Conceit or laziness? I just can't decide . . .

Dear Shania Twain,

Let's just cut the bullshit (you=singer, blah blah blah, sometimes fairly okay; me=sometimes lukewarmish fan, blah, blah, blah although have admittedly never actually purchased any of your albums but don't always change the station when one of your songs is on, blah blah blah) and get straight to the point.

I think it's weird that when you record songs as a duet, that you then re-record them either by yourself (as in that cavity-causing classic, From This Moment) or with someone else (a la that newish better-than-cheddar hit{?} Party for Two). Regarding the former: Was Bryan White really so intrusive and/or off-key? Or was his boyish presence just deemed not worthy? What? WHAT? I really want to know. Really. And also regarding the latter: For the record, I do like Mark McGrath as much as the next girl, but I must point out that I really don't see Billy Currington as so richly steeped in country & western goodness. I think he could've crossed over just fine. For those who are, you know, into that sort of crossover shit. Or did Billy think he was too good for that? Is it really Billy's own fault? The dual-duet version is no fault of your own?

So I just don't understand the whole dual-version thing. Oh wait. Just had possible epiphany that could cancel out this entire post: Are we maybe kindred spirits and these dual-duet-versions are just a way to get two album songs for one, thereby reducing amount of work (singing, in your personal situation) that is actually done but creating illusion of full workload? If so, well then, I totally can endorse that.

Sincerely your possible kindred spirit or your mostly bemused sorta-sometimes listener-to-your-music,

Laurie

ps Don't you get cold in those belly shirts all the time, especially with all that fake wind blowing through your hair? Or, does thinking warm "Castle in Switzerland" thoughts get you through? Or, is all that shivering the key to a bunny-rabbit-speedy-quick metabolism?

'Tis better to give than receive, or that's what I've been told anyway

Alternatively titled, I am a greedy, self-centered bitch

Each year, dh asks for my Christmas list. Yeah, it's kind of nostalgic, like when I was a greedy child writing a letter to santa, rather than a greedy adult emailing my wants to my dh. But it also kind of pisses me off that the man lives with me every goddamned day and still seems completely thunderstruck by the items on my list. I mean, like he totally has no clue the stuff I like. And for some reason that pisses me off while I am making a list of potential gifts for myself. And don't say that I should just not make a list and see what he comes up with because I've been down that road and there are no fucking presents at the end of it. Yes, you read that right. If I don't tell him exactly what to buy, then he will not buy me anyfuckingthing. So now you better understand why the whole Christmas list pisses me off, yes? Yes. Yes? Good.

I know, I am such a bitch. I try to work through this on my own time. This year, for something completely different, I thought I'd share with you:

3 things that aren't on my Christmas list

Can we talk about this? Oh, we can? All right, then. Good. Now, I know the first thing that comes to mind is: "wow, what an amazing job of totally obliviating the nipples through airbrushing" so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of those of us perusing the Vicky's Secret catty. Yes, the airbrushing is premium quality, that stuff. Let's disregard the fact that the only place I could wear this would be the stripper pole. Somehow, I just can't see the girls hanging out in this little gem, pun intended. They're rather free-form, since weight loss and pregnancy. It just wouldn't be pretty. So I don't want this at all. So don't go to any trouble on my account, k?

And we should talk about this, too? Because I don't want this either. For reasons that I can't articulate well at all because of the disgusting mental images conjured up by the concept of a 10-year-old grilled cheese. Other random musings inspired by decade-old grilled cheese--Doesn't she wonder what other potential images could've been embedded in the rich tapestry of half-sandwich she ate? And must note the amazing preservative properties of plastic box/cotton balls. Look out seal-a-meal.

And also we need to spend a moment on this. I sooooo don't desire monogrammed crapper paper. Because you just know that DH would totally wipe his ass with my designated paper, which would just cause a stupid fight and for what? And what of that nagging fear of monogram ink-streaks on my ass? I mean, sure the shit is gone, but what if traces of ink remain? What good is that? So again, not on my list.

I am so hard to buy for. I am sure, gentle reader, that you can see why I have to make the list. What's that you say? You say you're thinking that you can't believe that anyone buys me anything at all since I'm such a whiney ungrateful wretch? Oh.

Life is like a motherfucking box of chocolates

The View, spanning three generations

So after I read this and this, I thought:

"Life is not fucking fair."

and:

"What the Fuck, Chuck?!"

respectively.

My 6 year old daughter A, on the other hand, (still smarting a bit from the sting of not being permitted to name baby C) thought:

"When is Granny going to grow twins in her tummy?"

because:

"She will definitely let me name them both."

My 56-year-old mother thought:

"No goddamned way."

