Last night my hubby came home after spending most of the week in Texas.  So I finally slept well...You know, that sort of restless "what if something happens" type of sleep that you get when you are the only one in the house?  and for me that also includes some variation of "who will force me out of bed and make me go to work in the morning?" type of panic.

So last night I slept well...all curled up next to Steve.

I heard him get up and use the potty in what I perceived to be the Middle Of The Night.  and then he came back and i was all warm and cacooned up until my ass let go of the biggest fart ever.  so big in fact that steve actually shook or flinched or dodged or something!

So I start laughing hyseterically and then it occurs to me: THE ALARM NEVER WENT OFF, I AM LATE TO WORK!! (yes, a small voice in my head did say something like "eh...they prolly won't fire you TODAY....") So I sprung out of bed "you didn't tell me you shut the alarm off!" (like forcing the blame on him was going to turn back time...)

So I stagger off to the shower, sort of half laughing about the Fart Alarm and half crazed that I will be late to work...

Steve?  Face down with his head in the pillow...I presume he was laughing like a maniac that his wife's ass just alerted her to the fact that she will lose her job if she does not respond to the resounding clap of thunder emminating from it...

So, everyone here by now realizes that I am not politcally correct.  I eat animals, I wear animals and I dont give a damn.  I understand that people hunt...I dont like it, but I am not going to go around preaching to a bunch of people with guns and beer...This though:

I defy anyone to explain to me how it is that THIS sweet little creature is worth being hunted?  Coats are just as warm made up of mink...which are, HELLO? VERY MEAN!

It is not like these little seals are out there hunting humans...or even running for God's sake...They are laying on ice...Their top speed is like one yard per hour...So even the term "hunting" is not applicable here...Hunting is a SPORT...you chase and then you use strategy and you aim and you kill...sudden death. 

I don't condone it, but I do realize that there is some skill involved.  I can appreciate that the deer over populate the forest and then everyone starves...Some deer must die...(However, they must also be clearly labeled if you plan to use them in chili).

Baby seals are not depleting anything!  There are more than enough teensy fish to go around.

Imagine you are just lounging around Barnes and Noble and thinking "what a lovely latte I am having...no one even had to die for it!" and then BLAMO!  You get hit in the head with a club...and you don't even die before someone starts cutting your skin off!

I think that is enough graphic detail.  NO KILLING OF BABIES.  This is a strict rule from now on.

Join me in boycotting Red Lobster until they stop buying their seafood from Canada in response to the barbaric practice that is the seal hunt.

p.s. Red Lobster is gross anyway...go get yerself some decent seafood flown in from the pacific...not CANADA.

Yesterday at work, it was Chili Cookoff Day! Yay!!  I stayed up late the night before frosting cupcakes in honor of this magical day. 

 I may  not have mentioned it before, but lately my ass has not been tolerating crap very well...Not very well at all...There was the Pei Wei incident on monday that left me damn near crippled in the ass department...I had to sprint Olympic-style to the bathroom within fifteen minutes of intake...What a total waste of seven dollars...

So, for chili day I started getting set by taking imodium early in the morning.  I was keeping the dang chili in my body by God.

The time came and I loaded up on some really chunky looking yummy chili.  And i ate the shit out of it and damn it, it was good!  It was awesome even...

And then one of the docs that I work with walked by and said "andi, i didnt know you liked deer chili".  DEER CHILI?  What What What?!?

This. Is. Not. Good.  All of a sudden I can taste Bambi's mom in my mouth.  I have been fooled!  Shouldn't you have to post a sign or something that says "I am trying to trick you into eating a CUTE animal" when you do that?  Why?  Why me? 

So I went to the bathroom and thought I would just eject it from my body, by whatever means necessary.  My freaking finger could have been two and a half feet long and tickling my diaphragm, that damn chili was staying put!

I go to my afternoon meeting.  And all I can do is sit there and burp and taste Bambi's mama every fifteen minutes.  Tic Tacs weren't helping.  Gum did nothing.  Diet Dr. Pepper seemed to just piss it off.

I ate nothing the rest of the day.  It was a moratorium on food in general.

Sorry Bambi...I didn't mean to.

Last night was a new adventure.  In an attempt to "fix up" one of my fellow co-workers, I was summoned to perform the "back up support girlfriend" role by going with my friend to a bar to see "a guy" perform "in a band".  I'm cool, remember?

