"It's A Routine Procedure..."

To be clear, in case there were some of you that didn't know, there are not many "routine procedures" that go routine for me.  It's always something.  I find myself in that small percentage of people where things tend to go wrong or the treatment doesn't work.  That's me.  I am not, however, part of the small percentage of people that win the frigging lottery.  Nope, can't be part an exclusive club of winners, that isn't how I roll.  With all that said, I was doomed from the start on hysterectomy day...that cloudy, cool 29th day of June in the year 2018.

Let's begin the saga. I prepared for this big day by following all the instructions they provided me.  I'd washed with their special soap and had used it in all the crevices with the help of Shark Bait.  I was squeaky clean, I hadn't had food or water since before midnight and I was ready.  I'd done my part.

I checked-in and a nice nurse was taking care of me.  I believe her name was Michele.  She said my surgery time had been moved up so we had to move quickly.  Just then, some random guy with his little blood cart came in.  He mumbled his name and Michele said he was going to take a blood sample for a last minute check.  As he was tapping around looking for a vein, Michele is asking me questions so my full attention is on her.  All the sudden, the Blood Savage  turns into a crazed man stabbing, neigh, plunging into a vein in my hand with no warning.  My entire body came off the bed and I was yelling out in pain.  What the actual fuck just happened?  The look on Michele's face was horror as well.  I laid there with wide-eyes and asked Michele what the hell just happened and she said she didn't know, but it should never have happened like that and the MF'er had taken blood right where she needed to put the IV, which meant now she needed a new vein for the IV.  She, too, was mad and apologized for his lack of bedside manner and judgement.

As things turned out, the surgery before me was put back on the agenda, so I had time to wait, after all.  I chilled with Shark Bait and started watching YouTube videos on Robotic Hysterectomy's with Vaginal Removal. Shark Bait was, like, "what are you doing? Why would you watch that?"  I was like, "meh, why not?"  I continued to watch until they were prying and prying and prying and prying to get the uterus out of this girls vagina.  That's about when I had to stop watching. Let it just be a mystery.


Finally, it was time and they took me to the operating room where about six people all started working on me at once like a Nascar pit crew.  It was intense.  That is all I remember until a nice nurse named Linda was trying to wake me up.  "Cassondra....how are you doing....there she is...she is starting to wake....how is your pain....?"  I mumbled something about there being a lot of pain.  This went on for I don't know how long, but I remember her saying multiple times, "okay, we'll give you a little more..."  Finally, I could open my eyes and started to banter with Linda.  I don't know what I was saying, but I was probably being silly because as the other nurse came to get me to take me to my room, Linda said, "We have a real stoner here...she is totally stoned..."  I'm pretty sure the hilarity continued all the way to my room, but I don't really remember that part.

During the course of my recovery and overnight stay, I met nurse Windy.  She looked like and acted like my pal SassyPants.  She kept it real and was super awesome.  She handed me over to a nurse named Carri (I think) for the night.  I felt like I was in the best care.  They kept coming in ever so often to give me more pills, bring me beverages, helped me walk, etc.  They made me not want to leave.  You never want to leave the people with drugs.  Even after Carri woke me at 3:30 am to pull the catheter out of my junk, I still wasn't mad, because...drugs.  It also came up in casual conversation that apparently I had a bigger uterus than the doctor expected, so there was some tearing as they brought it out and so I had some extra stitches down there... I basically just birthed my uterus, thanks a lot for being bigger than usual.  The only thing that should be "bigger than usual" is a pumpkin in the Jumbo Pumpkin growing contest at the State Fair, you know what I mean?

After all my care at the hospital, Shark Bait brought me home the next day.  He was doing a pretty good job of taking care of me, but let's be honest, he was no Nurse Windy.  I was thankful for him nonetheless. 

After two days home I knew something wasn't quite right.  My throat and tongue were still sore, swollen and angry and I was nauseous all the time. It hurt to eat or drink anything. I had a lot of down south pain, too, but I figured that was just part of the deal. To top it all off, I also hadn't pooped yet. Apparently this is a big deal, which all the nurses warned me about, because my meds cause  constipation.  Concerned about all of these things, I called my surgeon's office.  One of his assistants called me back and we discussed everything going on.  She wasn't really worried about anything except the pooping.  I said, "I'm taking two tablets of stool softener, Miralax, I'm drinking prune juice and eating cherries, it's going to happen..."  She then goes on to tell me that this is mission critical and if it doesn't come out, I'm going to have to use my fingers and pick it out.  I was like, WHOA. I didn't say there was a landslide against the trap door that has caused an impaction, I feel like it's probably like a lazy lava making it's way.  I'm not that worried.  I got off the phone with her and I told Shark Bait what she said.  He said, "Well, we could get you Taco Bell for dinner.  I guarantee you that will work."  I've only eaten at Taco Bell a couple times in my life, so I asked advice on food choice.  It was a unanimous decision, The Burrito Supreme was my answer.  God Speed.

