Love My Peeps

I have mentioned a few times over the course of my blogging days that my job drives me crazy.  And it does. There are a lot of times I want to punch people in the head.  You have to be on some of these people constantly and you have to do some babysitting.  However, with all that said, I do like the people I work with...I mean most of them, there are a couple I'm kind of on the fence about. Some of them do make me crazy, but overall, they are good people.  They are no different than me.  They come to work everyday and do the best they can with whatever the company throws at them.  And, to be honest, the company has one hell of a pitching arm.  Things are not always easy and times get tough, but at the core of it all, at the end of the day, they are good people. Fun people. Real people.  And no matter what their check shows on payday, if you ask them to donate to needy families, or do volunteer work,  or whatever cause the company is supporting, they are all over it.  That is just how they roll and I am lucky to know many of them. Back in the day, I used to be an on-line rep., I know what most of them go through on a day to day basis.  I, personally, hated it.  I didn't hate the customers, I hated the pressure of it all.  Making your numbers, taking enough calls, not deviating from your schedule, etc.  So, with all that in mind, I try and make them laugh.  I send humor their way and I help them when I can.  Doesn't mean I don't want to lose my mind when the 10th person tells me there are no paper towels in the bathroom, but I know people in high places, and those people can get paper towels, so I make it happen.  It's what I do. I take care of my peeps.

I can also appreciate what the supervisors and managers go through as well.  Being in the admin role, I sometimes  see what is coming down the pipeline for them before they do.  I know the struggles they have with the day to day job and I sympathize.  I mean, don't get me wrong, if they make me  mad, I chew their ass, but I like to think it is with love. Expense reports, people, come on!

I say all of these things because I really do have a lot to be thankful for and in a strange twist of Angry Pony emotions, I wanted to say "Thank You!"  With everything going on with me, I've had a lot of people asking how I am and being concerned.  The supervisors got together and sent me some beautiful flowers to cheer me up and I have another friend that crocheted me some cool pink slippers.  And then, today, Valerie brought me a care package from my peeps at work.  Apparently they took up a collection and went out and bought me some things they thought I would enjoy doing on my journey to recovery, plus threw in some money for clothes when I lose some weight.  It was the sweetest gesture and I am truly touched by their generosity and the thought they put into it. My favorite gift in the care package was this Unicorn Dream Lite.  How did they know I had almost bought one of these for myself several times?!  I am so excited, I can't even wait until it gets dark tonight.  Will wasn't as excited as I was, but he will be sleeping while I will be laying in bed watching unicorns and stars on the ceiling!!!

Unicorn Dream Lite!

So, when people ask me why I stay at the Glass Palace if it drives me so crazy, this is why.  The people there are good people and we are all in this together.  Eventually, this whole thing will either fold, or I will reach my limit and then it will be like the Titanic and I will be pushing women and children out of my way so I can get on the first life raft out of there.  Until that happens, thank you so much work peeps!  You are the best and you made my day!

And, since I don't know when I am going to be all thankful again, I want to thank everyone else that is not a work peep for their support during this whole ordeal lately, and for all the other times in the past that I've needed them.  I'm a pain in the ass and I'm an over-sharer and dammit, I still can't shake you guys, so I think that makes me pretty damn lucky.  Oh, and the best husband ever.  Can't forget him. That reminds me, that Nerf gun that my work peeps got me, I almost shot Will's eye out.  Valerie witnessed it.  That gun is KICK ASS and I am going to get into so much trouble with it!  Can't. Wait.  I actually think Will is going to have a bruise on his temple.  For the record, it was an accident.  I was over stimulated from the Unicorn Dream Lite and I lost my mind a little.  Sorry, baby.

Here's to the best friends an Angry Pony can have and to a new year of adventure in 2013!

Now...come on darkness!  I NEED to see that Unicorn Dream Lite in action!

Two belly buttons?

Progress report: I think I am on the mend.  I have been cleared to have liquids now.  I'm on a broth, Jell-O and popsicle diet right now and will move to "full liquids" tomorrow.  Full liquids being like, yogurt, pudding and protein shakes.  I'll do that for like a week.  I'm not going to lie, I want "real food" so bad I can hardly stand it. Will made hamburgers last night and I pinched a little piece off and chewed it.  It was heaven.  Then, I spit it out because I'm not allowed to have that yet. It was more magical than licking saltines! I am also getting weaned off of my IV feeding over the next 6 days.  I'm on half rations and only have to wear it for 12 hours at a time now.  This is very exciting that I am able to walk around without the "short bus backpack."  I should also start to see some weight loss now that I am getting off the IV, which is good, because you know, that is why I went through this whole ordeal in the first place.  Being kept hostage with IV fat calories was not in my plans.

