Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow, and damn, but how I loves words

Patches and Meno have been discussing what all cat owners are familiar with and dread with a twisted form of amusement…taking your cat to the vet. We ourselves have devised a sly system for our own feline, wherein there is much petting and cooing of the kitty, then a frantic shove in the carrier (which we stealthily extract from piles of crap in the basement). As my husband’s schedule allows him to be the lucky ‘shover’, he always gets me in on the action by calling me at work as he drives Mad Kitty to the vet, and putting his cell phone next to the carrier, so I can hear the frantic “meow…mrow…MEOW…MRRROW!!” for myself. I save these phone messages. They make me laugh.

Sorry, kitty.

The Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow is CAT. Or KITTY. Or, hell, even PUSSY. Whatever word you choose to describe the feline persuasion (and they are persuasive, aren’t they? “Pet me.” “Feed me.” “Leave me the hell alone.”) Feel free to use any, all or other words like that there in your blog post tomorrow, in whatever catnippy form makes you writhe on the floor with supreme joy…poem, drawing, story, salmon sculpture, phone message, naptime dream where you fight with dogs….


I leapfrogged from blog to blog to blog this morning and whilst reading a post, I stumbled upon a delicious word. A word I cannot use in everyday settings because I would be stared at, and not for my yummy cleavage. A word my friend J would not even be able to hear, as he cannot understand words of more than 2 syllables. The word? “Pluperfect.” So awesome…pluperfect…pluperfect…. It’s not the first time I’ve read the word, but it’s the first time I stopped to look it up to make sure I understood it. Y’know how you can infer the meaning of a word by the content surrounding it? I knew what ‘pluperfect’ meant, but I had to look it up, to definitely cement it in my head, much like I did the phrase “ne plus ultra”, which I also cannot say in everyday conversation, but which I will someday use in a blog post, and feel all smug about until one of you uses a cooler phrase in your post that knocks my knickers off and which I adopt as my own.

I remember as a kid, some school mates of mine saying when they came across a word they didn’t know, they wouldn’t look it up for fear of looking stupid. Stupid? Seriously? I look words up all the time…I love the etymology of words, how they came to be, country of origin, variations of spelling and pronunciation, meanings and gentle twists. I can also keep up with what the kids are doing nowadays with an Urban Slang dictionary I found. I find myself more and more twisting words around in sentences, warming words up in my hands and rubbing them liberally on emails and documents, seeing if they stick. I use bad grammar on purpose, for effect. Sort of like my old art teacher, who said a great artist is someone who knows all the techniques, and then does them wrong to make a point. Me and the dictionary, yeah, man, we’re totally making a baby right now. It’s pluperfect.

Have YOU learned any new words lately?

Bones to pick

Begin rant.

Bone One: Sergei posted recently about this phenomenon in our area, where all the east-west streets are under construction so you literally cannot ‘get there from here’. Yesterday, in a rush to get the kids to their respective sporting events, I discovered yet ANOTHER main thoroughfare with drab orange barrels blocking half the lanes. Is this some sort of conspiracy? I mean, I know the roads have to be worked on in the summer, when the weather is nice…but ALL the roads? Are ya kiddin’ me? Conspiracy, I tells ya. All designed to sell more soda pop and bath mats. Or something like that.


Bone Two: I have a confession to make. It’s not pretty, and I don’t know why I can’t get free from its grip. Here goes. I’ve been having lustful thoughts about those Geico cavemen. (Shoot me. Shoot me now. PLEASE.) It’s not that I think they’re boffo spokespersons for selling insurance, and let’s face it…they’re not particularly pretty to look at.

Or ARE they?

