I am a disgusting person.

I am not a cook.  I do not enjoy cooking, I am not skilled at cooking, and I do not enjoy all of the things that go along with cooking. Like, dirty dishes.  Because, I am not a housekeeper, either.  I do not enjoy cleaning.  Once every month or so, I will get a little OCD, and decide that everything has to be scrubbed sterile.  Other than that, I do the bare minimum, so that we don't become swallowed up in our own filth.  My house is cluttered.  And dusty.  But it is full of happy, healthy people, who enjoy life, rather than fretting over whether or not our house is pristine enough to be featured in Good Housekeeping.

And my oven, because I despise cleaning, and fail at cooking, is frightening.  Husband has taken it upon himself to clean it, perhaps four times, in the ten years we have lived here, and owned that oven.

Thank you, Husband.  We might be alive today because of your thorough scrubbing of our gross oven.

The same, however, can not be said for the broiler.

Good, good god.

Yeah.  This is really it.  Yes, those are really roasting vegetables that I plan on serving for dinner tonight.

I don't have words.

There are literally dust bunnies in there.  All that gray shit is built up dust, because an air-conditioning duct blows up from the floor, directly in front of my oven.

I don't know what that smear of stuff is on the door, but if I had to venture a guess, it would be dog shit.  Someone had to have smeared dog shit on my broiler door.  Or vomit.  Or herpes.

The rest appears to be charred bits of food, crumbs that have fallen from the oven itself, and asbestos.

So.  Here is the picture of the horrifying place in which I am currently cooking food to feed to my children.

I think this should officially be the last meal that's prepared in this dungeon of terror, and hopefully, my public humiliation will be enough to encourage me to clean it.

And I hope a few of you will be encouraged to send me pictures of your disgusting house secrets, so that I don't feel so weird and alone.  Maybe I'll compile them all into a filthy, stomach-churning blog, so that we can all feel a little more connected to one another thru our god-awful habits.

Lordy.  I need to lie down.  (Said the person who just ate food cooked in my broiler.)

Scott McHott

I have slowly collected every single pillow in our bedroom, in order to maintain a tolerable level of comfort while I heal.
He has let me have them all, without complaint.

I have needed help getting out of bed at 2 in the morning, to get to the bathroom.
He has awakened from dead sleep, to lift me up, without complaint.

I have required ice packs and thousands of gallons of water to drink.
He has brought me all of it, without complaint.

I haven't been able to wash a dish, a load of laundry, or clean up any of the filth I have created during the recovery process.
He has taken care of it all, without complaint.

While I've been unable to reach my feet, he's prepared adorable little baths for them, immersing my dirty toes into Epsom salts and Dr. Bronner's, without so much as a grumble, while I sit back in my chair, surrounded by all of his pillows like the queen of the world.

When I am irrational, needlessly emotional, and pointlessly crying, he is there.  He is patient and understanding.  He reminds me, "you've been thru a lot."

When my family drops the ball, or just behaves in that asshole way that family members sometimes do,  he is there to reassure me.  

He has managed two children, two jobs, a messy house and an overrun garden, and a recuperating, needy wife, all without complaint.  And today, he did all those things during a migraine.

There really is no point to writing all of this, other than to brag.  My husband is a goddamned rock-star.   How he manages to do all this fantastic stuff while still maintaining porn-star hotness is a mystery.
Pretty sure I've nabbed the unicorn of husbands.  Fuck yeah.

Bon Voyage, Uterus.

Today's the day.  Hospital day.  Uterus day.  Goodbye Uterus day.

Last night was rough.  The prep medicine made me really sick.  I thought it might.  Last time I needed to "prep" for surgery the night before, I got violently ill.  So I was expecting it.
The good news is, after a few hours, I started to feel much better, stopped vomiting, and things began to proceed as previously planned...ok, I pooped everything I've ever eaten since birth, and then some.  But apparently, that's what they want.
I did not want.

Super-fantastic-husbandy-type-person surprised me with an amazing cake in the shape of a uterus, a large group of beloved family and friends, and endless reassurance and support.  It was the sweetest thing ever.  There was even an enormous fireworks display, all for me.  Well, it might have been an Independence Day display, set off for the whole neighborhood, but husband said I could claim it.  So I'm going to.  When else will I get the opportunity to say "bon voyage" to an organ, under the fiery sparks of a professional fireworks display?

I am paused by the outpouring of support and love from my friends and family.  I really don't know what to say, or how to say it, without sounding like the winner of a contest making an acceptance speech.  But that is precisely how I feel.  I feel like I won the friend-lottery.  While I have been afraid, I have barely had time to acknowledge it amidst the showers of support, well wishes, success stories, and a sea of their love.  I have so much more than I deserve.

I have mixed emotions this morning.  I'm scared.  Of the surgery.  Of the results.  Of whether this is the right choice.  The universe seems to be telling me that it is, because my uterus is having her last revenge this morning, and making it very hard for me to consider missing her.
I am sad.  Though more children were never a possibility, I know I will always be sad that I will never carry another one inside me.
I am angry that I have to go thru this at all.  I like my body parts.  Even the assholes, like the uterus, who can't seem to get her shit together and function the way she's meant to function.  She never could, the jerk.
But she gave us two babies.  Oh, uterus, I'm sorry for what I'm about to do...
No, I'm not.  She gave us two babies.  We made three.  And she tried to murder our second.  What a jerk...
I could do this all day.

No, I couldn't.  I'm due at the hospital in three hours, to go under the knife at 12:30.  Well, not really a knife so much as it is a wad of terrifying pointy things, remotely manipulated inside my body, by a doctor who is surrounded by robotic equipment.  Virtual reality surgery.  Holy, holy shit.

I suppose it's time for my second shower...another part of my surgery preparations.  Although I sincerely hope they take a few more steps to prepare me, once I'm unconscious.  I certainly hope that the fate of this medical procedure does not rest within my ability to soap up my abdomen and administer a douche.  Yeah, while we're on the subject of terrifying medical devices, there's one to look into.  Yikes.

So, I will wash my face and feet again, and all the important bits in between, and I will try to think past the scary things, and look forward to waking up, hugging my husband, and eating the cheeseburger I will make him bring me.  I will look forward to coming home and hugging our children, kissing their sweet heads, and being grateful for their presence.
And, I will look forward to a healthier life, without all the gynecological issues caused by a temperamental and inconsiderate uterus.   Fuck yeah.

So long, Sheryll!