On Wednesday of this upcoming week, I also get to have my drain tubes taken out of my belly.  I can't even express how happy I am about that.  Having these two grenade like clear balls pinned to your waistband is a little gross when you go in public.  People look at you like you could be the link to some bio-hazard that is going to kill us all.  It's just a little gut fluid, come on, pull it together.  I try and poke them up under my sweatshirts, but inevitably, they fall out. I thought about stuffing them into my bra, but if they come uncorked, like they sometimes do, then it is going to look like I'm lactating profusely.  Anyway, yesterday, as I was taking my luxurious sponge bath, I pulled all the bandages off my incisions. Let's just say, between my original surgery to put the lap band in, the surgery to take it out and now the surgery to do the sleeve, I look like a cutter. One day I'm going to connect all the scars and see if it makes a fun animal or object, and if it does, maybe I will tattoo it.  What is most disturbing is that the incision from the lap band removal that kept exploding has now formed into a second belly button. There is this line and then it drops down into this little hole.  I didn't ask for this.  Having a second belly button is NOT sexy.  The IV nurse said to me yesterday, "Is your belly button really all the way over there?"  I looked at her and said, "no, that is my scar."  Thanks, IV nurse.  Like I wasn't feeling self-conscious enough.  I mean, it isn't like I'm going to run out and buy a bikini, but seriously, this is not cool. It's like I'm a case of soda where you punch the two holes in and pick it up with two fingers.  I don't want anyone trying to pick me up like that.  You don't know, it could happen.

Second Bellybutton, it's real. You can't tell from this picture what the depth is, but it dips down considerably.

Anyway, that is my update. It's also been several days since I've needed Depends, which is also excellent news.  I think I might be in the clear again.  I mean, I'm not going to run around farting and showing off or anything, but I feel things may be better in that department. 

Here's hoping I have something more exciting to report next time.

Can't Take Mom Anywhere...

So, the powers that be decided I can now start "cycling" off of the IV pack, effective Christmas Eve.  This is good news, however, after being off of it for 4 hours the the first day, I had a little blood sugar crash.  No biggie, but today, they decided I could go 8 hours off of it.  I felt free as a bird.  So amazing to not feel like the kid waiting for the short bus, if only for 8 short hours.  During this brief time of freedom, I had a doctor's appointment and because no one wanted my blood sugar crashing while I was driving, my Mom took me.

I'd like to rewind momentarily to Chrismas Day.  I was having a hard time with all the food and snacks laying around, so at one point, I licked a Ritz cracker. And, I mean, I licked it passionately and romantically.  And then I licked a tortilla chip.  It was magical and it made me miss food all the more, but it was nice to have a taste in my mouth that didn't remind me of rotting monkey ass like my meds do.  I fed the soggy and lifeless cracker and chip carcasses to my good dog Spanky.  Mom looked at me and said, "Cassondra, you'd better stop that, when you lick something like that, it's hard not to swallow."  Will, who had been eating a chip, stopped mid-crunch.  His mind clearly in the gutter. Everyone gave Mom a bad time for her comment and we moved on. I don't need to hear these things from my Mom.  Geez.

Fast forward to today.  Mom is sitting in the doctor's office with me and I'm telling the medical assistant and the doctor about how it has been going, where my pain level is how I've crapped my pants via innocent farts and that I had a confession to make, I had licked a cracker.  My Mom, who had been fairly quiet until this point, chimes in and says to my doctor (who is a very attractive man), "And do you know what I told her when she licked that cracker?  I told her that she needed to be careful licking something like that because then she would want to swallow."  My eyes got big and I said, "MU-ther!"  She giggled and I looked at the doctor. Luckily he laughed it off and said, "That is when you say, 'Mo-THER!'"  And then we transitioned to other things.  What on earth possessed her to say that?  I can't take her anywhere. We would discuss this in the truck later.

So, the short and long of it is, tomorrow I get to go to the hospital and get another CT scan to see if my leak is healed.  I am hoping with all my heart that it is. The doctor says I might be able to drink clear liquids by the weekend, if I'm lucky.  I'll still have to wear the IV pack for a short time while I transition, but it would be progress.  Tonight, praying for progress.  I need a break.  Oh, and I still have to get that pesky poo sample, but the medical assistant has finally given me the kit that should make it all possible.  I said, "Well, I hope I can catch it in the bucket instead of my underwear.  She says, straight-faced, "Well, if it does, you can just squeeze it out of your underwear into the collection bowl." Wow, graphic. Here's hoping no more kamikazee fart sniper sneak attacks.

