People, people.

So I broke my glasses, and went in for a “Hey, I broke my glasses” STOP BY at the local optometrist this morning. I haven’t had my eyes checked in a long time, but for years my prescription was unchanged, so it always seemed an unnecessary use of my (dwindling) time. This morning, though, when they asked how long it had been, I answered “Too long,” and they were able to get me right in.

I’ve noticed recently that my eyes actually feel heavy if I am tired, or if I have used them too much in a day…they feel a bit sand-baggy and as if I am not seeing as well. I don’t like wearing my contacts, because this seems to happen even more quickly, which is why I need to so immediately replace the broken glasses.

So during my exam, there were lots of “Hms” and “Huhs” and turns of the head and flips of the glass and shines of the lights, etc. Lift the lid, drop the lid, read the line. Lift the lid, drop the lid, read the line. What is going on? “How old are you?” Uhm…almost 40? Well, that’s never a good question, especially when they look surprised that you didn’t answer that you are well into your 70s.

End result of the exam is that, for lack of a better way to put it, I have fat eyelids! All this time I have been perseverating about my ass and my lids have been porking up and sagging down. I was so out of sorts when I came out of the appointment — feeling all woe-is-me and “when is the time going to come when all the physical damage I did to my body with all my addictions going to be over.” The answer to that is, of course, I don’t know, and I can only take this one day at a time. One puffy saggy day at a time.

Over the last ten years, after the 160-pound weight loss, the extra skin (everywhere!) over my eyelids has weighed down the lids enough that is has actually changed the shape of my eyes and made my astigmatism worse — two points in my right eye and four points in my left. And, the degree of droop is different on the two eyes, so it’s actually two separate operations (which can be done at once).

He asked if I had considered plastic surgery to remove excess skin after my weight loss (does anyone hear something? Sort of like the air being let out of a balloon?), and I said “YES, BUT NOT FROM MY EYELIDS.”

He mentioned Lasik, but said that it would be futile if the skin continues to sag and eventually cover the iris, therefore making any 20/20 vision sort of moot.

So now I am considering blepharoplasty (whee!), which, because I NEED it instead of WANT it, it is covered by insurance.

At least, if they remove too much tissue and I end up looking eternally surprised !!! we know where I have some extra to put back in.

Foreigner, Double Vision

There have been lots of folks checking in with me regarding my surgery. That link is one to a site that explains a procedure that I have wanted to get for a long time, one I promised myself that I would undergo if I maintained my 160-pound weight loss for more than ten years. In March of 2008, I had done that, and started researching doctors all over the country to find the most skilled and competent one. I think I found him, and even scheduled my surgery for May 14th (this was more than six weeks ago).

In the meantime, I realized that it was just too soon. While I made myself a promise, there is no hurry to get the surgery done. I really have to be in a great place emotionally and spiritually to go through something so major. I have to have all my ducks in a row regarding support for the kids, recuperation support for me, support for Shaun. I have all those things in spades — it will just take lots of coordination. And, my sobriety and the maintenance of my family’s every-day takes up all of my time and attention right now. That’s as it should be.

So that’s my big-ass news.

Shepherd is walking, and Ruby is still taking names. Somehow a jellybean made its way into the house the other day, and Ruby really wanted it. She said to her dad, “If you give me that jellybean, and I eat it, all of my dreams will come true inside of me.”

Oh that it were that simple, mydear. Mama’s about 1,000,029 jellybeans in!

Peter Murphy, Cuts You Up (or not, as the case may be)

I’m thinking a lot about Big Rock Candy Mountain these days. Trickling streams of alcohol? Cigarette trees? Sleeping all day? Yes, please.

No baby yet.

In preparation though, I decided to try and fit one more indignity into this pregnancy, by way of the BRAZILIAN WAX. When one can’t lift a leg, it’s very difficult to keep things…ship-shape down there, so I decided to enlist someone’s help with it.

Help arrived (well, I went to her) in the form of a lovely African woman with a gorgeous accent which completely disguised her sadistic and malevolent nature. Apparently (and I learned this on my way OUT the door AFTER the wax), one’s skin is extra-sensitive during pregnancy. Extra-sensitive! As in hurts! A lot! Especially if you have always “taken care of business” yourself, and not had one of these waxing events.