Quality television

So my friend Cyn (who used to be my friend IRL, til she moved away and now lives in my computer. Strangely enough, we talk more this way . . . ) and I were just this minute now having an IM session and I'm like all excited 'cause I recently saw the new freaks listing, um I mean cast, of Surreal Life 4.

And then Cyn reveals that she is off television.

Say what? That's crazy talk.

Well, that's a conversation stopper right there, folks. I mean, none of my friends (those in real life or those in the computer) are off television. Cyn! Say it isn't so!

So being the good wife that I am, I immediately call dh and I bring up the possibility of cutting our television umbilical cord. As you might imagine, he is properly horrified at the mere suggestion. Being off television just sounds way too high class or intellectual or something for dh and I. It's something we might admire from afar (and really, I kind of do Admire It), but no fucking way would we wanna live there, for God's sake. Really--we have no lives of our own. We must live vicariously through the freak shows that are beamed to us through the idiot box.

We love idiot box . . .

I shudder to think that Cyn is suffering without the following Things That Make Life Bearable:

• Bands Reunited
• American Chopper
• HGTV in general, and Curb Appeal in particular (thank the directv gods you are back, Rick Spence, you hunk of funkyfreshness)
• Various special televised offerings involving gender ambiguity, reassignment, frustrations with, etc.
• The Critical Hour (okay, I hate this, but dh loves it and I must admit that it provides a nice balance to my google medical knowledge)

Can you imagine? What do she and her husband talk about if not the following topics:

• Sex, to have or not to have, quality of, lack thereof, planning for
• Bands, ones we miss, how much ones have went down hill, freaks resulting from thereof
• Bikes, ones I will never ride, Paul Sr., Paul Jr., Mikey, Vinnie angst involving the aforementioned combined with too much money and too much mouth
• Sex, quality of, lack thereof, planning for, new techniques mentioned in magazines or online or via some other communication methods
• Shit that needs done around the house
• Medical procedures that would result in the feeling that we would rather be shot dead than have to endure
• Sex, to have or not to have, quality of, recent (or not so) occurences of, planning for, sloppiness and/or shoddiness or lack of sloppiness/shoddiness in current birth control practices

Maybe this is working for Cyn and her husband, but as you can see, gentle reader, being off television would put a serious damper on the discussion of current events at Casa Cystah. We can't have that now, can we? Can We?

No. We Just Can't.

Whew. Now then. I'm going to go update our cable options. Maybe order a pay-per-view. Maybe even a pay-per-view porn, thereby combining dh's two favorite pastimes of tv and sex.

Shit, I am such a good wife.

The P! True Pregnancy After WLS story

Everywhere I go . . .
People wanna know . . .
'Bout pregnancy after weight loss surgery. . .
So I tell them:

And just when you were thinking I don't keep my promises. Yes, I did remember that I'd promised this.

So, how long between your surgery and your pregnancy, anyway?
I had roux en y gastric bypass on October 15, 2002. I found out that I was pregnant in late September 2003. So, not quite a year between the two. Weight-wise (for those of you who measure "in-between" in poundage increments), I weighed about half of what I did when I had surgery. So, in other words, I was down about 150 lbs.

Did you get knocked-up on purpose, or was it one of those post-surgery hormones-gone-wild like I read 'bout with gastric bypass? Or, your malabsorption fucking with your birth control pills? Or quite simply a Festivus miracle?
Naturally, since post-wls email groups are always chatting on (and on and on and on . . . ) about those Surprise! pregnancies after wls, I couldn't help but wonder about it (who the hell could not?). But the truth is, I was just sloppy with my birth control, which is something that pre-surgery I could always get away with. Immediately following my surgery though, I was ultra-strict with the birth control, really I was quite devout. But that is not my norm and I soon returned to my slovenly ways, as I am so totally unaccustomed to such disciplined birth control practices after marriage. Honestly, since finding out I had pcos, I've been fast and loose with the birth control So Much that I never gave a thought to it catching up to me. Or, if I ever did, those were way back in the day and I've completely forgotten that I had them. So, even though the pregnancy was a surprise, it wouldn't have been a surprise to a normal person and even though it was unexpected, we were certainly happy. I mean, come on, I am a recovering infertile, after all. And I naturally love to pee on sticks.