And that is today's update.

Shit Happens - Now I totally understand...

The thing about being sick is that you do not get to call the shots with your body.  You don't get to be in charge.  When you are sick, your body does what it needs to in order to get the yuck out and heal.  In my case, it's oozing out my drain tubes and creating a bit of an adventure in the bathroom.  My guts are constantly making noise.  Like, it sounds like Jurassic Park in there.  Like two dinasaurs are going at it.  It's unnerving, but usually innocent enough.  The doctor says the sounds are normal and good. Without them, he says, I would be in the hospital.  What the doctor doesn't think is normal is the explosive nature of things when they do happen.  I mentioned in my last blog that they want a poo sample.  Well, it's kind of hard to get a sample in these conditions.  I was supposed to pick up a "poo kit" at the lab, but the lab says they never got an order, so no kit.  Seriously, what exactly is the problem with giving me the kit?  What am I going to do with the "unauthorized" kit?  Is there a high demand for these things?  Are they afraid some unknown person will just bring poo in and then they won't know whose it is?  Will they put it in the lost and found?  Or, what if I'm coming in to pick up someone else's poo kit and then I poo in it instead of the person that it is really for.  I mean, are there problems with rogue poo samples?  I just know I want my poo to get under control, so I need to know what is going on.  I guess I've got to break out the Tupperware and MacGyver this shit.

I sat down today to write the medical assistant an email letting her know that my James Bond 007 attempt to get a poo kit was unsuccessful at the Everett Clinic.  I told her I could just "capture" some and put it in the freezer or whatever needed to be done until my next doctor appointment.  She responded back that I don't need to freeze it, I can just put it in the fridge.  Okay. This sounds good.  I'll label it "figgy pudding" or something fun. 

As I am finishing up my email, my stomach turned.  It turned in a way that I knew was potentially hazardous. This situation was just upgraded to Defcon 4.  I stood up and my body convulsed.  I did a butt clench, but a fart escaped anyway.  Not just any fart.  The fart that would forever change my adult life.  My face fell, I instantly knew I was in trouble.  This was what happens to toddlers after their first feeding of strained peas.  I did a butt-clench run to the bathroom.  It was as I feared, I needed a full diaper change.  If I had been wearing a diaper, it would have oozed out the comfort stretch leg bands.  I'm 41 years old and I just crapped myself.  This has to be the low point of this whole ordeal.  Forget my guts exploded during a staff meeting. Forget my ass was hanging out as I did the walking in the hospital the night of my surgery along with Boxer Guy and Puke Lady.  Forget I have a leak in my stomach. Forget my drain tubes spooged on me in public the other day. Forget the Asian lady copped a feel on my boob when she hooked me up to the IV.  Forget all the humiliating things that have happened.  Today, I crapped myself.  I don't know if it gets any lower.  This is what happens to other people.  It doesn't happen to me.  I've joked about needing diapers before when I thought about taking laxatives, but this, this was an injustice I was not prepared for.  This is the kind of thing I have told Will if he ever does when he gets old that I will spank his ass for.  Thankfully, no one was home.  The dogs just looked at me like, "dude, and you get mad when WE poop in the house? Wow."  They couldn't even look me in the eye.

I got cleaned up and did a load of laundry.  I'm now shuffling around in my pj's with a loose waist band for emergency "drop trou" purposes listening to my stomach roar wondering if these pajamas will make it through the night.  Should I have Will run downtown and get plastic sheets for the bed? Do I need Depends?  I don't know.  Right now I'm mostly upset that I didn't just put my undies in a Tupperware container and put them in the fridge.  There, poo sample complete. 

All I do know for sure is that between the IV feeding and this new event, I'm scared Will is going to put me in a home for the elderly.  I'll be good, I promise.  Please don't send me away. 

Medication...

So, in light of my surgery complications, I finally got some medication out of my doctor for my acid reflux and my nausea.  You know, I've only been struggling for a week with these issues, so I was very happy to get to the pharmacy to pick my items up. I didn't know what the doctor had ordered up for me, but I was going to take whatever she offered.  Upon arriving at the pharmacy I get the girl that I can't stand.  She's an idiot.  She says my prescription isn't quite ready, so Will and I are waiting patiently.  Then she comes over and says she can't find one of my prescriptions.  It's been filled, but she can't find it.  No worries, it probably just got put in the wrong bin, so she is just going to fill it again.  Whatever.  She finally gets my stuff together and gives them to me.  She never asks if these are new prescriptions or if I have any questions, just sends me on my way.  What a tool.  I immediately dig in the bag for the anti-nausea and find it.  Hooray! It's a pill you put on your tongue and allow to dissolve.  It doesn't taste that great, but at this point, I don't care.