I dunno, there’s something about that hairy, big-foreheaded, metrosexual-meets-mastadon look that really gets me hot. Maybe it’s because I made mango salsa last weekend, or the fact that those commercials are on All. The. Time. Or perhaps it’s because of that damn Royksopp song that is haunting me. Possibly it's that no one in the blogosphere seems able to find a photo of the actor Jeff Daniel Phillips, one of the sexiest cavemen (I can't believe I just typed that). Perhaps it’s the righteous indignation, and how maybe he just needs to chill with me and a bottle of wine, out on the terrace, where we laugh and joke and I see the innocence behind his overgrown brow, and he is so taken with my homo sapien charms that he can’t resist touching me with those huge meaty paws of his, grunting and groaning like some animal, ooh baby, like an animal, and just before we….
GAH!

What?

There is definitely something wrong with me. I blame the hormones.

I even became all consumeristic yesterday and went to this website and played around a little. They did not get naked for me. I was hoping. But I am 100% sure their tv show will tank. Sure. 100%.


Bone Three: The other commercial that has done me in lately is this one, because of the damn song, so catchy (it’s called “Voila”, by Michael Tolcher). THEN I made a stunning realization this morning. It’s the Hilton Hotel chain. Hilton. As in “Incarcerated Paris” Hilton. Which got me thinking…any time anyone stays in a Hilton Hotel (or any of their other brand hotels…Hampton Inn (dammit, I liked that place, too), Doubletree, Embassy, Homewood…we’re feeding money into Paris’ pocket, and feeding her extravagant habits. Do you realize she NEVER has to work a day IN HER LIFE? And that her family consists of gazillionaires? Who don’t give a crap about anything but who are very certain they can buy their way out of any situation? That she and her ilk are in danger of becoming role models for our girls? Argh. The whole thing makes me want to spit. Let’s all buy motor homes and avoid hotel chains, camp out in someone’s back yard, and stop charging our vacations at 17% interest so we can buy the Hilton family more vacation property and cocaine.

End rant.

My Heart is an Idiot

I really must stop surfing soon...really...must....

BUT until then....

Subterranean Homesick

This is awesome. Make sure you watch the video halfway down, and check out the video diagram....

No Glove, No Love

Hilarious…purveyors of smutty television refusing to air a condom ad.

Okay, so it’s not the cleverest condom ad, and I personally don’t think all men are pigs. BUT. It’s something. (Fox...“Contraceptive advertising must stress health-related uses rather than the prevention of pregnancy.” Where do they think babies come from, anyway??)

Poetry Friday: The Word is CRUSH

My offering is quick and dirty.

This song makes me uncomfortable. And I still love it.

Poetry Friday WORD for Tomorrow, and I am a bitch

Girl-child cannot go one day without the words “Hannah Montana” escaping her lips.

Okay, yes, it’s our fault for being media whores and insisting on cable television. And it’s Disney’s fault for creating formulaic programming dependent upon quick gags, faux angst, and supposed teen stars. It’s Edison’s fault for creating our modern electrical grid, feeding make-believe through our veins. And it’s…it’s…well, it’s normal, I guess. When I was her age, every day after school, I’d watch the Flintstones, or the Jetsons, or a local show called “Alley Cat”, which had a cat puppet behind a fence and reruns of classic cartoons. At some point, I was also convinced I’d marry Davy Jones of the Monkees. (I sort of still AM convinced of it, albeit the younger, smoother-skinned Davy Jones, and not the wrinkled prune-ish guy who claims to be Davy Jones on those VH1 “Where are they now” shows.)

The other night, Girl-child and I were watching tv after dinner, and she said, as “Hannah Montana” took a commercial break, “I would SO love to see a Hannah Montana concert! That would be so awesome!” Her eyes sparkled and she shook her head in that wistful way young girls do, full of hopes and longings, and then she sighed. Haaaahhhh.

It was then I realized…oh sweet niblets…Girl-child had her first girl-crush. They grow up so fast, don’t they?

The Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow is CRUSH. Not just that heart-twisting-longing feeling, but whatever CRUSH you like…crushed velvet, crushed potato chips on your bologna sandwich, the crush of work when you realize…oh, snap!...the boss is gonna be in any minute and you’re still writing your Poetry Friday Word post! Feel free to use it tomorrow in your post, in whatever tasty two-bite amuse bouche you choose…poem, story, photo, recollection, record collection, interjection, affection….