As luck would have it,  I did not have to pick concrete poop out of my butthole.  Thank you, six-pound, five-ounce baby Jesus.  My Fourth of July was an explosive one on many levels, so I was spared further experimentation on my bowels.

The next day, the warm 5th day of this July in 2018, I did end up going to the walk-in clinic about my sore throat.  The doctor also felt it was just normal reactionary type stuff going on with the tube and anesthesia used.  Well, that's great.  I guess I'd just ride it out.

I had now survived all the way til Saturday, July 8th. I told Shark Bait to go fishing with his pal Buck Dooley since he had been locked in the house with me all week. Reluctantly, he went.  I'd be fine.  I didn't feel good, so I was no fun anyway.  I couldn't get over the nausea, I wasn't sleeping well because I had to get up and pee like every 30 minutes, down south was not happy and now all four incisions on my belly were ON FIRE and so itchy I couldn't stand it. I thought to myself, I need to calm down, what could I take to calm down?  (Insert light bulb here) Wait, don't we have special brownies up in the pantry for just this type of occasion?  I'll just take a little bite, just a little to take the edge off...it'll be fine.  Google says it is okay.

I continued to lay there watching TV, feeling calmer. I just kept taking pills and laid there, miserable, watching a long marathon of Say Yes to the Dress.  By the time Shark Bait got home, I was a mess.  I. LOST. MY. SHIT.  Shark Bait rushed over to me on the couch and asked what was wrong.  I started sobbing.  I mean U-G-L-Y, hysterical crying.  Shark Bait didn't know what to do.  He said, "Baby, what's wrong, talk to me!"  I attempted to talk, all the while ugly crying and said through sobs, gasps and all the drama I possessed, "Those Moms are just so mean....those girls just want to be beautiful...and those people are mean...they deserve to be beautiful!!!!!! And, I didn't get to have my Mom with me when I wedding dress shopped because Dad wouldn't let her...and it's just so sad....."  Shark Bait is a champ. He helps me stand up and just holds me as I sob and wipe my face and nose all over his shirt.  He just rubs my back and tells me it's gonna be okay and ushers me to the bathroom.  It's noteworthy to say that when I came back to the living room, the channel had been changed.  I guess no more drama for me on that night.

Shark Bait fed me dinner and then I tried to go to bed.  I couldn't sleep.  My body ached everywhere, no position was comfortable. I had the biggest headache I've ever had. I tossed and turned.  I thought I was dying.  I was soaking wet with sweat, but freezing cold, yet I didn't have a fever. I couldn't let the blankets touch me, but needed them because I was freezing.  This went on all night.

I lived until Sunday, the 8th day of July, in 2018, by the grace of God.  I was feeling only slightly better.  Shark Bait and I decided to go to the walk-in clinic again as my incisions were so red and on fire, I was sure I was dying of some sort of infection.  Get a hysterectomy they said, it'll be fun they said.  It'll be worth it, they said.  Evil-Mother-Trucking-Vagina-Hating-Princesses-of-Pain. Never listening to them again!

After over an hour at the walk-in clinic we discover that I am allergic to my sutures and we have two choices, go in and dig them out, or just ride out the bad times until they fully dissolve and are absorbed into my system.  Well, naturally the first option is out, so she gets me all tricked out with drugs to help me through these trying times.  I ask her if I can get meds for the nausea and she complies and writes a prescription for that.  Then, by luck, she says, "what were you saying about peeing all the time?  That's not a side-effect, let's check you for a bladder infection."  Bingo. Bladder infection would explain why I was feeling so horrible.  Pills for that. She wrote me like 7-8 prescriptions for me and I was scared Rite-Aid was going to put a fraud alert on my account.  Like someone stole my doctor and forced her to write all these prescriptions.

Within hours of taking my new cocktail of narcotics, I started to feel better.  I feel like there are a lot of people out there fighting far bigger battles than I, and this is temporary, but I am not a good sick person. I'm a real pain in the ass and THANK YOU, Shark Bait!  You are THE BEST.  Someone else might have left me out on the corner on trash day.