When we got home, I put my bag 'o drugs on the counter and went about the business of relaxing on the couch.  A couple of hours later I decided to get my drugs put away.  I open the bag and notice that I have two big bottles of the reflux meds.  The dumbass at the pharmacy couldn't find my prescription because she already had it in the bag.  Now, I have two.  Seriously glad her nose is attached to her face so she doesn't lose it.  Then, I notice this other prescription says, "Refrigerate."  Um, this would have been nice to know that I had a medication that needed refrigeration.  Hello, Will keeps this place 80 degrees with the wood stove!  I'm so over these people.  Drugs are important and if you are a pharmacist, you should be paying attention and telling people this stuff.  A simple, "Okay, here are your new meds, just so you know, one of them needs to be kept refrigerated.  Now, I notice these are new prescriptions for you, do you have any questions?"  Isn't that what is supposed to happen?  I mean, I'm not a trained professional, but I have been to the pharmacy a time or two.

All that mediocre service aside, I had a bigger concern.  One of the two the anti-nausea medications the doctor prescribed is a suppository. What? At this point, does the doctor just have a great sense of humor, or what?  I've got tubes sticking out of my guts, my stomach looks like a cutting board and now I have an IV sticking out of my arm attached to a very short cord that leads to my backpack.  It hurts to bend over and now I'm supposed to do some sort of injured fat girl rodeo to stick a pill up my ass to fight nausea?!  I will probably throw up during the process of trying to get that damn pill up there! I looked at Will and said, "remember our vows? In sickness and health?"  He looked at me and said, "oh no...I'm not doing that."  He then picked up the iron poker we use for poking wood in the stove and said, "If I can't use this, I'm not doing it."  I bet if I had a butt plug he'd be all over that, but bring up a suppository and he is shutting this situation down.  Whatever, I don't want him putting anything up my butt anyway.

In other medical news related to my butt, the doctor is concerned about my fecal production. I told her there hasn't been much and what activity there is could be considered explosive.  Another reason not to go back there poking around.  This concerns the doctor and she wants a stool sample.  I am supposed to pick up the testing kit at the lab.  I asked my Mom, "how exactly does one collect a stool sample?"  She advises me you get gloves and pick it out of the toilet.  I said, what if there isn't anything to pick up?  She says, "Well, maybe you can hold a cup under your butt when you go to the bathroom...?"  Would you put your hand in the middle of lit dynamite?  No, you wouldn't.  I'm not sticking my hand with a stupid Dixie cup back there while trying to hold on for dear life when the big event happens.  I wonder if splatter in a cup will work?  I don't know how this is going to happen, but apparently, I am supposed to accomplish this.  Will?  No, he doesn't want any part of this either.  I've probably got a few days to think of ideas before anything happens again. I'll think of something.

In closing, I'd like to make a plea to all the manufacturers of liquid pain medication.  If you could PLEASE make your medications taste like something other than toxic monkey ass, I would greatly appreciate it.  When I gag down the reflux meds I do a yippie-ki-yay primal yell/shudder and my body convulses.  Give a girl a break already.  And no, I don't want it in a suppository!

Status Update and why I'm an IV Fatty

So, I haven't blogged since my last entry declaring to the world what my intentions were about my surgery.  I've been rather out of commission due to some complications.  The ironic thing is, I asked the doctor about what complications I could encounter during this process.  He told me, "There is about a 2% chance of complications.  However, when they happen to you, they become 100%."  Well, isn't that deep?  So, to cut to the chase, I had a 2% chance that has me currently 100% involved in a complication.

I should have known when my guts exploded during "phase one" of my process (Lap Band removal) that  I was not going to be an easy case.  Another sign was when I woke up from the "phase two" surgery (Gastric Sleeve procedure) there were no unicorns like before. I did not wake up saying, "I rode a unicorn!"  This time, I was crying, "It hurts! It hurts! I'm so nauseous!"  The nurses consoled me, from what I remembered from the fog, and said they were giving me more meds.  Well, they did.  They knocked my ass out for several more hours to shut me up.  Who needs the one hysterical girl in the recovery room? No one, let's drug her up!  Kind of off-topic, but I wish they would do that at work. Like, when I get out of hand, they just walk over and say, "Cassondra, take your medicine, don't argue, just do it..." and then they hand me a glass of water and a little pink pill.  Then, a few minutes later, I'm all, "heeyyyyy, how you dooiinn?"  I'm just saying, it would make things so much easier. 