Some guy called me a bitch yesterday. Which doesn’t happen a lot (thankfully), but which left me sort of tingling and ready to fight, or at least shake my finger in his face and trump up with, “Oh no you dinint!” I had just picked up the kids from camp and was driving down a narrow street, beset on both sides with parked cars, leaving just enough room between for one vehicle to comfortably make it down. A big black Hummer was in the middle of the street, coming the other way, his turn signal on, just sitting there, waiting to turn into a parking lot.

I stopped my car. Behind the hummer was some jackass in a silver something, who had obviously just turned around from some precarious parking situation, and was sitting crosswise in the street, bumping up against cars in front and behind, trying to pull behind the Hummer. He looked stupid, and he knew it. I waited for the Hummer to move. I motion with my hand. Go ahead. GO. AHEAD. But Hummer would have none of it. He just sat there, reflective sunglasses on, waving his hand at me. The silver something was pulling out and back…out and back…trying to get a good position. I could see Hummer wasn’t moving and, as it was four times bigger than my car, I inched ahead to let Hummer pass behind me. There were several empty parking spaces on that side, so I was able to avoid scraping the paint off my car as I crept forward. Hummer rolled slowly ahead to complete his turn.

I waited as asshat in the silver something straightened out his behind and pulled in behind the Hummer. Then, for some reason known only to him and his drug dealer, silver something pilot pulled his car ahead and yelled out his window at me. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying…”…mmmmbmbmm…space!...mmmmmbmb…mine!...mmmmbmbm…big enough!...mmmbmbm…BIIIIITCH!!!”

Well.

Huh.

Guess I’ve been told.

My flight-or-fight response kicked in, and I decided what that guy needed was for me to jump outta my car, pound on his precious silver whatever until it looked like a piece of swiss cheese, pull him outta his seat, and pummel him til he cried like a scared little girl. But. I remembered my kids were in the back seat, and I should be the ‘good example’, and I really didn’t feel like spending any time in jail for assault, even if he did deserve it, and even though my wonderful attorney husband could claim I was under duress from my recent hormone shot.

So I just stewed for a minute, and let the tingling subside.

Karma will get him. Karma will ensure that next time he decides to be King Bitchy-Pants, it’s to a cop with a short fuse and a big billy club.

A Shot in the Dark

So yesterday I went to my OB for The Shot, the shot that would Stop All Nonsense, and I thought I was pretty smart.

I wore a short-sleeved shirt.

Usually on days when I have an injection, I encounter a Major Wardrobe Malfunction and wear something not only long-sleeved, but tightly long-sleeved, such that I have to twist my arm around my head three or four times, pulling fabric this way and that, off the offending limb, finally coming up with one good arm to poke, albeit with my bra showing out the side for good measure.

HAH!

Not this time, baby, oh no. Short-sleeves. All the better to poke you with, m’dear.

Lovely Nurse Penny sat me on the paper-covered stirrup chair whilst she got the meds ready. It was a big needle. Big scary needle from a lovely blue plastic box, which I thought was deceptive…I mean, if you’re gonna give me a big fakkin’ shot, make the needle come out of a box that says Big Fakkin’ Shot Needles HERE. Just so I get the freak out.

Nurse Penny walked over to me and I pulled back a bit of the shirt sleeve, over my shoulder, for her to get a better look at where to stab my meaty arm.

Nurse Penny smiled.
I didn’t trust that smile.

Nurse Penny smiled, and her eyes sparkled, and Nurse Penny said, “Right cheek.”

At first I thought it was some bible verse or other, y’know, “Turn the other cheek”, like I should face the other way for Big Fakkin’ Shot Needle.

Oh no.

Nurse Penny was telling me to drop trou.

“Really? No, REALLY?!?!?”, I stammered. And then I laughed like a sort of nervous hyena for a second, and thought she was kidding, only Nurse Penny was now laughing with her mouth open, obviously enjoying the feeling of power, and I suddenly couldn’t remember how to unbutton my pants.

