She's Alive!

They say no news is good news. That's why I haven't updated on Slippy's Medical Misadventures. She came through the surgery like a champ, no cancer, and all but one ornery ovary intact. It is cause for celebration. I'm super proud of her for being so strong during a terrifying time. We couldn't have asked for a better turnout.

The mass of goo that was determined to ruin her fun was a pesky 10 x 6 x 4 inches and weighed in at almost six pounds. Sometimes, apparently, especially if the ovary becomes cystic, a Fallopian tube decides to twist. When that happens, it can collect blood, tissue and fluids, which is what happened to Slippy.

"It's like I had a small personal pizza in me," she said.

Her surgery was quick, and as soon as she asked for her mom, dad and "sister Nora," we ran in to see her. Of course, that's when a month and a half worth of crying commenced. As soon as I knew she was fine, I fell apart. But only momentarily. Soon she was installed in a room with a nifty morphine drip, cable TV and a stack of magazines bigger than my ass. Between visitors and sweet hospital-grade dope, she was on her way to recovery. In fact, she recovered so quickly from the anesthesia and was moving around so well that the hospital was willing to discharge her the next day. She wisely decided to let the hospital hold on to her for another night, but regretted that when the power went out and her room became a steam bath. But that was only a temporary hitch.

The next day, she said goodbye to Loyola and said hello to a journey of terror at the hands of her dad, Wrangler. Apparently, he managed to hit every pot hole in the long way home. Not fun. But she survived that,too. Yesterday, two days short of her two week anniversary, we got into the Bronculance and went back so she could get the staples out. As Dr. P casually snipped them out, he commented on how one patient requested to keep the staples. Everyone say it with me: Why!? I can understand wanting to see whatever they pull from your body (I was hoping to see the goo, but was sadly denied), but keep the staples? I don't get it. Talk about compulsive scrap booking...

She's still sore, but she got the go ahead to drive, swim and take regular baths. She also has clearance to stay home from work for another month. Sweet! So, it all worked out. Slippy ain't making a comeback; she's been here for years.

Medical Misadventures

It's been almost a month. I am, hands down, the shittiest blogger in the blogosphere, but I can live with that. Let me break down the last few months for you and then get into the meaning behind the title.

First of all: the magazine is done. I can't say I'm totally thrilled with my work, but I hear that's a common problem with writers. And dude, mediocre actors often say they can't stand to see their own movies, so I guess I kind of know what they're going through now. Here's a link if you'd like to see it. Juderonomy, I have a hard copy for you. It makes for awesome bathroom reading.

So, with all the stress of the magazine out of the way, I was able to fully enjoy a week of shameless, pasty Midwestern boozing on the beach with my Grecian homegirls in Puerto Rico for Nobility's bachelorette party. I may or may not be posting pictures, we shall see. But I will say that we averaged two hours of sleep a night, still got some color, despite the fact that it was PR's rainy season and had the best time EVER. Oh, and I gave up my seat on my flight home and earned myself a sweet free round trip voucher anywhere in the continental US. Where to go, where to go? So exciting.

All that is just lovely. But do you know what sucks? My bestie, my boss, my heterosexual life partner, Slippy, has recently received some disturbing news. She has a watermelon sized ovarian mass that must be removed. She has given me permission to chronicle her experiences and I have appointed myself her chauffeur, secretary and clown. I am one Burberry knicker/vest set and umbrella away from calling myself Farnsworth Bentley.

Since everyone knows going to the doctor is boring at best and nerve-wracking at worst, I have insisted on accompanying her to her every appointment, and she, in her infinite wisdom, decided not to fight me on it.

Of course, the one appointment I did not drive her to, the one appointment where she sat alone, is the one where her doctor referred her to an oncologist. I still want to kick my own ass for not being there with her and have vowed to never let her go to another appointment alone. Ever. So, she had to face the scariest POSSIBLE news alone (cancer has NEVER been confirmed, just treated as a possibility that must be taken seriously), but we learned our lesson from that. I'm her self-appointed sidekick. Why does the fearless and independent Slippy need someone to accompany her to even the most routine visits?

It's no fun to drive through flooded parking lots unless your driver says, "Wow, sure did rain a lot," and then blasts through a small lake with her window open, soaking said driver thoroughly. It's no fun sitting in waiting rooms without someone to gripe, "I've already SEEN this episode of Ellen!"

