die that what happened is completely normal than ask a real medical professional.

First, let me preface this by saying that what I was doing is a completely normal activity and I know you all do it too. And if you don't, you should be! If you need help figuring out how to do it you can go back and read here, here, here and here.

It was a particularly stressful day and I needed a little release, but without all the extra work mess time...oh hell, I just wasn't feeling particularly friendly right then and needed some time alone with Old Faithful on the bus.

So I'm cruising along on the bus and the pace is picking up nicely, when BAM, all of a sudden out of fucking nowhere the bus crashed and my head exploded.

Well, obviously it didn't really explode, because I wouldn't be writing this if there were pieces of a bus brain matter on the bedroom wall.

But if felt like it was exploding. The pain was horrific. Intense. Like slam your head against a concrete wall INTENSE.

It felt like it lasted forever, but I guess it was only a minute or two. I think I moaned and rolled around on the bed for a bit, (and not in a good "moan and roll around on the bed" way). I seriously thought I was having a stroke.

The intense pain abated after a few minutes, but I still had a migraine level headache for a couple hours, and an under the surface headache for another day and a half.

And no, I did NOT reach my destination*. Way to add insult to injury, huh?

So peeps, what the hell happened? Has that ever happened to you? Are my bus riding days over?



*I told Rich about it the next day, and his first question was "well, did you at least finish?"

Observations of a cat, a booger, and a boy.

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Before I met Rich I lived in Kalamazoo. I owned my own house and was dating the boy next door. Well, technically it was the man across the street, but that isn't really what this story is about. This story is about his cat. It is also about boogers and my two-year old.

Cat, boogers, boy.

Right now you are asking yourself how these things can possibly be related. And if you are my husband, or my ex-boyfriend (who occasionally reads this blog - Hi ex-boyfriend!) you are really wondering how I'm going to tie all of this together considering the cat and the boy were separated by approximately eight years. (Boogers as we moms know are timeless.)

My boyfriend had an awesome cat named Huxley. He was a big old boy cat that liked to act all fierce and tiger-esq, but in reality was a big old wuss that didn't own his own front yard. That didn't bother me one bit though, because I loved that cat.

While his owner and I were dating we pretty much lived equally between our two houses.  Huxley got used to this dual residency and in the way that animals do, he always knew what house his owner and I were waking up in. If we were at my house you could count on Huxley being there either outside my back door, or under my bedroom window in the morning. If it was the weekend and he felt we were sleeping in too late, he made sure we heard him, even though my bedroom was on the second floor. If we were across the street at his house he would knock on the bedroom window when he was ready to be let in the house in the morning. While he didn't come in my house because he was afraid of my cats and dog, it didn't stop him from making sure one of us let him in his own house and fed him every morning.

I like to think Huxley came to think of me as his momma. Not quite as good as his dad, but always there for a cuddle or to feed him. And to let him into his own house when it was raining or cold and his owner wasn't home to do it. 

So Huxley thanked me in the way that all good cats show appreciation to those they love. He left me gifts outside of my back door. Gifts he was very proud of. Gifts of the dead animal variety.

And tonight it hit me as I was putting Kiel to bed and he was exploring his left nostril in preparation of handing me his booger.

Those hard won boogers that Kiel excavates from his nostrils and then proudly hands me are much like the dead animals that Huxley gave me. 

Disgusting? Certainly. 