Add to that a waxing injury, and you essentially have the story of my entire pregnancy this time. Awkward, ugly, and extremely long and drawn out. How does one get injured during a BRAZILIAN, you ask? Who the hell knows. It happens somewhere between “okay, you hold here (during a tender reach-around. EUW).” and “Oh, dear, well, you’ll need to put some neosporin on that (insert lovely devilish accent and wild eyes).” My sister, who accompanied me, came in to help me dress (I’m injured!) and thought there had been a street fight of some kind.

I fully expected to look up at one point and see The Waxer like this, but with my actual labia attached to her face. “Psyche!” she would shriek, as she leapt out of the room. “Pregnancy and vanity don’t mix!”

So that’s it, people. No more of that craziness. I told my other sister the following morning that my downtowns felt as though someone with a sandpaper shoe on had kicked me repeatedly. Then, I just edited that to say, “No, actually, it feels like someone took hot wax, applied it to my nethers, pressed a piece of cloth onto it and then ripped it off.” Who knew?

I plan to grow the longest Jackie-O 70s bouche we’ve seen, then possibly join this. Next time I think I need some kind of ‘do down there, I’ll go visit Schmutzie and try to soak in some of her confidence. I will sit for hours and comb the hair…call it “my pretty” and never again wish it away.

Now I just need to prepare my statement for the OB today as to why an enormous part of my vagina is missing.

Harry McClintock, Big Rock Candy Mountain

Wow, it’s been six days since I posted here, which I think is the longest I have gone since firing Fannfare up.

I’m not having a good time, people. I think I tend to coccoon a bit when that happens. One would think that writing (blog, journal, letters, emails, whatever your poison) would be therapeutic during tougher times, and while that may be true, it hasn’t been for me. At least not since I was an angst-ridden teenager holed up in my room blasting Angie Baby by Helen Reddy and scribbling dark poetry into the margins of my textbooks. I prefer being funny and clever to cranky and maudlin. Who doesn’t?

My pelvic pain is mind-numbing most days. Add to that the guilt that any mother-to-be would have about taking prescribed narcotics (albeit prescribed) with a little one in the cooker. Heap on there a serving of “wow, a large glass of wine would go nicely with this pill,” and having to stave that off. Spoon over top a healthy dose of “I DON’T WANT YOU!” screamed at the top of toddler lungs when I pick up Ruby (happens to everyone…a kid has a favorite parent or aunt or little friend and it’s different every day, but I am making a Bummer Salad here, okay!?). Scoop of “I need help carrying the [insert really light grocery item] in from the car?” Yes, please.

And, the drizzly dressing on top of all that? Tonight Shaun was bathing Ruby (he has been Great Guy, believe me) and I had to tinkle. I started up the stairs a bit too late, asking him on my way if I could get in there (we have one bathroom). I stopped halfway to sort of squeeeeeze the wee back in, and realized that I have lost the ability to do that (read: OOPS, I [PEED] MY PANTS).

I have twenty weeks to go and I’ve already wet my drawers.

What else you wanna know?

Note: My sister sent this video which cracked me up (put a little serotonin in it!) — AND, if you’ve had enough of my dribble drivel, Vote for Schmutzie’s Milkmoney Or Not, Here I Come as the 2006 Weblog Awards Best Canadian Blog.

Jane’s Addiction, Standing in the Shower…Thinking

It’s time to share, because I don’t think of much else these days.

Shaun and I have started building a house in Colorado, and a baby in my belly. Bricks and cells, bricks and cells.

Baby Fanning II is due in April of 2007, about the time we do our walk-through in Denver.

I have tried to tell as many people as I could in person — if I haven’t seen you and you are reading this for the first time here, I’m sorry you are getting the internet treatment. I have to post every day in November, and it’s been hard not talking about this for weeks! Old wives say that one should wait until after 12 weeks to announce such things, and I have done that. I’m about 16-17 weeks in. Luckily I am past the mind-numbing fatigue that comes along with the first trimester (be ready to revisit that after delivery!), and have a little more of my energy back.