It's no fun to go to pre-admission appointments without someone who looks and smells like she may have escaped from in-patient rehab and tells the doctors and nurses she's your attorney. It's especially no fun to drive to appointments by yourself when your intrepid "legal counsel" can take you there in the '96 Bronco, AKA, the Bronculance.

We have toured medical facilities from Kankakee to Joliet to Maywood. We have enjoyed food porn after receiving good news and bad. We have witnessed dogs shitting, interns stuttering and twenty-foot injuns wearing spectacles.

My sweet and brave Slippy.

All jokes aside, Slippy has been such a trouper. From the first ultrasound, when she realized that this wasn't just some silly little fibroid, to the most recent pre-admission appointments for her surgery at Loyola, which is to be performed by the the best surgeon the hospital has to offer, she's been responsible about informing herself, getting the best care possible, strategically planning her time off from work and keeping her sense of humor.

It is scary. There is no way around that. But I sat with her when she met with her doctors, who happens to be the director of female reproductive oncology. He's such a bad ass that she's been asked: How did you get HIM? His attitude toward the results of her enormous battery of tests and scans was positive. He has no reason to believe that the mass is malignant, sees no sign of spread if it is, and has every reason to believe that she's going to come out of her surgery better than ever.

Which is, of course, exactly what is going to happen.

In the meantime, Slippy still has to hold her boss' hand while he acts like a babyhead, wrangle her wayward staff and devise a plan for her recovery that will allow her some rest and relaxation rather than more hand-holding and staff-wrangling. Me? I'm just looking for opportunities to help her out, make her laugh and do whatever I can to make a stressful and scary time as easy for her as possible.

So, basically, blogging takes a major league backseat, kids. I'm sure you understand. But stay tuned for more Medical Misadventures. Slippy and I know how to take a bullshit deal and turn it into a journey of discovery and comedy. We hope you will join us.

I love you, Slippy!

I Suck

Seriously, I am so burnt. I don't know why, but I just feel like I have NOTHING to say.

I'm sure that's just a temporary condition. It's very unlike me!

Word Bulimia--Can You Hold My Vocabulary?

I have just engaged in a month of hard-core verbal purging. I binged on research and the deadline was the finger in the back of my throat. I am now empty.

Give me just a few more days to read some stuff, to replenish my bottomed-out brain. Then I shall discuss my day on the tugs, the asshole neighbors and more.

Peace!

Three Tugs, Taco Mex and a Toddler

I had one of the most spectacular weekends in my own personal history. Friday night was PHS Palooza, an informal gathering of pretty much everyone who went to Peotone High School and has a Facebook account. I know a lot of people like to bag on Facebook, but if it weren't for Facebook, I would not have found and re-friended a lot of awesome people.

Anyway, an old high school friend's band played there on Friday. Black Cadillac was awesome and Trevor, the bass player, should be credited for getting Throwbacks jam-packed full of crazy people who had a blast listening to great music and just generally cutting loose.

Amongst those people were my old school bestie and her husband. I will call them Pink and Stink Lumpkin. They're the coolest. They both know how much I love Take Nora to Work Day and they both also understand my almost unhealthy obsession with the Cal-Sag and any and all to do with its industrial and recreational purposes. Well, Stink works on the tugs and he offered to give me a personal tour.

What kind of crazy girl would say no to an offer like that?

Not this one.

So, despite our night of tall revelry, Pink came to collect myself and Baby Cakes at Juderonomy's house in the late morning hours. We followed her to the tugs, which, by the way, are located very close to Calumet Fisheries, AKA, the site of Smell My Fingers! The Smelliest Food Porn Ever!

I have loads of pictures and I even have some food porn to write about. I cannot, however, give the story of Three Tugs, Taco Mex and a Toddler the proper attention, as I am just taking a quick break from writing my last feature for my wonderful bosslady, Slippy.

The magazine is going really well. I'm almost all done with my assignments. I have only had to minorly ride my freelance friend who is writing features with me. The work has been fun, interesting, a learning experience in general. When it's published, I shall post a link.

Oh, and the nun's booklet is finally done. It looks beautiful and all of the nuns are very happy with the final product. We won't be working on the second issue for another month or so, so, that's all the news on that front.

Anyway, stay tuned. The tug boat adventure with the Lumpkins was so incredibly fun, informative, adventurous and full of laughs (not to mention topped off with some of the best damn Mexican food I have ever had the pleasure of gorging upon) that I need to devote hours getting the pictures from my BlackBerry to my laptop and confirming the details of the machinery with Stink.

