Ok-so it's time to get back at it again (blogging, that is-certainly not laundry...) because the story-voices in my head are backlogging, and Mr B says that now my mouth is actually moving as I crazy lady whisper-talk to myself... So yeah, maybe I need to write stuff down so I can at least stop grimacing, wincing, and giggling to myself... I can see how that might make others a bit twitchy and uncomfortable...
H(ysterectomy)-ville Retrospective:
You know how you should never try to tell a joke and then afterwards lamely attempt to explain the intended humor? Well, I should heed my own advice, but I sorely wish I had recorded those petty-yet-significant-in-the moment-uterus-dramas.
Such as... (Beware the GORE!):
1. Mr B accusing me of dropping jello-shots on the bathroom floor...
2. My vague discomfort that I was routinely flushing unnamed blood babies down the toilet to their watery graves with only the briefest of unsentimental Cottonelle ceremonies...
3. My new Indian name.... Mattress Slayer
4. My angst over how one should wear one's hair upon waking post-surgery and knowing that Menopause (that vicious bitch!) is gonna be waving the flames of hell under your tatty, sweat soaked hospital nightgown...
5. Cute-boy-gynecologist-surgeons.... Laws... The perpetual stress of attempting to modernizing one's lady parts for the young and knowledgeable...exhausting... But I refuse to even consider Vaggazling...
6. However, I did have lengthy conversations with lady friends over the merits of the Brazilian... or is it the Bermuda triangle???
7. Mr B likened my potential Brazilian idea to putting a new paint job on an old car and then parking it in the garage for 6 months... what a metaphor smart-ass, huh???
Well y'all.... I guess that's enough fun for one morning. And it is time for me to pop another Oxy, so I will sign off, but please rest assured that all is ultimately well, and complaining might just be an art form after all.