At least I WAS cool until I pull up at the address and see that this bar (and I am really using that term loosely, because well...ew), was attached to a Christie's Toy Box.  (Where they sell blow up dolls that look suspiciously like me...ahem...that is another post though...)  But...because I am a Good Girlfriend...I go in.

I was under advisement that the only acceptable attire for NOT trying to garner attention was a sedate turtleneck and jeans, which I was so happy to have on because otherwise the air inside there may have actually touched my body and well...as I may have mentioned....ew.

So we squash into the booth...all girls on one side and Barbarian-Man at either end of the table.  I notice something about the crowd.   Actually I notice several things and many of them brought to mind the movie Deliverance...but I digress... So the crowd: 90% men over the age of 55.  I brought the bar-age-average down to a whopping 53.

Most of these men looked like truck drivers or mechanics or simply unemployed guys...appologies to the man in the *clean* red Sooner's sweatshirt...As I mentioned, we were going there to see this guy sing with his "band".  I did NOT realize that his band was a large television and two speakers streaming karoke lyrics.  So, the sex appeal of going to "see a guy in a band" was totally lost.

So we watched countless aged men step up to the mic and sing their own tailored rendition of songs like...well, hell, do you think I can remember any of them?  The answer is NO because there were only two songs sung last night that were written or performed SINCE I HAVE BEEN ALIVE ON THIS EARTH.  One was a girl butchering "Crazy" by Patsy Cline...That was horrific.  Even with the special "echo" effect on the microphone, I still wanted to stab myself in the ear repeatedly.

So "our" special number one guy gets up for his chance and sings Sweet Home Alabama.  Lovely.  I think if i thought he had been up there having fun and cutting up, then I could have respected him, but because he took this as seriously as tax law, I couldn't.  He was performing as if the Geriatric American Idol Judges were secretly scouting the place.  THIS was his life...THIS was his band.

So we were really getting antsy to leave (it was ten thirty). But The Guy talked us into staying for his closing performance: Desperado. (The other song that was written since I have been born, but I think there is a tight overlap on dates there...)   Oh. MyGod.  That is three minutes of my life I can NEVER GET BACK AGAIN. 

As he is wrapping up his last feeble note, I have got my purse in my hand, car keys in the other, swig down the last warm sip of beer and I am ready...except that it is apparently RUDE (?) to get up and leave while someone is performing.  So I had to sit through another (!!!) old guy sing ANOTHER song that I have no idea about while The Desperado collects his accolades.

So, the other guy wraps up and it was as it my ass was spring loaded...I was NOT going to be suckered into sitting and watching yet ANOTHER Old Guy sing his heart out.  So we are out the door...some woman who was just serenaded hugs me on the way out (?) and we are off...

The Guy walks my friend and I to our cars and I have the very firm "I am not leaving, so you better just go get the hell outta here" girlfriend stance going on...and the FREAK leans in and hugs AND kisses my friend!  So apparently he really does ACTUALLY think he is a rock star.

As he left he told us he was off to a different karoke bar...you know...it is all about exposure in this business...

Deeeeeeeesperaaaadoooooo: Why don't YOU come to your senses?

WARNING:  THIS ENTRY IS NOT SUITABLE FOR THE SQUEAMISH OR THOSE WHO HAVE A PHOBIA OF Q-TIPS.

There, that said, we can move on to the indepth experience I had today at the potty doctor. As we all know, I am prone to urinary tract infections...so prone in fact, that i am quite capable of self-diagnosis and I simply demand the appropriate antibiotic and move on...and by "move on", I mean "start dealing with the enormous yeast infection that ensues and the diarrhea and vomiting that the antibiotics creates".

So, last week I got the mother fucker UTI from hell...Satan himself would have cried. Four days of fevers and pottying out a drop at a time--eyes watering in the stall as I try not to just sob--in the hopes that i may somehow manage to cry the urine out. The gyno put me on a different antibiotic and sent me on my way. Until the antibiotic didn't work and then she said "i want you to see a urologist".

HERE BEGINS THE MADNESS.

For seven days I was on a *new* antibiotic that gave me vomiting and diarrhea and a fever for FOUR DAYS. Still however, I am pottying about every thirty minutes and it is like sliding down the edge of a razor blade into a pool of alcohol and drying off with a handful of salt. I didn't sleep for like three nights because I had a six year old's paranoia of wetting the bed. One can imagine that my MOOD left something to be desired.

