The only other surgery I’ve ever had was the cesarean when Kiddo was born. Gallbladder surgery is no where near similar but it does have the whole abdominal incision thing going for it. Being that this surgery was actually planned, unlike Kiddo’s birth, and I had already recovered from a surgery that was like gallbladder removal times millfinity, I was not worried or scared or stressed in the slightest. Having it all over with was what I focused on and seriously, it was a damn breeze.
Except, leaving the house before daylight.
And being directed to the wrong hospital.
And having the ditsiest nurse assigned to help me when I first arrived.
And having two piercings stuck in my body.
And having the nurse stick my hand with a needle in the wrong place leading to SO MUCH PAIN.
Really though, so breezy.
My saintly mother picked me up before the sun rose on Friday morning. We headed over to a deserted hospital where the sole employee there directed us a few miles away to a different location. So much for my preparation notes that included the cross streets. Growling ensued on my part, Mom took the reigns and got me to the necessary office to be strapped with the necessary bracelets and to sign away the necessary rights and the like. Up one floor, Mom was given my belongings and asked to wait in the lobby. Nurse Ditzypants put me on a scale and noted my weight in kilograms. As she was writing it down, she forgot the number and asked me if I recalled it. I told her I had no idea why the number I saw was about half my actual weight. I got back on, she giggled and switched to pounds and then asked me again if I remembered what it had said.
I was assigned a bed and a supahsexy paper robe with purple (!) booties. Ditzypants came back when I was decent and jammed a long needle into the back of my hand. I cried out in pain, which is unlike me for a few reasons; needles do not bother me in the slightest and I have a serious (irrational) issue with showing weakness in front of a stranger. I finally had to tell her, “I think you’re doing something wrong, this shouldn’t feel like this.” She agreed and switched to my other hand. I was losing my patience with her and I still had an hour and a half until the surgery. Without explanation, she lowered a tiny TV on an adjustable arm in front of me and put on cartoons before walking away. I looked around, slightly confused and afraid to touch the channels, but immediately irritated by whatever the WotWots are. My mom was brought back up and this is when we met Louie. He was an older man with a thick accent and a shock of white hair. He took my vitals and then raised an eyebrow to two piercings I hadn’t removed. The surgery would require something to be cauterized, which could lead to burns if metal was present in the body. I’d taken out the bellybutton and lobe earrings but couldn’t remove two others, both about ten years old, from my ears. One was in the rook and the other at the very top of my cartilage, near my head. Pliers in hand, Louie asked why I would have such “strange” piercings and declared I must have been a “rascal.” His sweet and funny demeanor redeemed Ditzypants’ ditziness. Once the metal was out, some miniature jumper cables were placed on my chest and I yelped with urgency, “WAIT, THE BOBBYPINS!”
Of course there were bobbypins. My house is littered with two things: cat hair and bobby pins.
Mom was sent to the lobby again and I was wheeled out by a new nurse, through some corridors, down an elevator, all the while telling passersby, “WEEEE!”
My wheelybed was tucked into a dim corner while the operating room was prepped. I cuddled up with a blanket and drifted off until the super cool surgeon (looooove her) woke me with a pat on the leg. More wheeling around before I struggled to hide my bare ass cheeks as I lifted from wheelybed to operating table in a large, white room with reeeally unforgiving lights above my face. An oxygen mask appeared over me. The last time I had worn one of those, I puked in it. The nurse swore it was only oxygen but the room started to spin after a minute and I gave her confused eyes and a muffled, “should the room be moving?!” Apparently, I was on my way under. I forced my eyes wide and then woke up in recovery.
No memory of feeling sleepy, of closing my eyes, of even relaxing. I was just… gone.
My first waking thoughts were of a seriously emotional gratitude toward my mom and the idea that I would take her to Catalina sometime.
I wanted to sleep. My eyes were heavy and I’d never felt so warm and comfortable. But if I know my mom and I’m pretty sure that I do, she would not fully exhale until she knew everything was done and I was still in one piece. It had been a long time of her holding her breath, about two and a half hours. I asked multiple times if they could bring her in and I imagine the nurse was calling me a pathetic little whiner behind my back.
Mom finally came into the recovery area and we had about an hour or so to chat and let my body relax. I was sore but certainly didn’t feel like there were four incisions in my stomach, going all the way through the skin, fat and muscle. When it came time to dress, I found myself at the most vulnerable I’ve probably ever been. At twenty-six years old, I found my mom helping me put my underwear on. If I wasn’t under the happy influence of painkillers, I may have burst into mortified tears. Instead we just giggled and I was discharged shortly after.