So, anyway, after sharing the recovery area with Boxer Guy and Puke Lady and doing our laps every couple of hours and letting our asses hang out as we went up and down the hallway, I thought, "this was hard, but it's going to get better each day from here on out."  We are all belching, bleeding all over our gowns, asking for meds, sipping water and shuffling around in the socks given to us that have the cute traction stuff  in the shape of little feet on the bottom so none of us busts our ass on the hard floor when we stumble from dizziness.  It truly was a night to remember. 

I went home the next day and followed doctors orders.  I kept waiting for the unicorns to show up, but I fear they are dead this time as they have yet to make an appearance.  I miss them, but I carried on. I was sipping my water, sipping my broth, sucking down sugar free Jello, I was doing all they asked me to do.  On day four, post-op, I woke up with horrible pains in my shoulder.  It isn't uncommon to get these pains after the surgery since they put air into your belly so they can do the surgery lapriscopically.   I dealt with them all day and also fought off some nausea. The morning of day five and I was pretty miserable, so I emailed my doctor's medical assistant at approx. 6:00AM.  By 6:35AM, I received a call from her.  She wanted me to come in right away, she was worried about a leak.  Holy batshit, Robin!  This was my worst fear.  This is serious.  I mean, you can die from that!

I went to the doctor and they ran some tests and then sent me over to the hospital to have further tests done. As I am sitting there, no makeup, wearing sweats and my drain tubes hanging out, this woman in a wheel chair zones in on me and says, "God bless you and heal you honey, Merry Christmas...."  I thanked her but wondered why she didn't say anything to anyone else.  I'm thinking, crap, she knows I'm dying.  She was sent by God and she is trying to comfort me in my final hours!!!  Just then they called me back to the testing area.  Turns out they were not really ready, so they sent me back out to the waiting room.  I said to my sister, who was with me, "did you hear that lady, she blessed me...weird, huh?"  My sister said, "yeah, after you left she started going on about how she had a Xanax and that she didn't know how to drive her wheel chair and started bumping in to people."  Oh.  I don't think God would send me a drunk driver, do you?  Clearly not the sign I thought it was.

After spending a long day in the hospital and more time at the surgical center, I was informed that indeed, I did have a leak and that the way to treat it was to allow my body to heal and watch for infection.  That meant that I needed to come back to the hospital the following day and have a pic line IV put in so I could be fed through my IV.  I was advised I would not be taking ANYTHING in by mouth for the next 14 days. Not water, not gum, not food, not pills...nothing.  I was devastated and scared.  I looked at the doctor, tears streaming down my face (it was my best theatrical performance of the year, so far) and I said, "Dr. L, I don't want to die."  He said, "Well, this is good, that means we are on the same page."

I'll skip over the multiple meltdowns (go ahead and ask Valerie how many times I cried on the phone with her), the IV installation, the severe reflux, nausea, stomach pain and the good folks at Walgreens coming and hooking me up to my IV and super cool backpack that I get to wear if I leave the house. Ok, so one thing about the backpack, I got this stupid ugly blue one.  You'd think they would want to cheer people up.  You know, maybe give me a choice of a Power Puff girl back back or Transformers or something.  I mean, I'd prefer something with a unicorn, but hey, I get that not everyone is into unicorns. 

So, I have to sleep downstairs on the couch sitting up because of the pain and the stupid IV bag.  I take enough unicorn enhancing drugs to sleep a few hours and then take more in the middle of the night.  Life is freaking grand.  To top it all off, the special mix of IV nutrients they are giving me are such a high mix of nutrients and calories that I have gained two pounds this week!  ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME???? I haven't eaten anything for over a week (two entire days went by where I really did not eat or drink anything) and now this.  This is not okay.  This is not, "let's blimp out the fat girl on calories!"  They keep telling me that they have to keep my calories high and we will worry about weight loss later.  Later? What?  The one consolation I had was that at least I was going to lose some weight over the next 14 days and now even that has been taken from me.  I mean, I don't really want to die, but I don't want to be an IV Fatty either.  There is absolutely no justice in this situation.  And to all those that have gone before me and had this surgery and had no problems and are dropping weight, I hate your guts.  Traitors. Over-achievers.

Oh, yeah, and I know this was elective surgery, I would just like to have elected out of the complications.  It's always going to be something with me.  Always.  This is why the pony is always angry.

Anyway, that is the update.  I guess the only before and after pictures will be those of me skinnier BEFORE the IV and then fatter AFTER it.  But, I'm not bitter..... Like hell I'm not.