So today I go to Dr. Pakistan's (name changed to protect the eerily strange man) urology practice. Potty in the cup, wait for an hour for the results blah blah...Then he comes in and lets me know we are going to do a "full exam"...anytime ANYONE tells you they are going to do a FULL-ANYTHING, this means that there will not be a single orafice of your body that does not end up with KY jelly in it. (and not a small amount, but a super human two gallon amount that leaves you squishing in your panties when you exit the office).

The gynocologist used to scare me to death with the Duck-Billed Twaticus, but THIS? This was insane. The first thing he does is (of course) KY my entire body...I felt like the girls on that fraternity movie where they were doing the KY wrestling? Then he takes a TEN INCH LONG Q-TIP...I am getting dizzy just thinking about it...and puts it entirely up into the potty hole. The hole through which everything and i mean EVERYTHING is ONLY meant to ever exit. Removes that, "you may feel a pinch"...I would like to demonstrate for them how this "pinch" feels with a stun gun.

Then, THEN, because there are several more holes in my body that have not been offended yet, we move onto my other girlie-hole and then the pooper and I have to tell you that I have not experienced humiliation like this...well....ever.

After my exam I am sitting there in my squishy panties--this is the feeling I normally only ever get after a good Hugh Grant movie...and I have to answer this battery of questions: how often do you have sex, list all the positions you use, do you have sex in your pooper? do you have oral sex? what is the frequency of each? I finally just started bawling my eyes out and had to interrupt them to tell them that I am a NORMAL, NON NASTY, NON STREET WALKING, NON PROSTITUTE, NON ASS FUCKER--and that I am a regular person who does things cleanly and politely and in no way ever allows anyone (present company excluded) anywhere near the god damned POOPER!

So he just nods and the nurse nods and then they ask me if I happen to have "leakage" (that damn word....) when I laugh or sneeze or cough. Well, NO?! Can they not see that I am WITHOUT A GOD DAMNED DIAPER RIGHT NOW? So the good news there was that I have that to look forward to because i have apparently a weak sphincter...but not to worry, it happens to everyone. HOW, how do they expect me not to become a bitter spinster with this news? "no, no one ever make me laugh again or i may piss myself". Quality of Life just hit an all time low.

So next week I get to go in and have a fun-fun-silly-willy cat-scan because it MAY or MAYNOT be a kidney stone...and it MAY or MAYNOT be scar tissue from the catheter I was able to strap to my (broken) leg last fall for 21 days or it may just mean that I get to take an antibiotic everytime I have sex...which means that everytime I have sex, I get the blessing of a yeast infection from SAID antibiotic, which means that I get to do the lovely at-home cream-basting of myself for 3 or seven days (monistat ovule be damned...i am capable of simply expelling those from the ONE orafice I DO utalize for sex)...

So, that was my day...i DEFY anyone to top it.

Sister: What is that thing called that the put inside your, you know...area?

Me: Errr...your husband?

Sister:  No, that thing!!  Blaine!  What is that thing called?

Brother in Law: Huh?

Me: OOOOOh, the thing...what IS that called?

Sister:  It looks like a duck billed platypus...

Me: A duck billed Twaticus?

Sister at this point cannot breathe for all of the laughter...then i start immitating Steve Erwin...

Me: This ere is a rare but beautiful creature from the gynocologic region of tanzania, the duck billed twaticus...carnivore from the swamp...

So my sister's uterus...jesus...where to begin...well, hers has always been the healthy one...the one we both planned to grow babies in because mine was the one that god found along side the street, claimed "three second rule" and just crammed inside me to "see what will happen"...

so now the sissy's uterus is trying to be JUST LIKE MINE!!  the biopsy results came back "totally strange" (doctor lingo)...so now she has to go in and have this thing called a leep-procedure.  i am certain they call it this because when you find out what they are actually going to do to you, (cut off half of your cervix--how very 1800's of us....) you leap up off the table and try to run from the room screaming.

my uterus is currently feeling sympathy for hers and thinking "hey, why does HERS get to have all the surgery?  it has been MONTHS since we have gotten to have surgery!".  I swear, if the cramps were not doubling me over in agony, i would totally stab myself right in the crotchal region just to shut the uterus up.  alas, i am stuck trying to be fetally positioned on my chair at work...

My sister has long since been informed that her uterus is my back up...and as mine gets more and more pissed off and tries to crawl out of my body one layer at a time each year...you can understand my panic when i find out that hers may have cancer!

Her pap came back (for the THIRD FREAKING TIME) positive for pre-cancerous cells...So the first time was because she was a do-do head the night before her pap and the second time was because the lab was stocked with morons that day...but this time?  you got me...