Easy peezy, lemon squeezy.
Recovery at home has been painful. The gas used to bloat my abdomen during surgery causes shoulder and neck pain. My back is aching something fierce because of how much I’m favoring my front half with an old lady hunch. Laughing and coughing are pretty much out of the question. I’m reminded so much of those days after my c-section when I begged everyone around me not to be funny. The anesthesia could possibly settle in my lungs and cause pneumonia (or something) so I was given a strange breathing apparatus to strengthen my lungs.
I am at my sexiest when in recovery, obv.
I said jokingly that I’ve been spoon fed since I got home, but it’s really the truth. My mom has gone so far above and beyond, down to reclining the armchair I’m in every time I need to move, refilling my juice cup constantly, serving me meals and snacks, re-bandaging me wounds. She has all but wiped my ass and I honestly think if I asked nicely, she might even do that. I could not be more grateful.
Tonight my dad served me a plate of steak, fried shrimp, a baked potato and vegetables. I think I could have surgery every day for this kind of star treatment.
If you’re reading this Mom, you have absolutely no idea how much it has meant to have you by side for every single second of this.
Last week, I momentarily swore off alcohol. Not for Lent, mind you. I only rode the Catholic train as a wee one. (When asked what I gave up last week, I told a friend, “um, cabbage?”) It took a lonely all nighter last Friday with half a bottle of Bacardi Select and some cheesy comedy DVDs, followed by Saturday night with half a bottle of Captain Morgan Tattoo at Josh’s relative’s house and some Barenjager shots at our favorite dive, where the shots are poured before we’ve found a seat. To top it off, a Sunday night drag show at a nearby gay bar consisting of at least ten Captain and Diets, plus a new favorite shot. Shake Frangelico and Chambord over ice, top it with whipped cream if you please. The name is perfect for its taste: Nuts & Berries.
Come Monday, I was hurtin’ something awful with no one to blame but myself.
And now it’s the following weekend and the most intoxication I can get is from a double dose of Norcos while my gut muscles heal back together. I’m sans gall bladder as of yesterday morning and thanking my saint of a mother for going above and beyond in her care for me. I’m completely spoiled and so grateful for it.
If I could just convince my boyfriend and everyone I love and need close by to come with me, I would move to Ocean Beach, California, in a fucking heartbeat.
Sliiightly hungover, but mostly just sleepy and thirsty, I rode shotgun out to OB the morning before my birthday. The drive was full of laughs, as per usual agenda. With Ree, it’s always a riot. We’re poking and prodding at each other’s funny bone, laughing until we risk wetting ourselves and this was continued throughout the weekend. My mama was in the backseat with her People magazines and Goldfish crackers, alternately shaking her head at us and chiming in to tell us how ridiculous we are. Which we’re aware of.
An aside: I am so, so lucky that my own flesh and blood mother is who she is. She is one of my very closest friends, and while she’ll still remind me on occasion that she is my mom first (“Stop telling me this story, I don’t wanna know!”) I never forget how lucky I am.
There’s something about the place — everyone we encounter is friendly and engaging, every bite of food is ridiculously delicious (save for the fried zucchini), the drinks are strong, the shops are unique and plentiful… I was in love the minute I set foot there, about a year and a half ago, and now I’m not so subtlety tugging Josh’s sleeves and asking him to pack up his things so we can move our happy asses down there. There, where I can find: the all-time best Irish pub, the yummiest pizza place with craft beers and amazing pesto bread, the coolest of little shops filled with everything I desire in abundance (handmade jewelry, candles & incense, etc), the BEST brunch on the planet complete with fresh strawberry juice mimosas by the PINT, an incredible hotel view, good looking locals, awesome Japanese food served by a sassy Japanese woman my mom may or may not have been flirting with…
The beach, just outside our hotel; stunning even in winter
View from our second story balcony
One of two lovely, cozy beds in our lovely, cozy room
Saturday night, sushi dinner complete with wine, beer and sake
Home away from home, comes with high recommendations from yours truly
Eggs benedict & tots, the greatest meal that ever was
I maintain that I can only take unflattering pictures.
In the ice chest my mom brought along, came a few classic red Solo cups, some Pinnacle whipped cream vodka (SO GREAT IT HAS ITS OWN FACEBOOK PAGE) and ginger ale. These, mixed over ice, make for my new favorite cocktail. I know most things are my favorite, especially in this post when I’m ecstatic about life with my favorite people in my favorite place, but take my word on this one, friends. It’s cream soda tasting and it will get you drunk. A&W, for shame. You should have thought of this first.