Given with love? Absolutely!

~~~~~~~~~~

See? 

Cat, boogers, boy. 

I'm really not that hard to follow at all.

Let's talk about my vagina, shall we?

I like to keep it real on MNT. And I figure if you can't talk about your cooter among friends...well...

I recently had an appointment with a urogynecologist about the misbehaving lady bits.

It was an interesting appointment.

The exam chair was Teh Awesome!

That puppy moved up, and it moved down. It tilted backwards and it tilted forwards. My imagination was working overtime when I was sitting on it. And then when The Doctor sat on his chair in front of me the possibilities were almost overwhelming! But I digress...

Before The Doctor saw me, the nurse made me pee in "The Pot.”

That is no coffee can folks. That is one super-fancy pot that measures how hard, fast or slow your tinkle is, and then graphs it all out for everyone to see. I was able to watch it in real time. I tried my best to draw a pretty tinkle graph, but quickly learned I'm going to need more practice in the art of Decorative Tinkle Graphing.

After I played in the chair and pissed in the pot The Doctor came in to do his thing. He did a lot of measuring of the lady parts, inside and out. Every orifice down there was well examined.

After I was poked and prodded and measured, I sat in the waiting area with a bunch of old women and their husbands. Those lucky old couples got quite an earful when The Doctor took me in to the consultation room, which is right off the waiting area. At least half of the conversation was about Teh Sex and how the falling bits and bulging things and the peeing are just not conducive to Teh Exciting Sex Life.  I figured if The Doctor is going to be down there manipulating things around he might as well do what he can to improve the old orgasm potential. I'd be crazy to not ask, right?

The Doctor drew some pictures for me. Its clear why he's a surgeon and not an artist. Despite his lack of artistic talent, I recognized the parts.

And I knew what he was going to tell me.

What I have suspected for months is now official.

I have The Frankenvulva.

~~~

Make yourself comfortable friends; I have a story to tell.

I was 42 weeks pregnant and finally the little monster angel decided to make his appearance.  But something was holding him back. So the kind doctor pulled out a medieval instrument of torture called The Forceps to help him along.

Let me explain:
To use The Forceps, they fillet the laboring mother open from her vagina to her asshole (they call this The Episiotomy). It's a bit like having a zipper put in; a rather bizarre flesh zipper, but a zipper no less. They "unzip" the area far enough to get the The Forceps in and then the baby's head out. Then they spend an hour or three zipping (stitching) it back up.

This leaves the mother in a very vulnerable state, yet no one really tells her before she has a baby just how painful it is after the baby is born. And for how long!

They also don't pound it into her head that she is not 20 years old and also, is not super woman.

Even if she is told, she doesn't remember that she shouldn't do anything but sleep, eat and take care of the baby.  

Seriously new mothers, fuck the vacuuming.  Because if you don't, you'll end up like me with a zipper that unzipped itself half-way down while you were trying to take your first shit, and then refused to zip itself back up.

How's that for a visual?

But all of that? All of that is only the cosmetic part of The Frankenvulva. The Frankenvulva is actually an entire family of messed up gynecological misfits.
Let me introduce you to The Frankenvulva family.

First we have Prolapsed Uterus. She's a bit of an attention whore and is constantly trying to make appearances when and where she isn't wanted.  

Prolapsed Uterus has a brother called Rectocele who occasionally visits My Vagina. Rectocele is a real pain in the ass.

Prolapsed Uterus and Rectocele have a cousin, Stress Incontinence, who resides in My Bladder. Stress Incontinence is very unreliable and often moody. In fact, he is downright pissy. It's believed that he suffers from a poor support system.

Now, My Bladder used to be a nice, reliable part of My Pelvis. It wasn't big, and it wasn't fancy, but it was the kind of place you could count on. Unfortunately, over time things started to slide downhill in My Bladder. (Personally, I think the Republicans moved in and put a stop to all the supporting connective tissue that was keeping it stable. One of those "can't see the forest for the trees kind of things." They felt it was too "big pelvis" and since they couldn't see how it directly benefited them...well, you know those Republicans.)

And that, my friends, is when Stress Incontinence moved in. And let me tell you, he is an intolerant fool. He especially has it in for Coughing, Sneezing, Jumping, Running, and anything even remotely related to Exercise. He's a vindictive son of a bitch and takes joy in pissing everyone off. Literally.
                                                          ~~~
I go back soon for bladder function testing. Yeah, more chair time! And then we'll schedule a surgery date to attempt to evict The Frankenvulva family from My Pelvis.