“Are you SURE?”, I asked her.

“Yep…right cheek,” Nurse Penny repeated.

It felt like high school, all those fumblings in back seats and front seats and nervous tittering and this-is-wrong-innit. I haven’t gotten a shot in my butt since I was a kid. What, was my arm so hideous, so deathly, that the only safe place was my ass? Fer cryin’…okay. I found the button and the zipper, and pulled pants and underwear over my pasty white mound of bum-flesh. There! I wanted to shout at her. THERE! You wanted it, you got it, lady. Big. White. Pasty. Bum. Flesh. I sat down nervously.

“You can stand up, it’ll be easier that way,” Nurse Penny suggested. I turned my back to her as she grabbed a handful of skin, in that ‘pinch an inch’ way that Special K Cereal told us to years ago. Only butt-wise.

“Little poke, I’m sorry,” she said, and then...I felt nothing. I was expecting, like, bee-sting-y feeling, like when the lab tech takes my blood for thyroid tests, or when the dentist decides to play Steve Martin in “Little Shop of Horrors”, or when well-meaning doctors take cell samples by cutting out parts of my cooter. But…this time…nothing. And then, the smallest of smallest feelings of burning, like stinging, as the liquid coursed into my biggest body part. “The injection takes a while to finish, sorry, this will take a few minutes.”

The burning intensified only slightly, and Nurse Penny and I stood there, with Big Fakkin’ Shot Needle sticking out of my big ol’ behind, and then it occurred to me…IF the kindly Nurse HAD given me the shot in my arm, it would have hurt…a lot…and I would have had to look at the offending pointy object, which would have appeared as a machete sticking out of my poor old appendage, and I probably would have passed out. At least this way, I couldn’t see it, I hardly felt it, and Nurse Penny and I could have a pleasant chat about the weather and the OB and FMLA forms.

She finished with a gentle pull-out of the needle and a crinkly snap of a band-aid. Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.

After several chats with several other office staffers, I headed to my car to return to work, feeling pretty durn good. A little freaked out about what the shot was supposed to do (hot flashes? Aren’t I hot enough?). I slid into my car, and…DAMN! Shot! Butt! Sting! Yeow!

But.

Not an altogether bad feeling.

A little slap-and-tickle feeling.

Niiiiiice.

Dish this...have you had a shot in your butt lately?

I’m not dead. I’m getting better. I don’t want to go on the cart.

When was my last post? Let’s see…June 4. Wow. I’m a Grade-A Slacker! Woo-hoo! That week was hell week, fer sure, and then last week I was out three days with the kids and the two days I went to work were spent dog-paddling above the projects that threatened to drown me.

Some weeks are like that.

Even in Australia.

Well, let’s see…a recap. The kids are out of school and spending their days in summer day-camp at the community center. I made a deal with the boss to work extra hours Mon-Thurs and take every Friday off to a) spend more time with the kids, and 2) save money on childcare. I still plan to have Poetry Fridays. And I've missed you all terribly.

It’s hot here. Bah summer. The air conditioner in my car is broken. The air conditioning at work is sub-zero, which I secretly enjoy. But I never remember to wear the bras that show the world HOW cold my body is. (Bing! Nature’s thermometers!)

I’m skirting the real issue in this post. Trying to stave it off like avoiding hunger pangs by drinking water. Effective, but unsatisfying.

Okay. Here’s what’s going on with me. For reals. (This drama contains scenes that may not be suitable for children...viewed discretion advised.)

In April, I discovered my body had gone all Transformer-like and made me Bloodimus Prime. The fibroids that had lain sleeping for years finally decided to emerge from their Cave of Restful Slumber and cause me to flood and cramp, to stuff sheep and pillows up my yoni to avoid public accidents, and generally become a fearful, embarrassed mess of a girl. I made a trip to the ER. My OB put me on The Pill. I had high hopes, I did, I really, really did.