Twenty-six is off to an amazing start.
-CJ
Filed under: family
My dad taught me that slow is the key to cooking a good meal, what ‘autonomy’ meant and how to recognize when yours was being broken apart, that a work ethic is more valuable than any paycheck, to appreciate spicy food and to looove Tapatio, that I was not expected to ever be perfect but only to strive to be a good human being, to be patient, to bite my tongue when it made sense, my keen sense of direction, how and why to tip the dealer, to love classic rock, to keep your word, to work often and hard and to take care of my loved ones first.
My mom taught me to put the pillows inside the cases tag first, that some color on my face was not to be feared, that being a doormat in my youth wouldn’t last forever, that it is okay to screw up as a young woman/mother, how to hold my liquor, not to put up with any shit from an undeserving man (she once gave a guy a bloody nose for being a total asshole in front of me – no shit), to like avocado, how to fold towels, when it made sense to punish your offspring and when to let it slide for the sake of an effective lesson crafted from guilt, to appreciate and not give a fuck what people thought about my guilty pleasure music, to balance my checkbook, to worship badass women and to make a mean chili.
-CJ
January fourteenth, incredibly almost a month ago, I was commuting to work on the 405 freeway, head bangin’, iced coffee sippin’; my routine in place. I was glad it was Friday, even if I was running behind on time. I saw a missed call on my cell from Josh’s mom. It wouldn’t be strange for her to call me at will, but prior to eight a.m. raised my brows. I was worried and dialed her back. She asked if I was ‘ready’ and I knew she was going to hit me with a blow.
With a deep breath, she informed that just hours prior, Josh’s aunt Sharon, uncle Steve and cousin Jonny had all died in a freak electrocution accident, stemming from a downed power line at their house.
http://abclocal.go.com/kabc/story?section=news/local/inland_empire&id=7898033
The breath was sucked out of me and I struggled to remember that I was operating a vehicle. I shook my head to loosen the words stalled in my brain, hoping for anything to come out, and blindly settled on what? over and over again. She asked that I be the one to tell Josh in person. She needed me to be strong for him, as she was being for her husband, Steve’s older brother. It would be too time consuming to venture out to Orange County to bring Josh the news while the family around her was reeling, but she couldn’t settle on doing it by phone.
I nominate his mother to deliver any bad news I must bear for the rest of my time here. Woman’s a friggin’ saint.
I made a quick call to my supervisor and then my mom, as a grown woman tends to do in light of what-the-fuck moments of any degree. I still hold some guilt that I was talking to her about it before I was talking to my boyfriend but if I was to show any amount of strength and will myself from falling the fuck apart, I needed her to help me. As always, she did.
Josh told me later that he thought I’d been fired. Showing up at his office on a weekday morning and calling his company line, something I’d never done before, to ask him to come outside was unexpected, to say the least. I would trade the best job in the world for that to be the news I had. Like I’d hoped he wouldn’t, he didn’t ask why I was calling, just got up from his desk and came to the parking lot, headset still around his face. I hid behind my sunglasses and clenched my hands to stop the shaking. His reaction mirrored mine, as his hands went to his head. What?
A short amount of time has passed. The funerals came and went; one for Jonny and one for Sharon and Steve. My love donned white gloves and a rose pinned to his dress shirt as a pall bearer. Hundreds of people showed up to the double service last weekend, including at least a hundred leather vest clad bikers in green bandanas for Steve.
It was an incredibly gut-wrenching experience, watching these hard, tough, scarred and tattooed, grown men cry. One that I never hope to see again. The collective shock and heart break was damn near too much to bear and these are not even my blood relatives, but Josh’s and Kiddo’s. Kiddo and I didn’t have much of a relationship with them, and still she was in tears when she saw the sadness her dad tried his best to hide from us. It was the shock and the tragedy and fucking unfairness of it that shook me to my core.
We played poker with them two weeks before, on New Year’s Day. I told Josh on the drive home that it was like watching a couple of high school sweethearts, they way they so blatantly adored one another. I’m thrilled I got to see them leaning against the back of the couch to peer into a lit up fishtank, arms slung around each others’ waist. I’m glad I got to laugh my ass of Steve’s shit talking during Seven Card Stud. And I’m really glad I got to meet Sharon for the first time that night. When she hugged me goodbye and said, “It was so nice to meet you,” I really believed her. They were such genuinely good people and a crowd of a few hundred were reminded as people took the podium during their service and told stories about what a joy it’d been to know them.