My Story

It was a cold November day 41 years a go.  A petite woman from a petite family gave birth to a fat baby girl. She was a big girl and stayed a big girl from that day forward.  The doctor said she was "off the charts."  This isn't good news for a rock band, it wasn't good news for this young girl.  As time went on, the fat girl went to school where kids were mean to her.  She went home crying and her Dad said, "Baby, I can't go to school and beat all those kids up for you, you are going to have to get thicker skin."  It broke his heart to see his fat little daughter upset, but what could he do?  And so, the fat girl grew into a fat teenager.  She went to nutritionists, went on diets, went to see the doctor - none of which helped.  Her parents did not know what to do.

The fat teenager was sad as time went on and she wanted to be normal like the rest of the kids. In retrospect, wearing that one pair of ugly leg warmers in the 6th grade was a bad idea, but those were the only ones that would fit. She didn't know fat girls shouldn't wear those.  And then, she liked a boy in middle school and he called her Jabba the Butt.  Isn't he a clever little asshole? And so, her skin became thicker than ever and her sarcasm and self-loathing humor intensified.  Isn't the fat girl funny?  She was.  And then high school.  There was no sweet 16 kiss, there was no date to the prom, there was no boyfriend in high school.  She was a girl that "would be pretty if she just lost some weight," as some said.  But she was funny and she was talented and she was strong on the outside in all the ways that counted.  Never mind her heart was broken.

After high school and into college she spent the next ten years thinking that no one would love her because she was too fat and hid from the whole dating scene.  One day, she realized she might die the last American virgin, and so, she put herself out there and found that there were people that would like her and even found one that would love her for who she was.  He not only loved her, he thought she was beautiful.  Sure, he was half-blind, but that just meant he saw her heart.  The fat girl thought this would be enough. To be loved.  She was wrong, because after time she realized, she did not love herself and her body was breaking down.  She no longer found joy in the things she loved.  And so, her journey in trying to lose weight intensified as never before.

That is my story...well, the first half.  The reason for me sharing this story, as pathetic as it may be, is to bring up my current plan of action.  I wasn't going to talk about it or tell anyone.  My weight loss journey is personal.  It's painful. It's full of failures and trial and error.  It's full of people judging me and my choices.  For all of those reasons, I just wanted to keep it under wraps.  I shared my lap band removal story because it was what was happening and it was a choice I made that did not work and I was at peace with that.  The part of the story I was not sure I wanted to share is that, tomorrow, I am going to have the Gastric Sleeve procedure.  A procedure where they will take up to 80% of my stomach out and make it so that I can only eat 3/4 of a cup of food at a time.  It's drastic. It scares me a little bit, to be honest, but it is a choice I have made so that I can live my life and not just survive it.  I really don't need anyone's opinion about it.  I don't need questions about it.  But, I'm an open person, I'm not going to hide it.

I think it is humorous when people say that weight loss surgery is the easy way out.  The process leading up to this choice has not been easy.  The process of  having surgery will not be easy.  The life long change in eating habits is not easy. And, I could die as a result.  But I might die if I do nothing.  To everyone that says, that I am not accepting who I am.  Bite me. Live in my body for a day.  I think that whole "Big is Beautiful" thing is crap.  I'm not saying that big girls aren't beautiful, but I don't buy into the whole "more cushion for the pushin" or there being more of me to love.  I don't know about anyone else out there, but I'd like less cushion during sex.  It's a lot going on and I'd like to be able to do half the positions in any given sex book.  I don't see "The Blob" listed in any sex book as a killer orgasmic move.  So, save it Big diva's.  And, another thing, there is nothing sexy about peeling off multiple layers of clothes, then having your man try and get you our of your Pranx in the heat of the moment.  They are rolling up, one boob is out, then your arms are over your head and you're stuck.  A real seductive move.  Then, your tights, that were made for an Amazon woman, go all the way up to your boobs and you look like a stuffed sausage.  Again, not sexy, I don't care how blind my man is. And yes, there are men that prefer women that are bigger, but there are also men that will have sex with a cantelope, so really, save that argument.

And, don't get me started on the clothes.  I will probably never escape from the Pranx, especially if I do lose a lot of weight, because I'll have all this skin to contain.  Check and check mate, Pranx.  You bastards. I'm sick of shopping at Porky's Place in any given department store, or as they call it, Women's World.  It's not a world I enjoy.  A world of stretch fabrics, jeggings, mu-mu's and an elastic waist.  All the while some little skinny pop tart of a girl helps you find your "dream jeggings."  I'm over it.  I hate it.  I'm tired of walking through and entire floor at Macy's that I can't even shop at.