My first period on The Pill was 15 days long. My second, which came 9 days after the previous one ended, was 24 days long (it ended late last week). These periods were the worst. Crime scene days. Clots and bleeding and fear and exhaustion.

Not last week, but the week before, the night before the last day of school, I flooded…badly…for three hours…starting at Boy-child’s soccer game. I thought the episode was over, and Sergei left to go work out. I tucked Girl-child in bed. Boy-child was nearly so. Then. I started passing out. Tingly arms and gray vision and buckling knees. I had Boy-child help me call Sergei. Boy-child was scared, poor thing, and so was I. Sergei flew home and took us all to the ER. When I was stable, he took the kids home and tucked them in.

As I lay there in the ER in a rented hospital gown, with an IV tube in my arm and the nice Jamaican man taking vials of my blood for analysis, I made a decision.

I can’t live like this.

I can’t keep rushing to the ER when my body decides to push the equivalent of three menstrual cycles out my cooter in a one-hour period. I can’t live knowing that at any minute, I could flood…or pass out…god forbid when I’m alone with the kids. I can’t go on knowing that it could take years before my body went through menopause and stopped this crazy train.

I had the greatest nurse in the ER that night. Sandy. She sat with me for a long time, and we talked about what was happening. The Pill obviously wasn’t working. And the way the fibroids were growing, it would only get worse.

I made a sensible and rational decision.

I will have a hysterectomy.

I saw my OB last week and informed him of my decision, which he was all for. Between The Pill and a hysterectomy is an embolization surgery they could do, BUT it wouldn’t guarantee to make things right. Why bother?

My uterus has served me well, birthin' two beautiful children and perhaps aiding in those body-wracking orgasms I’ve been able to produce. But. The time has come to say goodbye to it.

My surgery is scheduled for July 18th. I’ll be in hospital a few days, then recuperating at home for weeks after that. My boss has approved my taking time off through Labor Day. (Labor…uterus…hah.) I took myself off The Pill the day after my last ER visit.

Later this morning I’ll be visiting my OB’s office to get a shot of Lupron, which will throw my body into a temporary menopausal state. We need to do this as a pre-op procedure…stop my menstrual cycle altogether, build up my iron and hemoglobin, shut down the hormones, and start shrinking the fibroids. This shot lasts three months, so after the hysterectomy I’ll need a hormone patch to reverse the effects of the Lupron, and my ovaries will resume normal hormone production after that. I'll go through regular menopause when the time is right. Ah...night sweats and hot flashes…I can’t wait!

My girlfriends have been very supportive, especially those who have had hysterectomies. Sergei is totally behind me (checking out my ass, no doubt), and said if it’d been him, he would have bypassed The Pill idea and gone straight for the surgery. My kids know I’ll be able to spend some more time with them later in the summer (6 weeks off, babies!), and most of the parents and in-laws have been told and have offered to press cold washcloths against my head and watch the kids as I lay in bed, drugged up, trying to watch reruns of The Addams Family. (snap snap)

So that, in my little nutshell of a world is What Mona Has Been Up To. Sorry it couldn’t have contained more nudity or salacious story-telling or long, poetic jaunts. Just the facts.

Oh. But I had this song in my head today. And it makes me think sexual thoughts. And that’s nice.

I still love you. Really.

I know, I know. I didn't post Poetry Friday last week because I was drowning in Life. I didn't do anything over the weekend as penance. I may not post much this week either, as it's the last week of school and all holy hell is breaking loose with field trips each and every day, and my attempts at a PowerPoint presentation for the last day of school (THAT'LL teach me to volunteer to do something I have no experience in). My car is dying, the kids have more sports than ever this week, work is thrashing me with scary cat-o-nine-tails, I can't sleep, and when I do, I dream of all the things I have to do.

I keep telling myself...get through this week...that's all...then you can rest. And it's true...after this Saturday, two sports fall by the wayside, school is over, the pressure subsides, and I can breathe again.

'Til then...well, wish me luck.