The night of their deaths, I posted to my Facebook: We are all finite. Drop your grudges, kissed your loved ones.
You just never fucking know.
-CJ
Friday, fifteen hours with my sig-o’s family and extended family and distant family and non-blood family, etcetera, for as far as the eye could see for a double funeral and the reception that followed.
Saturday, a mad cleaning spree and three dozen cupcakes for guests who came to celebrate one blue-eyed wonderchild’s eighth birthday.
Sunday, eight hours on foot at the magic kingdom. Some portion of those hours spent in the rain.
Monday, from bed to work to English 106 to this stellar bean and cheese burrito and cold Corona. When I could have chosen one of many mindless DVR options to decompress with, I forced my ass into this hard and unforgiving dining room chair for some sort of pathetic, minor and likely ineffective creative outlet. Because I’m fucken losin’ it, man.
The workload is all-consuming without a moment to breathe. The only reason I took a lunch hour today was to bang out 1.5 pages of key points from a short article by Malcom X to turn in at 6:30pm when I switched to student mode. Today, in conclusion to a loooong-winded e-mail, I told my boss, “I am very, very upset.” Which is corporate code for SO FUCKING PISSED OFF RIGHT NOW. But between anger and my usual tall order of discouragement, I’ll take blood-boiling rage that can only be expelled through proper e-mail because my mind and my feelings mean nothing without a branded signature at the end.
I framed and hung a huge Kraken rum poster in my dining room. It’s making me smile.
Of note, the music that plays on that website was reoccurring background noise in a number of nightmares I had as a kid. Eep.
More later. Lots.
-CJ
The holidays passed with an embarrassing amount of last minute to-do and to-buy things on the list. I had prepared by buying a few presents in October and stashing them away. Then my gung-ho motivation to be ready for the red & green drenched period of crazy consumerism ended. Ended before I’d really dented the amount of gifts I wanted to procure and ended WELL before the wrapping…
But it passed and my kid has a new bike and I’m typing from a brand spankin’ new laptop.
I know it isn’t about the material possessions and the receiving but as an atheist, it’s not about the religious traditions either. It’s really about that feeling of being lighter during a generous vacation-y time with my friends and family, the FOOD, the wine and/or cocktails and naturally, the kids.
(But the new books and pajama pants didn’t hurt a bit.)
December 25th was this majestic calendar date that felt light-years away, even in December, as a kid. If there weren’t a seven-year-old in the family, I imagine Josh and I would sleep late and definitely not have a tree or many decorations, if any. My parents might lose the spark too, as their youngest is in high school. Kiddo’s keeping the Christmas spirit all around but don’t tell her.
The kid gets so big-heady.
Hope it was all well and fabulous for you too, whatever it was you celebrated. Or didn’t.
-CJ
On this lovely Friday evening, when I left the office after what felt like a long, long week, I should have felt lighter. Carefree. But I was weighed down by my pillowcase sized pursebag (I have to always carry ALL THE THINGS*) and my laptop bag and one overflowing bag of my co-workers’ generous food donations. When my arms regained their feeling, I took a deep breath for the first time in days. Work is so overwhelming in its quantity. School feels like a chore (one! more! week!) and my kid is making me crazy.
*I can’t even talk about going to the bank without saying it exactly like this, and yes, I do a voice.
When I got home, the bathroom reeked of an awful mildew.
From when the toilet overflowed. Twice.
Again.
And so I cracked a beer and got back to work on my laptop, this time in my long basketball shorts and a baggy MMA thermal, hijacked from Josh. (Athletes must be so COMFY all the time.) Two hours of OT didn’t dent the stack of papers I brought home. The stack that Lucy decided looked like a good place to lay upon. We all know I did not stop her.
Kiddo has taken to lying. A lot. For silly, nonsensical reasons that will not benefit her. Except by the time she realizes it won’t benefit her, she’s stared me in the eye and said with conviction that she lost her lunch money.
Er, spent it on charity candy.
Um, bought cheap breakable toys at Santa’s Workshop, where the kids can buy inexpensive presents for their family with a couple dollars.
She’s admittedly thrown responsibility to the wind. When it comes to bringing home her jacket or lunch box, or turning in important papers, or listening to at least ONE of the words we say to her, the kid could not be paid to give a chocolate dipped fuck.