All my prescriptions...

So, we are a couple days beyond that now and I am still living, still fighting the normal pains of recovering from a hysterectomy, still fighting the incisions and nausea, but I feel like it is manageable now.  I have managed all of this with just a handful of videos posted to Facebook and a lot of TMI about pooping.  I stayed off of social media on the darkest of days, so I guess I'll call it a social win at this point.  I hope from here forward I can just heal.  It's very hard to keep myself from doing naughty things like lifting and bending down to get stuff.  I don't want to turn into a total powder puff princess. 

Thanks to all that have sent messages of encouragement, I appreciate you all.  Everyone else, thanks for listening to my post surgery drama. 

I'm going to leave you with a few thoughts based on my experience...

• Taco Bell should NOT be used in conjunction with actual laxatives.
• If a shady-looking guy with a blood cart tries to take your blood, WATCH HIM.
• Do not infiltrate special brownie recipes into your medication list
• If your girl parts were just tampered with, DO NOT watch a marathon of Say Yes to the Dress
• Don't let your care provider go fishing

P.S. Today I watched a marathon of My 600-lb Life.  That's not really helping my morale either.

Memoirs of My Uterus...

Well, the time has come.  It is the eve of my hysterectomy.  I am feeling a bit anxious, but I know it will be for the best when I am all healed and well again.  I do not believe I will mourn the loss of this empty sack of menstral pain, but if I am to say good-bye forever to this body part that has been with me 46 years, I think it is only appropriate I pay it one last discussion.  One last bitch session.  One last remembrance of the horrible times we had together.

As I recall, I was in the fourth grade, a mere 10 years old, when my uterus introduced itself to my life.  It wasn't friendly.  It didn't just knock on the door and welcome me to womanhood with cookies and biscuits, it grabbed me like a tiger at the circus sucking a little girl into a cage and then mauling it for hours on end.  I was so young, no one had told me about this thing that happens.  There I was, playing four-square on the playground when a girl that I detested asked me why I had red all over the crotch of my pants.  I didn't know why it was there either.  I said, "I have a red sweatshirt that wrapped around my jeans and stained it in the wash."  I was a freaking genius.  The girl with ugly hair and braces just said, "oh." and seemed to move on.  When I got home that afternoon from school, my Dad was home.  I told him my stomach hurt really bad and that I thought I was bleeding to death and I didn't know why.  He told me to go lay down on my bed until Mom got home.  I remember laying there in the dark believing I was dying and the cramps were so bad. Finally, Mom came home, took me into the bathroom and explained what was happening.  What in the bloody hell?  This was going to happen EVERY MONTH? 

And so, throughout my grade school, middle school and high school life I never seemed to know when my uterus would seek its revenge on my body.  The number of times I had wardrobe issues is beyond comprehension.  I was surrounded by girls that wore training bras and wore Garfield underwear in 6th grade gym class and there I am going into the "period shower stall" with my over-active uterus.

Fast forward, and I know you wish I would, to my adulthood.  It's been hell.  Sheer HELL.  I don't want to get graphic, but there is stuff that no woman wants to see in her panties, and I've seen it.  Is that a clot or a bunny that I just passed?  The world will never know.  At any rate, after the fibroids and all the pain and suffering, tomorrow it is OVER you mother-trucking barren over-reacting gut-wrenching sack of cramps and shedding lining. Fuck you.  There, I said it.  As Church Lady said today, after tomorrow, there is no more U-to-us uterus, it's over bitch. 

Ode to my Uterus
by Cassondra White

You are a uterine sack of pain and shredding lining
You took my innocence and left me bitchy and whining.

You have ruined my panties, my pants and a dress or two.
You've taken me by surprise and left me shoving toilet paper up my vagina in the loo.

You've made me spend what must be thousands of dollars on feminine hygiene supplies
You've made me lose my shit, throw a temper tantrum and crave french fries.

You've caused me PMS to the point of taking everyone down with me
It's called Shark Week for a reason, I'll eat anything I can see.

I had to use a app on my cell phone that tracks my cycle all year.
I need it to show those around me and to instill fear.

I'm tired of being this tired, bloated, bloody, cramping and a clotting disaster
It's time for me to take control and become the master.

So get out of my body, take the fallopian tubes and cervix with you, please.
Don't let the door hit you in the ass, as you leave.