To those that say that I could lose all the weight with my diet, you clearly don't know what it is like to be a life-long fat person.  You know, just because I might share about a day that I had too much chocolate, that doesn't mean I spend every day like hat.  You little crack-whore, you don't get to call me out for sharing about a bad day.  What about the bad day where someone goes home and drinks, does drugs, chain smokes, enjoys retail therapy, kicks the dog, yells at their kids, etc.  All forms of abuse. All forms of imperfection.  Me having a bad day eating chocolate  for one day does not mean I am clueless and deserve to be fat and that I've done it to myself.  It means I'm human.

Anyway, this is a lot of rambling to say, this is what is going on with me.  I hope my guts don't explode again.  I hope I do get to go on another unicorn ride.  I hope I don't die. I hope recovery isn't incredibly painful.  I hope I succeed in losing weight for the first time in my life and maybe one day I walk past a mirror and take a moment to linger and look instead of shuddering and being full of shame.  And to those people that want me to be angry and share funny stories.  That won't stop with losing weight.  I won't lose who I am. I'm still an angry pony full of stories to tell (regardless of how boring I've been lately).  I'm just hoping they will be better as I get to do more and get out there and really involve myself in life.  And, if you are reading this and you are overweight, I don't judge you, I don't dislike you, I don't tell you to lose weight, I won't tell you this is the answer for you and I don't tell you that you are not beautiful.  Hell, you might have a sex life that rivals any Victoria Secret model.  I don't care.  That is your story.  This is mine.

My First Fan Encounter!

I know recently my blog has been reading more like an internet diary than an entertaining blog, but that is my life.  And my blog is about my life and my views, so if people don't like it, they can suck it.  Today, however, I realized, some people still like it.

I was sitting at my desk at work when this girl I had never seen before approached.  She said, "Are you Cassondra White?"  In retrospect, I should have found out more information before giving myself up so easily.  I mean, a girl can't be too careful.  She might have been a tax auditor or some sort of bio-hazard inspector.  As it turns out, she was a fan of Angry Pony.  She said, "My name is Zumba Spooner (this isn't her real name, of course...and I think she is the big spoon) and I love your blog, I just had to meet you and shake your hand!"  I was taken aback.  This is big.  I mean, I have a fan.  So this is what Justin Bieber feels like?  Wow.  I shook her hand and she was ever so sweet about telling me how much she enjoyed my blog. I apologized to her for all the details of my life that she has been subjected to, but she seems to enjoy hearing about my trials and tribulations.  I felt like I should grab something and autograph it.  I mean, she did come all the way up to the penthouse in the glass palace to meet me.  Alas, I was not prepared.  I should get some Angry Pony head shots done and copies made.

It got me to thinking, maybe I need an agent.  Or a handler.  I mean, what if she brings friends next time and they come and snap pictures of me while I am Jib Jabbing?  That is a sacred process, that cannot go viral. What if I am in the bathroom trying to decide what stall to use based on the amount of feces, dead flies or bodily fluids on the floor and she comes in and watches me?  What if I'm in a stall with a Pranx situation going on or cutting my tights off and a camera appears under the stall wall?  I'm not saying Zumba Spooner is a stalker, I'm just saying, what if this first encounter leads to other encounters and my life is suddenly "exposed."  And then, I calmed down, because I don't really know how much more exposed someone could make me, aside from pictures.  I mean, I've told stories about everything from stepping in dog crap in the middle of the night to 50 Shades of Oversharing to referencing my "easy bake oven" and cooking "bread in it."  I think I've done a good job of doing damage control if my fan base increases to say two or more people.

So, thank you, Zumba Spooner.  Thanks for reading!  I mean, I don't know what it says about you that you enjoy my graphic regurgitation of my life, but you're in  good company.  Of the followers I have that I know, I can tell you, you are in truly good company.  I don't know about socks and sandals guy, but Zumba Spooner, you're one of us! 

Footnote: For those of you wondering why the name Zumba Spooner, I have seen a picture of her doing some sort of floor exercise right next to another  girl at Zumba.  I promise, I'm not on any narcotics.

Dear Diary, my guts exploded again...

I returned to work yesterday after having two weeks off for my surgery.  It was an uneventful day, especially since my boss is on vacation this week and out of my hair, oops, I mean, out of the office.  I was hoping the rest of the week would go smoothly as well.  Today proved that "smooth" is not in my vocabulary.

The day was going okay until it was time for the staff meeting.  I hate staff meetings.  They are long, boring and well, someone usually gets on my nerves.  Either from talking too much, for being a dumbass, or for making us stay longer than three hours by their insistence that we talk about their issues until we have run them into the ground.  I have to take notes, so I need to pay attention.  It's exhausting.  Today, however, the boss is out of the office and Life Coach Barbie is running the meeting.  She says she is going to make it quick.  I had hope.  I never had hope. 