In the car last night, I told Josh, “You realize… she’ll be a teenager one day.”
“And she’ll have her lunch money outside the liquor store…”
“Begging for booze and cigarettes…
“Coming home with tracks marks and saying, ‘Mo did it!’
“And we’ll be like, ‘Mo’s been dead for five years!”
I reiterated some portion of this to my mom in a woe is me and parenting stinks phone call. Surely she rolled her eyes and laughed maniacally when he hung up but before that, she reminded me, “This is parenting. Being able to laugh about it.”
dramatic sigh.
I GUESS.
Wouldn’t you want to trust this face?
Is it any wonder where the blue eyes came from? This is my (incredibly handsome, yes?) dad.
-CJ
Early in October, my roommate moved out and my baby daddy boyfriend Joshua moved in. In the wake of the transition, I’ve handled an embarrassing amount of dust and practiced weaponized vacuuming. My barely stirred domestic instincts began raging like that of a woman in the third trimester of pregnancy, WITH TWINS. I’m nesting, people.
I picked up some cheap 4×6 frames online for these two shaving prints I’ve had. The blue haired beauty is a painting by my friend Marci Bones, printed on a greeting card. The other is from a postcard rack of photos in a very random art show I wandering into in Pomona, years ago. They’re hanging in the master bath.
I picked up two cupcake prints from Gary John on the Venice boardwalk and some simple document frames on Ebay for above the kitchen sink.
I loved his Skull Soup print, which I might pick up for between the stove top and the hood, though I like them in twos.
I voluntarily took on the loathsome task of painting and had a pint by the name of Country Heather (a light blue) mixed up at the local hardware store. I grabbed a roller and an edger and pretended I knew what the hell I was doing – taking on Kiddo’s new room. I only did the window wall because I love a good accent. The contrast with her black window covering didn’t come off too harsh. I used the leftover paint on a cubby set from Freecycle where all her shoes go. It used to be pink and we just couldn’t have that anymore. This is the kid that shuns the Barbie aisle in Target. Sadly, I can’t get a good shot of the wall color on my crappy camera.
We’ve got a dining set on loan until Ree asks for it back. My meeeean seven-year-old dug a pen into it, scratching the surface to hell. There were some other nicks and dings and one bright cup ring on it before I had it refinished by the wonderfully affordable guys at my work.
I’m on the lookout for some affordable cube side tables for the living room, like these: http://store.steelcase.com/go/products/detail/TS31415L/
Upcoming projects: purple paint for an accent wall in mine and Josh’s room, guitar hooks for some slim wall space between our closet doors, reupholstery of some beat up couches, a possible accent wall in the living room, and forever, the collection of handmade goods and wall art.
What are some of your favorite home goods and where did you find them?
-CJ
A few things: at the top there, where it says limited view? I don’t believe there’s a bad seat in the Gibson Ampitheater. I may not have counted Chino Moreno’s nose hairs or checked to see if Jerry Cantrell had split ends but had I actually sat in my mezzanine seats, I would have been more than pleased with the view. The Gibson is a fantastic venue for music or for comedy, both of which I’ve been lucky to see there.
For this show (Mastodon, Deftones & Alice in Chains) I took my sister, ten years my junior. She declared it the night the best of her life so I win. Our brother’s girlfriend was at the show too, somewhere in the middle of the venue, in seats a chunk of change better than ours so we followed her in the entrance at the start of the Deftones (the five freeway having sucked up all our Mastodon time) to see if we could find some empty seats. They were in abundance but naturally I chose two that were occupied by some dudes who’d run to the bar. We moved back a row, stood and sang and swayed and rocked out with the crowd. I was smug as shit. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted this one to be one of my sister’s best concert going experiences. I pulled her by the arm and down the stairs we went. Anything done with enough confidence will work. So we waltzed on, down down, to eight rows from the pit and made ourselves comfortable. Ah. Much better.
The show was pretty fuckin’ unbelievable. Chino’s energy was moreso than I’ve ever seen – be it all the weight loss or the celebrating of his daughter’s birthday, who was tucked at the edge of the stage with some others, sporting a tutu and slam dancin’ her six-year-old ass off. I’d never seen Alice in Chains and was thrilled to finally have the chance. William DuVall is a fantastic front man. I can’t speak for Layne, having never had the opportunity to see him, but DuVall is at least doing his vocals some justice. He rocks a Lenny Kravitz look that was unexpected and fantastic.
It was hard getting up on Wednesday morning for work but DAYUM worth it.
-CJ
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