Whatever happens, remember this, at the very least...

Everything is going to be ok.  

Today I miss my dad.  Or whoever he was.  I don't really know how to claim him now that he's gone.
Out in the world today, I saw a man and thought, "oh, there's dad!  Let's go say hi!"  Only to remember, seconds later, that he's not here anymore.
Forgetting is hard.  Remembering is worse.

I don't think I'm allowed to feel this way.

But, I miss you anyway.  Whoever you were.  

When you shove your chicken down my throat...

So, you are bragging about your Chick-Fil-A purchase today, are you?

Let me tell you how that feels to a person of my..."persuasion."
No, let me just tell you how it feels to me.

"Krystal,
Even tho I am kind to your face, and even tho you have never sought to purposely hurt me, I would like for you to know, with a little "wink wink," that I am heading out today, specifically to give money to people who hate you.  I am going out into the world today with the sole purpose of funding people who think you are wrong.  People who seek to keep your rights, and the rights of the people you love, limited.  I hope you find the cute little smiley faces, and the little giggle giggle way I brag about it to be just adorable.
Fuck you, you disgusting, faggoty piece of Pagan shit.
So, you want me to bring you some fries or something?"

My response?
I don't want to be associated with the likes of you.  It's not cute.  It's not something to brag about.  If you want to do it, do it.  Rubbing it in my face is hurtful.  And no one worth my time would ever do that to me.

So, when you find the time, between your busy chicken-gobbling, hate-filled purchases, and your facebook updates, telling all the gays that you hate them, go fuck yourself, you self righteous, sanctimonious asshole. 

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!  

Healing with women

For a stay-at-home housewife/mother, solitude can become a problem.  Of course we are surrounded (constantly, even in the bathroom) by the love and laughter of our children, but actual face-to-face grown up contact is a rarity.  At least it is for me.  My husband works two jobs back to back, and we only have one car.  There is very little adult face time in my everyday life.  The sense of cabin fever, and loneliness can sometimes become a very heavy feeling.

Add in a pile of family crises, and it becomes overwhelming.  To say that things have been chaotic for us of late would be a gross understatement.  If there is bad karma to be received, we are receiving it.  People have been sick.  People have died.  People have disappeared.  People have undergone major surgeries, or have major surgeries pending.  This has been a very, very strange couple of months.

Thankfully, and completely out of character, my husband and I have maintained.  The stress has not (yet) caused me to experience a toddler-grade meltdown, and he and I have managed not to take it out on each other.  In fact, he has been incredible.  And I believe that the composure between the two of us has helped make things seem a little easier.
What?  Behaving like reasonable, mature people who respect and love each other, makes stresses easier to handle?  Who knew?

So we're slow learners.  Being grown up is hard.

As wonderful and supportive as he has been, it still doesn't take the place of the support of a friend, immediately outside of your circle.  A person who loves, but is not "required" to love you.  A person who is there for you strictly of his or her own choosing,  and not because there is a marital, or a familial obligation to do so.  There is great strength in knowing that someone chooses to support you in a crisis, simply because they love you, and nothing more.

As a woman, there is sometimes nothing that can equal the support and laughter of other women.  A circle of ladies, sharing of themselves, and helping a person to feel supported, surrounded, and loved.  A coven of women, sharing their laughter and their sorrows, without judgement, and in kind, accepting yours.

My family received some strange and terribly sad news this week, and consequently there has been a chalky fog in my house, as we decide how to process this news.  The feeling of being swamped in isolation became nearly overwhelming as a result.  I wanted to hide, to sulk, to mope.

But, rather than canceling plans that were set into motion a month ago, I kept them.  And I filled my house with lovely women, old friends and new, and they brought with them their healing laughter, and unspoken support.  We shared wine and food, swear words and talk of aging bodies, husband and boyfriend stories, our woes and triumphs of parenting and marriage, and they refreshed me.  I am grateful.

I find it fascinating, the energy between women.

There is such relief and comfort in hearing another woman talk about a struggle or a burden that you're facing yourself.  There is power in knowing that we share the same struggles.  With our children.  Our husbands.  Our bodies.  It's soothing to know that we are not alone, even when we are certain that's the case.

It is entirely too easy for me to make a habit of staying isolated.  Socializing begins to take on a frightening form, and so I allow myself to withdraw from it, which creates a sort of vicious cycle, leaving me lonely, and socially hungry.  I am grateful to this recent circle of women, who came to pull me from the fog with their laughter.  I am grateful to myself for accepting their healing presence.  I am eager for the next gathering of women, and food, and wine.

I will embrace it as medicine.

The woman-strength thing.  Not the wine thing.
Although the wine was nice, too.