They are going to do a little biopsy thingie this week...to find out the Ultimate Truth regarding her cancer-ness...

If only she had remembered sunscreen...

Oh Holy Shit.  I made the monumental mistake last night of steping on a scale.  It would have been more effective for someone to simply kill a puppy right in front of me...the depressive episode was the same...

I am in my biggest big girl clothes and am so disgusted with my wheel-chair booty that I can barely tolerate myself.  You know you are truly getting too fat when you think to yourself "my underwaear are going to actually cut through the fat on my hips and strangle my pelvis".  I have likened this effect to a can of pillsbury crescent rolls...when I take my clothes off at night, it is like the can popping open and the dough (my fat ass) oooozing all over the place...  MY PANTIES ARE KILLING ME!!!

I dreaded having a work meeting for lunch today because I (literally, no exaggeration here...) cannot fit into any of my cutsie pie little tiny work-type clothes...It is so disgusting...My mother's remedy is to go buy the tightest pantyhose available and just wear then under everything...This makes me want to simultaneously kill her and myself...

Not only that, but my face is enormous...It is like there is no where left for the fat on my ass to spread to, ad now it is going into my cheeks and my neck and my multipying chins...God forbid I get pregnant at this juncture because i would end up weighing over 200 lbs.

This now means that I must faithfully return to the gym...even though that proved to be utterly useless also, at least I can say that I am going and then when I go to the doctor begging for obesity drugs, they won't give me SUCH a ration of crap as usual.

You know Kirstie Alley?  Yeah, well I am getting to know her on an entirely personal level now...I am going to soon find myself thinking "oooh, what a lovely moo-moo she is wearing on her show today, I wonder where I can buy that much material in such a bright and obnoxious color?"

My response to the depressive incident last night was to bake a double batch of chocolate chip cookies...and eat the raw dough off my fingers...and maybe cry a smidge...and then eat some more cookies...but I am better now...

Send me your favorite moo-moo patterns girls...

Today I had to go over to the VA hospital and visit my uncle.  Who has been checked in there since freaking MONDAY and never bothered to tell anyone for fear that someone may...du du DU...visit him?  gah!  So I rifled through my desk gathering up mints and candies and tea bags (thanks for the contribution!) and a newspaper and skipped over to "experience" the VA. 

OOOH the VA...I walked into the building and got a face full of that hot, moist, germy hospital air and it made me feel like I was in the center of a mircobial tornado.  Luckily though, I blend over there quite nicely (ha.) with my crazy little limp (I am calling it a saunter now).  Everyone over there has a limp and a cane or a chair or something...some sort of assisted traveling device.  I should point out however that i do NOT blend at the VA whatsoever.  I am approximately 50 years younger than the facility average, am not hacking anything up, do not smell like urine, and seem to lack a flair for subtlety.

So the ward was closed because visiting hours dont start until 11.  Clearly though they did not realize that I am Andi, and I do not need your stinkin rules.  So as soon as some unsuspecting resident left the hallway, i grabbed the door, winked to the other people waiting there (See ya Suckas!) and sashayed my little hiney down that hallway...doors with locks make me crazy.

There are rooms in that hall with very alarming blatant signage: Respiratory Confinement, Glove, Mask and Gown required.  I do not claim to be a genius, but did it occur to them that the bacterias that we are afraid of in that room, may or may not have become smart enough to simply go under the door through the two inch opening between the door and the floor?  I am just wondering...because these particular bacterias may be the type ( like me ) that do not prefer to wait behind locked doors...just a hunch.

I want to know what governmental agency I must write to to find out the official legislative definition of a pillow.  It was embarressing to me the condition of the pillows in these rooms.  You simply could NOT suffocate anyone with something so thin and stupid looking.  It would be embarressing to sneak in there, hold the little flimsy pillow over someone's face until they stop flopping around and then take it off only to realize that they are alive and well and just fell asleep because they are able to actually functionally breathe through the pillow...

This is my idea.  Upon exiting the VA i was acutely aware that I had something similar to a film all over my entire body that was actively carrying disease within it...thus i am a petrie dish.  I lathered myself with that antibacterial gel stuff, but then all i could think about was that NOW there are little dead bacteria corpses all over my body because, as you know, there is no "rinse" function to the antibacterial gel...This is my thought:  as you exit the doors of the VA, they need a full body laser scan that physically removes the germs from you and releases you into the world cleaner and healthier than when you were in.  Anyone see Finding Nemo?  When the fish tank gets the new cleaning system...THIS is what i am talking about...