So, I've heard that after gastric bypass, you hardly gain any weight while pregnant and afterwards, the weight just melts off you like magic. So . . . did ya? Did Ya? Did you lose weight while you were pregnant?
I gained loads of weight while pregnant, much like a pig being fattened for the slaughter, somewhere in the neighborhood of 40lbs or so. Keep in mind this is in sharp, sharp, oh-so-sharp contrast to the rest of those bitches on the pregnant after rny chat room who leave pregnancy weighing at least 62 lbs less than before. And, God, yes, it was disheartening to see the scale rapidly climbing back The Bad Way, since I'd become so used to seeing it slide down The Good Way. And especially since those aforementioned bitches had assured me that weight gain just wouldn't happen. Seriously though, that kinda exaggerates the amoung of my angst over my pregnancy weight gain. In the moment, I was way too totally wrapped up in the baby-growing and dead baby thoughts to obsess much over my pregnancy weight. Dr. W said that my weight gain was totally fine, so he was my enabler in this instance. Plus, there were lots times I could hardly keep anything down (both wls and the pg were causes of this) and if I didn't eat, I got incredibly light-headed, and like only 5 different things would stay in my pouch (aka stomach for those non-wls people). And at least 1 of those things was named pizza. So. Therefore. When only 5 things will stay in your pouch and one of them is pizza, you can only worry about weight gain so much, ya know? Cletus the Fetus had to eat sumpthin'.

Did you have an easier pregnancy/do you think your pregnancy was easier since you weighed less?

Hell yeah. Even though at the end, my pregnancy went to hell in a handbasket, I really never felt bad bad. I think I was always used to feeling "bad" because of my obesity and I had felt "bad" because of the obesity for so fucking long, that pregnancy complaints just never touched that level of bad-ness. Which may have led to the delay of my HELLP syndrome diagnosis. I totally believe that if I had weighed nearly 300 lbs (like back in the old days), that pre-eclampsia/HELLP syndrome would've found me much earlier. At least I was almost at term and in otherwise good health when the bad shit started.

Good things about wls and pregnancy?

Getting pregnant at all, ever, in the first place! Starting pregnancy with no blood-pressure or blood-sugar medications and in reasonably good health! Fitting into normal-sized maternity clothes! Actually being able to look pregnant!

Bad things about wls and pregnancy?

Lingering, sneaking, guilty doubts about possibility of malnutrition playing crucial role in causation of pre-eclampsia. Difficulty in choking down horse-pill-sized prenatal vitamins.

How did pregnancy affect your surgery results? Did it "undo" your gastric bypass? Come on, do tell about how those excess pounds just melted right off.

Ahem. Well now. Honestly, to this day I am still up 10 lbs from my prepregnancy weight. I can't seem to shake those, unfuckingfortunately. My pouch is no longer the "enforcer" that it was prepregnancy, but I have no way of knowing if that's due to the pregnancy or simply due to the fact that I'm two years out of surgery. I have to consciously strive to make healthy choices when I eat (much like a so-called normal person) and I'm told that this is a normal stage for someone as far out from surgery as I am. Shit. So. I am currently deluding myself that once Baby C sleeps through the night reliably, I'll feel more like exercising. And that actually may happen. 'Cause I do miss exercising. Well, as much as one can miss exercising. Well, I miss the quiet solitude that a mother gets for a blessed 3-4 times per week when she shuts herself into a room with headphones and a treadmill and suffers through the goddamned exercising.

So, any regrets about the whole shebang?

Well, that's hard to say. I do wish I'd had wls sooner in my life. I wasted too much time being scared of the surgery and suffering with my weight and and and . . . I just wished I'dve done it sooner is all. But that is just my experience with wls, and may not be true for anyone else at all ever. Ideally, I wish that I had been a little further out from surgery before getting knocked up, but a girl who is as unfertile as me kinda has to take any pg she can get, ya know? I wish I'd waited just a bit more, solely to have given my blood pressure time to stabilize. Pre-wls, I'd suffered from high blood pressure. However, since the spring following my surgery, my blood pressure was firmly in the normal range. Would a few more months of being normal bp-wise have prevented my pre-eclampsia? Or is this just more of me trying to blame myself for my body's shitty reproductive tendencies? Who the hell knows.

I feel like I'm forgetting vitally important info here, so let me know if I haven't answered your questions. Really, I do what I can. Really.

The Missionary Position

My mom stays home with my kids during the day while I'm at work. Yes, I'm very lucky that way. While this is good, the lot of them will, on occasion, suffer from varying amounts of boredom. As result of this, mom and the kids have to take their thrills where they can get 'em, I guess.

Yesterday afternoon, some Mormons came to the door, doing missionary-ing or whatever.

So anyways, it was lunchtime and the Mormons were at the door and I was busy with my lunch beer and playing with the baby, and so I asked my mom to please politely tell them that we weren't interested, thankyouverymuch. In our old neighborhood, Mormons came by all the time and I can shoo them away speedy-quick yet still very nicely, as I understand they mean well and I'd imagine that it's not exactly pleasant, soliciting door to door like that and all. I'm just completely uninterested and as such, am not the best use of their time.