Today was a prime example of why I don't have hope.  The meeting was going on and on about this one topic. They were trying to set some parameters for a new process.  They kept changing what they were saying and I was getting irritated, not that it takes much to do that.  My belly was kind of throbbing, so I rubbed it a little and hoped the meeting would be over soon.  Finally, it was.  I stood up and as I did, my belly felt warm and I looked down and on the outside of my sweater there was a spot.  It was a wrap around sweater, so I opened it up and my white tank top thing underneath had a huge orangey circle.  My guts had exploded again.  It finally happened, the staff meeting made my guts explode.  It was just a matter of time, I guess.  It was inevitable.  A few people saw the spot on my shirt and their eyes got big.  I left the room and retreated to the ladies room.  I pull up my shirt and sure enough, we have a situation.  My bandage that was fresh this morning was now soaked, it had gone through that, my FCD, my tank top and my sweater.  Shit.  I'm especially pissed because now, I am exposed and I am in an environment that could be breeding anything from Malaria to Small Pox to the Plague.  AND, there are no paper towels in either dispenser.  It was at that moment that Cupcake in the head Lady came in.  There I was, belly hanging out, fluid dripping and at this point, I am so mad and frustrated, I am starting to cry.  Cupcake in the Head Lady got me toilet paper and we stopped up the hole.  I looked up in the mirror and what a site I was.  I haven't showered in about five days because of this damn stomach issue.  I mean, I've done liberal sponge baths and washed my hair, but it isn't the same. My hair looks stringy, greasy and it's up in a clip and then I have pins in it to hold back the falling pieces.  I have a zit coming in on my chin and a big-ass bio-hazard stain on my belly.  I'm a mess.

I returned to my desk and the consensus was that I should go home.  Apparently, no one wanted me oozing at my desk, so I went home.  I had been exposed, all I could do now was rush home to my Neosporin and fresh bandages.  When I got to my truck I called the doctor's office and talked to his medical assistant.  She says, "where you doing anything stressful when this happened?"  I replied, "Well, I was sitting at a staff meeting with a bunch of managers I wanted to punch in the head, but it wasn't physically stressful."  It was quiet as she typed her notes.  Then she asked, "Is the incision warm?"  I said, "Well, it is warm, but it is also under three layers: my fat controlling device, my tank top and my sweater, so you know..." Again with the typing.  This girl has no sense of humor.  I'm the one with oozing guts, cut me some slack.  So, now, I'm pretty sure my permanent medical records reflect that I wanted to punch people and that I wear an FCD. After all that, basically, I was told to keep bandaging it and keep an eye out for infection. Oh, and come see the doctor on Thursday.  Fine, if I don't bleed to death in my sleep, I'll be there.

I headed for home, but was feeling the meltdown coming on, so I did what I do when these meltdowns happen, I called Valerie.  Valerie is a good one to meltdown with because she will listen, be sympathetic and then say, "it's okay, honey, we'll figure this out."  And, mostly, no matter how hysterical I get, she's calm as a cucumber.  I dialed her up and she answered the phone all happy to hear from me and I started the conversation like this, "Well, are you ready for the meltdown, because it's happening."  She was quiet, preparing herself for the onslaught.  I figure, why bother with "hello, how are you?" let's cut to the chase. Valerie understands this.  I told her my guts exploded again, I told her how that was going to impact my next surgery, I told her how I burst in public, I had been exposed to malaria, yellow fever and small pox, I told her how I had really bad hair and it was stringy and I was ugly and that I had a zit and that I had a big stain on my brand new white tank top and how I had the potential to have bread baking in my "easy bake oven" thanks to the anti-biotics and how I was tired  of this. Tears were streaming down my face.  An occasional hiccup and sob was inserted.  She did the appropriate lash-out at the doctor and told me this was just temporary and that we would get through this.  She kept asking me where I was now, she wanted to make sure I made it home safely.  She talked to me from Everett all the way to Silvana.  After I finished the final drama filled synopsis of my utter state of repulsiveness, she said, "now where are you?"  I wailed, with every fiber of my being, "I'm in freaking (sob) Silvana...(sob, gasp, hiccup) where all your freaking dreams come true!"  Valerie is laughing, probably because she doesn't know what else to do, but I am out of control. I finally sucked it up and a couple big sniffs and a nose wipe on my sleeve and I give her a pathetic good-bye.  I hate my guts.

So, I guess I'll double up on the padding and hope I don't need a transfusion in the morning.  At the current rate of gut explosions, I gauge the next one to be on Friday.  I'll be ready this time.