Sadly, I am also experiencing SPD again. S-P-fucking-D. Sorry. Ahem. Symphysis Pubis Disfunction, which is a hormonal anomaly that essentially translates to pain. P-A-I-N. You can read about it here and here, and probably about 40 more times on Fannfare between now and April. It sucks, but I knew I had a pretty good chance of getting it again. I was diagnosed with it when I was 18 weeks pregnant with Ruby — this time it has arrived a bit earlier. When most women are 8.5+ months pregnant, they start producing a hormone called relaxin that softens the pelvic area (SP) so that the baby can get out without breaking Mom in two. My body starts producing relaxin as soon as I get pregnant. Or so it appears. So, my pelvic area is already weakened/soft, and hurts when I…move.

I finally figured out a way to describe it. Did you ever fall forward on your bicycle onto the bar in the front? Most gals I have spoken to have experienced that. Remember that pain and then add pound after pound on top of it, and there you go.

Enough about that for now, though — I get a baby at the end of the struggle (the condition naturally goes away once you deliver, within 4-6 weeks, because your body stops producing the hormone) and for that I am very thankful. So, if you see me lumbering by in the next 22-or-so weeks, just try not to run into me. I assure you I would topple like Jenga blocks and stay down making baby seal noises until you felt really bad about yourself.

I have to say that I have read many blogs during NaBloPoMo, trying to keep up with and learn about new folks. I keep coming back, though, to a gal who is now a favorite…Schmutzie at Milkmoney. She posted a poem that spoke to me (to many, I am sure)…you should read it two or three times at least. I am sure that she wasn’t talking about my baby-to-be when she spoke of “the body inside your body,” but isn’t that the beauty of writing? If the reader is taken where you want them to go, or somewhere entirely intimate — either destination speaks to the gifts of the writer. I guess you could call me a Schmutz-ee now — she is a real treat. You go ahead and take a bite out of her too — there’s plenty of insightful, wicked and beautiful writing to go around. Every day in November!

Now, if you would, just think positive thoughts about my pelvis for a moment. It’s soft, like a pretzel! Hold the salt.

Kate Bush, This Woman’s Work

I’ve got Mass, people.

This is what Shaun and I have lovingly named my Mom-ass, otherwise known as The Thing That Grew Exponentially This Summer and is starting to piss me off. God knows I have done my time as a fat person, so I do know that Now is the moment to take care of this. We belong to a gym that is right behind Ruby’s preschool, so the plan is that we will start going every day after we drop her off.

We were set to implement said plan this morning. Any stabs at when you think we will show up shoed and ready for the elliptical machine? I’m giving us until Thursday, I think. Until then I will continue to rummage through all the clothes in the house, cursing, and try to find pants that don’t make me want to stab someone when I put them on.

I am not buying new fall clothes. I am not buying new fall clothes. I am not buying new fall clothes. (Maybe I should just shoot the pooch and get a pair of these.)

Have I mentioned that I want plastic surgery? Not the scary kind where I would look like a woodland creature, but the kind that would make me more comfortable. Body contouring is what it’s called. Makes it sound much less brutal than I am sure it is, doesn’t it?

I did put on about six pounds over the summer, and that’s gotta come off. I could also lose another 15 above that. In the end, though (ha! I said “in the end”), there’s still leftover skin (baaaaarf) that I just want someone to hack off and throw into a red bio-hazard dumpster. OK, that just made me a little sick.

That said, I seem to be getting more traffic on fannfare since the lovely Angela (those eyebrows! that skin!) linked to me (I’ll be she doesn’t have Mass). If you are reading this, and you have any experience with plastic surgery after gastric bypass, will you chat me up? I am sincerely interested in your journey.

My journey today is going to consist of a Pria bar, lots of water, a brisk run around the reflecting pool couple up-and-down-the-stairs to do laundry, and a handful of resentment.

You know, I always thought I would have been a great fellow passenger on the ill-fated Uruguayan Air Force flight that went down in the Andes. The survivors resorted to cannibalism to stay “Alive,” which also ended up being the name of the book and movie based on the events. My ass, sticking out of the snow, would actually be the big score. Whoever cut into it first would shriek, “My God, Men, it’s Brie!”

Sir Mix-A-Lot, Baby’s Got Back