Therefore, I was rather surprised to walk through our front hall and see my mom still talking to the Mormon boys. Or I guess, to be more correct, N was talking to the Mormon boys. This did make me a tad bit concerned. I consider putting down my lunch beer and intervening, but instead I decide to observe this exchange. You see, gentle reader, N used to go to a preschool that was affiliated with a rather strict church. We didn't belong to that particular church but really it was a very good preschool. So from his very own life experiences, this kid knows all about Jesus and such and can stump-preach with the best of them when he feels like. Not that I encourage that sort of thing, mind you, but I don't like to stifle his creativity when it's not resulting in hurt feelings or bodily harm. Anyway, quotes that I have personally heard from this boy's mouth include: "Jesus, he's on my team." and "Jesus, he's my kind of guy." and "Jesus died on the cross. ON THE CROSS!" (he can summon up quite a fervor for a 4 year old, no kidding). So, if N is in the right mood, these boys could very well leave our house as Southern Baptists, is my thinking.

But alas, the results weren't as bad as they could've been, if you ask me. So much for my lunchtime entertainment.

N: "What're you boys here for? I got trains upstairs! Wanna play with trains? Do you like trains?"

Mormons (very kindly): "No, we're here to talk to you about Jesus. Do you know Jesus? Let's talk about Jesus."

N (very disappointed sounding, imagine big heaving sigh): "Oh, just him again. Yeah, whatever, I know all about that guy. Hey! Let me talk to you about Moses instead." (N has an easy-reader story book about Moses that my MIL gave him for Easter last year and lately he's very proud that he can read it all by himself.)

These boys now have excited look, as they realize they've unwittingly stumbled upon a household of heathens! WooHoo! Heathens with a Casual Relationship with Jesus Christ! We're a rare breed, usually found only in captivity! They probably learned all about us at some point in their missionary training. I can tell they're looking forward to saving our sorry asses, I mean, souls.

I'm sure I disappointed them by gently yet firmly sending them away at this point. Sorry guys. There's no sense wasting your time. Later, my own mother further traumatizes me by mentioning that the Mormons have made her realize that it wouldn't hurt for me to keep more young, nice-looking men around the house.

Somedays, coming home for lunch is more trouble than it's worth.

Will Steal For Beer

Huh.

Now, some people might think that this woman acted out of grief or spite. Me? I'm thinking she was out of cash for beer & smokes and as you know, desperate times call for desperate measures.

The capacity for freakishness never ceases to amaze me.

Heartbreaker, dreammaker, love taker blah blah blah

Laura Bush keeps calling my house.

No, really. Dude, I mean she's called my house like every day for the past week. It's like she's got me on speed dial or some crazy shit like that.

Now, as I'm a devout liberal, we all know Laura's damn good and well not calling for me. And whenever I answer the phone, her tone gets all cold and impersonal, almost like she's a recording or something.

Call me crazy, but do you think it's possible that she's after DH? 'Cause Laura, believe me, somedays I'd let you have him, but I just wanna make sure you know up front that we are so totally not swapping.

I don't think you're ready for this jelly

I've went into some extended detail about the sodden mass that is my stomach skin. N has recently shared his own thoughts on the matter.

The time: Morning, early, still mostly dark outside

The mood: Depressed, as have to go to work. Hate work. Hate still-dark morning. Hate mornings, period. Damn mornings and work, separating me from my beloved children, bed, sweatpants, books, and hermit-like tendencies. Fuck.

The place: My closet. Which, I might add, is exceedingly cleaned up by anyone's standards, but exceptionally so for my own.

Extenuating circumstances: I'm still mostly naked, can't decide what to wear to the blasted office, other than what I already have on, i.e. my bra, panties, and trouser socks. Fuck.

Laws broken: N, trespassing in my closet with complete and utter disregard for my morning grouchiness, state of undress and slower mental processes.

Conversation ensuing:

N (all of a sudden, the kid's patting my stomach, whyyyy?): "Whooo! Look at this, it just moves around. All around! Everywhere! This is soooooo Jiggly. It is the Jiggliest. Yes, the Jiggliest stomach I have ever seen! You are jiggly, mama!" This is said with a vast amount of cheerfulness that only a preschooler can muster in the a.m., and we all know that the word jiggly rarely inspires reciprocal cheerfulness in a grown woman.

Me (thinking "fuck", speaking, however, gently but firmly): "Stop it. It's best to not grab other people's stomach skin unless you ask them first. That's not appropriate to just grab people. Are you supposed to be in here? Is your breakfast finished?" (Thereby attempting to employ oft-utilized parenting technique of distraction)

N: That tummy is the best, mama. How did you get it to be so jiggly?

Me: N! Out! Breakfast! Now!

N: I looooove your Jiggly tummy, mom. It is great!

Me (thinking fuck Fuck FUCK!): Thank you very much, sweetheart. Now. get. OUT. this. instant.