So, please bear with me. I'm working on being a fun blogger again and thanks to the Lumpkins, I am off to a great start!

Lamest Blogger Ever

That's me. What's up? What can I say? I'm all over the place. Anyway, before Baby Cakes wakes up from his nap, I thought I'd do a little recrappin' here.

Juderonomy and Poohpah are back from their month-long trek to the Deep South. I was starting to think they would never return, but they did and I was sure happy to see them. Funny story. They came over last Monday when I was still hungover from the Ball and my brutal fight with White Castles. What did they bring? White Castles. So, I pulled a Rhianna and got back together with the Sack of Ten. I'm so weak.

In other news, I went to see Mary Poppins the musical with my sister in law, Diva. I just went along because she asked me and I figured why not? I had no interest in seeing it, didn't really care for the movie when I was a kid. But what the hell? I love musical theater, so I went.

It was ludicrous. In a good way. It was tripped out and hilarious. There was a part in the park where some of the statuary comes to life and the costumes left little to the imagination. You could distinguish religions and shit. Diva and I clutched each other in laughter and kept squeaking out the words, "Camel toe! Camel toe!"

Aside from jiggling junk all over the stage, the set design was incredible, the song and dance numbers were hilarious and served as a time machine to our childhoods. I found myself filing away Maryisms for future use. For instance, the next time my boss asks me to explain myself, I will respond with a tinkle of laughter and say, "Why, Mr. Banks, when have I ever explained myself?"

Verdict: Great show. Lots of fun, good for the kids, but there was plenty of male and female genitalia on display for the grown-ups, too.

This weekend brought my favorite city girl, Season, over for a visit. We ate our body weight in Italian deli meats, had cocktail hour and played with Baby Cakes. On Saturday, we returned to the mothership, Ann Sather in Andersonville. I love to binge on the crab cake benedict and the sticky buns. So freaking delish. For the first time in a long time, I stayed home and did homework on a weekend evening. It was nice to wake up Sunday all refreshed. With a throbbing toothache. Son of a bitch.

Yesterday I took two eighth grade girls to the mall to shop for their graduation dance outfits. I must say, the three of us ladies did very well together. Team work and shit. They are both outfitted very nicely. I was able to deflect each and every attempt to hooch it up with an, "I don't think so." Actually, neither of them are inclined to be very hoochie-like, but still. Then I got to have dinner with Mister, B.C. and my cousin's family. It is so funny to watch B.C. play with girls. He's such a little bull in a china shop.

And finally, the last hours of my weekend were devoted to cocktail hour in Mister's man cave out back. Heidi and I had to cut loose and blow off some steam, which we did. It only required one bottle of wine, too, so I feel good today. Aside from this toothache. Son of a bitch!

Anyway, it was a nice weekend of visiting with my loved ones and dodging hangovers. I got a lot of work done and got lots of rest. On a scale of 1 - 10, I give this weekend an 8.5.

I'm going to try to make a comeback. I can't promise anything as wonderful as blogging about cheddar or asteroids, but I will give it a shot. Feel free to assign me with topics. Sometimes assignments are just what I need to get it going, you know? So shit, yeah. That's it. Assign me topics and I will write them. Nothing is off limits. Throw it at me. I challenge you.

You Can Dress Me Up, But ...

It's not just a cliche in my case, it's hard fact. You can dress me up, and you can take me out; but sometimes you may want to reconsider.

Slippy, Ratherto and I went to The School's Scholarship Ball last night. It was a big, fancy do with all kinds of muckety mucks, including Cardinal George. You would think that his superhero looking cape (good call, Rath) and that goofy hat would be made out of something that looks a little less like cheap rayon. But whatever. I was afraid I might run into him at the bar or something, so I googled it, and if you ever come face to face with a cardinal, call him Your Eminence.

The ballroom was beautiful, it was fun to dress up and hob nob, make soul-crushing small talk with strangers, eat a fancy dinner with Ratherto and watch Slippy win a week vacation in the raffle.

The highlight was letting an old coot take me for a spin on the dance floor and the lowlight was tripping on my dress and falling down. On the other hand, I only fell down in front of Slippy and Roy and I didn't even spill my wine. I think by the time I started getting a little loose lipped, most of the other party goers had reached a certain level of ... uh, revelry and the impact of my usual off-color ways may have been blunted. A bit. Let's hope.

Anyway, I may come back to this topic later, but for now, I am suffering the pain that only too much white wine and 2 a.m. White Castles can generate. I'm paying the piper, kids, and it ain't pretty.