I forgot to tell you, I have gas! I have gas! I haven’t been so excited to tell the world I have gas since three days after my womb-ectomy when the nurse asked me for the billionth time if I had passed gas and I was finally able to tell her I had. And tell her I did. I shouted it as she walked into the room. “I DID IT! I FARTED! I PASSED GAS!” Boy, was that a brilliant moment of pride for me. Not really - but the drugs were really good. Along with taking away my pain and making my big bloated body feel as tiny and floaty and delicate as a dancers body, the drugs made my shame disappear. And as my shame went away, I was happy to share all my intimate body issues with whoever walked in the door. “Hey, random stranger? Wanna see my stiches?” “I'm not wearing underwear. Check out this bruise on my hip. Isn’t it pretty?” “Come on touch my belly. It’s all water and it squishes.” All my friends and relatives were terrified to come into the room. The nurses thought I was hysterical. Husband horrified. It was awesome. I'm not kidding. Husband was unsure how to handle me, what with all the giggling, the sharing of all my feelings and, in particular, telling everyone about my body functions. And this is the guy who LOVES to talk about gas. Here is a sample of my conversations with Husband more often than I care to admit - ME: Did you fart? HUSBAND: No. Would you like me to? Or..... ME: Did you fart? HUSBAND: Yes. Would you like me to do it again? And... HUSBAND: Did you fart? ME: Nope. HUSBAND: Were you thinking about it? I could go on. You see why we’re perfect for each other. Anyway, here I am again, two years later, excited to have gas again. This time though, it is the good gas, the kind you can share with strangers and not be ashamed. This time, the gas is firing up my pretty stove and I can finally cook fancy dinners. Of course, I need to learn how to cook those fancy dinners while following all of Husband’s “I can’t eat…” rules. I guess what I really what I should say is I can now fry an egg! I won’t mention that Husband asked me to sniff for gas before turning on a light the very first morning we had it. Nothing like the fear of explosion to make you choose cold cereal over fried egg for breakfast. Here is a picture of my – our – lovely kitchen. And here’s a picture of my womb.
Kidding! I have one and I do pull it out and show people but I think I’ll save it for the book.
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Why is it that I still know all the lyrics for that one song in Grease that but I can’t remember the title of it to save my life?
Or that I remember the name of the boy I first had a crush on and how he broke my heart during a game of Kiss Catch in the playground by catching me and tickling me instead of kissing me? Or what Husband said during most every fight we have had? Why is it that I can remember all that but when I go to the grocery store later, I will forget the one major thing I came in for? Even if it’s written on my list, and I’m looking at my list and checking things off my list? Why can’t I clear out the clutter in my memory like I can my closet? Why can’t I purge useless things like the birthday of my best friend from 5th grade and replace it with people I know and love now? Why do I still need to know how to get to my Grandmother’s house through the woods in Monterey? Although, now that I’ve just stated that, I like that I still remember how to sneak through the secret path to the 17mile drive in Monterey and past beach to her house. And the closet comparison is not the greatest one. My closet is full of items I have not worn in years. Either because they don’t fit but I still like them or because wearing a little black dress to the grocery store is not my thing. Husband likes to say he has a photographic memory. He likes to say he will put something down or pack something in a box say a year and half ago and still remember where it is. And, when he can’t find it - because really, that’s BS – it’s because I moved it. I am the guilty one. It’s why he can’t find the thingumajig that supposed to boost the remote on the TV. He “…knew it was in this box.” “No, that box. No, it must be in that box over there. Wait, didn’t know I had this thing. Oh, that’s where the box is for that…” Not to mention the DIY supplies we have duplicates and triplicates of because he “couldn’t find it…” when he was looking for it and went and bought another and then another. Which is obviously my fault. See, I can remember everything that Husband does wrong but I can’t remember to buy the stupid onions when I’m in the store. Yesterday, while driving to work with the top of the car down, sun shining and the world generally looking and acting beautiful, that song from Pink Floyd came on. The song I don’t know the title of but can remember the words and all the times I listed to it crying in my room in high school because Bob (not his real name) did me wrong. That song. I sang that sucker all the way through, dramatic pauses, vocal gymnastics and everything, all the way through the chichi neighborhood of Belle Meade, sharing my memory with the world. I’m sure to have passed one famous – not that I’d know it – singer who winced at my rendition but sing away I did. Thank you, to the old guy who slowed down for a listen. You’re welcome, woman in the Mercedes who watched me in her rearview mirror. Teenagers laughing and pointing at me on the corner, this will be you someday but Bieber will not sound as awesome as Floyd. It’s a useless talent, remembering things that matter to no one but me but it is one I am going to have to own with pride. Because I sure can’t remember any other stupid thing I’m supposed to. Today I was going to write about my daily “I should…” lists. I was going to present you with my very exciting list of things “I should…” have done yesterday and the list of things that actually got done. But Husband and I went to listen to some songwriters last night and we both went a bit wild and had caffeine and neither of us slept well or long and then I woke up this morning to this:
HUSBAND: Tigger? Tigger? Are you getting sick? Tigger? Tigger the Dog, doing some copious licking, did not respond. Husband fumbled for his phone and turned on the flashlight aiming it at the crate. HUSBAND: Tigger? Tigger, leave it. Leave it! Pulling himself out of bed as he shouted, he stuffed his feet into his slippers and tried to stop TTD’s do-over meal. Not bothering to open my eyes or move, I asked - ME: Did she get sick? HUSBAND: Yes. He stumbled to the door, unlocked it and stomped down the hallway. I prized open one eye at peered at the clock. Five something. I lay my head back down, eye closed for a quick moment, the intent of an offer of help fading quickly as I fell back into fuzzy sleep. Husband came back and tried to get TTD the dog out of the crate. She was confused. He was sharp. I was useless. ME: Just pull that bed out and put it on top. (I mumbled) I’ll clean it later. And fell back asleep to the banging and clanging of the crate. Husband clomped out of the room and back in with her other bed. TTD was reluctant to leave the crate. Trying to be helpful, I suggested he take her outside in case she needed to be sick again but really so they would be quiet. Off they stomped. I was going to get up then and fix her dog bed but my back decided that it would wake up angry. I lay there trying to convince the stupid thing it was fine, listening to Husband open the door for the dog and encouraging TTD to go out for a pee, and fell back asleep. I woke up when they came back into the house, my bladder now joining the conversation my body was having with my brain. I was ashamed I hadn’t moved to help Husband - and yet, the shame didn't spur me into doing anything but lay there and think about it. Husband and dog came back into the room and as he shoehorned TTD into her crate just as my bladder won the battle to move over the bitching back. Husband was standing outside the door when I finished, waiting for his turn. He was not cheery. I apologized as I waddled back to the bed and groan rolled myself in, trying to get my back to stop talking to me. Back from the bathroom, Husband threw himself onto his side of the bed, pulled the quilt around him - mostly off me - tucked it in around himself and let his unhappy thoughts of resentment at my lack of participation settle about the bed. I snuck a look at the clock. Six something. Crap. Time for me to get out of bed and start on today’s list of “ I should…” It's much easier to get up when the waves of hatred and righteousness are permeating from Husband’s side of the bed and you're missing the comfort and warmth of the quilt. Oh, and all the puke has been dealt with. Of my list of “I should…” from yesterday, number one was wash TTD and clean all her beds and toys. She was, as usual, not at all pleased with the bath. Like a good female, she stored it up and let it out at an inopportune time. No matter, I’ll forgive her eating grass and puking on her clean bed if she can play a smile onto husband’s face later today. After he’s slept and forgotten that I just lay there and didn’t help one bit during this morning’s crisis. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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