Fuck you, you uterine terrorist
Sincerely, the body where you will not be missed.


So, with all that said, I am a little bit nervous about the uterus exit strategy.  They are allegedly doing the surgery "robotic."  This means that my doctor sits at a computer and tells the robot hands what to do in there.  Maybe I'm just paranoid because of where I work and all the computer problems we have, but what if good 'ol Hal the Robot goes ape-shit in there and starts cutting shit up like he's the Swedish Chef on The Muppets?  What if all the sudden it starts chopping up the other organs?  Liver pate anyone?  You didn't need that pancreas, right?  Spleen? GONE.  Holy shit! 

OR, what if I am under the anesthesia and I wake up in the middle of the surgery and I'm awake and can feel stuff, but I can't open my eyes or communicate with the doctors that I can feel everything?  Then what?  The Rug Doctor says that is not likely to happen and she is sure, even if it did, there would be other parts of my body reacting in a way that would let them know.  I shared this concern with Blonde Wonder Twin and she said she woke up in the middle of one of her surgeries.  SEE!!! It can happen.  Of course her eyes opened and they noticed and put her down further, but still.  It is possible.

And, let's talk about what is going to happen in the after math.  There's going to be packing up there, there is going to be nothing holding the vagina in.  All that stuff just gone and the vagina is like a hammock in the back yard slumping between two trees.  I just know I'm going to have to poke it back up in there all the time.  I won't ever get camel-toe in the front of my jeans, it will just look like I'm harboring Jabba the Hut in my crotch.  Look, I have concerns.

Anyway, I have Shark Bait to take care of me and he does a good job of that.  Although, he is prone to video me when I am loopy, so really can't promise I will come out of this with any sort of integrity at all.

My work peeps were so sweet to me today with their well-wishes and gifts to keep me busy after the fact and the good-bye uterus cupcakes.  I heart my peeps.  I was even hugged quite a bit today. It's almost like they don't even believe I'll be back.  But, to their point, it's way better to hug a live person than a dead person.  And honestly, if I'm dead, get off me.  That's gross.


Gifts from my peeps...

The Day My Vagina Falls Out

It's been too long since my last therapy session with The Rug Doctor.  Work and life stuff just got in the way, so it's been a month, I think, since I've had an appointment.  Based on the title of this blog, I think we all know I waited too long to see her.

Today I was feeling all sorts of anxiety, angst and sadness.  One of the things that has me a little anxious is my upcoming hysterectomy at the end of June.  I received a call from the doctor today advising me that my fibroid has not reduced in size at all and is clearly not responding to the Lupron shots I've been getting for months now.  So, we are moving forward with the procedure.  I've talked to many of my gal-pals and I have gotten pretty positive reviews.  Everyone agrees that I won't regret having the baby shack taken out.  Well, no shit.  No more periods, duh.  Who's gonna miss that?  I'm sure no one ever said, "Oh no, I don't need to buy feminine products or worry about leaving a blood kiss on the chair or in my favorite rainbow underpants."  Seriously.  With that said, removing the angry uterus does bring up some feelings.

I told the Rug Doctor about my ultrasound appointment the other day when I could hear the woman in the next room being told she was 13 weeks along.  I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't get a little teary-eyed.  That woman got to hear the allegedly exciting news about the baby growing inside her and here I am putting a definite end to any sort of chance that I would ever carry a child.  I mean, we pretty much took care of that when I took Shark Bait in to get fixed, but still, this is very final.  There is a part of me that is sad about never having had a child of my own.  I feel like I have mourned that over the last eight years or so, but part of being a woman is that junk inside that gives you the ability to spawn offspring.  Will I feel any less of a woman when it's over? I honestly don't know.

We also talked about the procedure itself.  I've done some Googling, I've asked some people and I am preparing questions for the pre-op appointment with the Gyno Doc, but I'm not going to lie, I'm a bit nervous.  I do know we are leaving my ovaries intact, but I think everything else is coming out.  Like my cervix.  I think it's coming out, but I'm not sure.  And if I do take it out, I hear you gotta be super careful, because if you don't heal right, I hear your vagina can prolapse and fall out!!!  What the fuck?  I have all sorts of  questions about this possibility!

• Once everything is out, is my whole vaginal area like a dark tunnel?  A black hole?  Like, an empty parking garage?  
• Is it like standing on the top of the Swiss Alps yelling, "helloooooo..." as it echos back?
• When I pee, is it just going to be like a fire hose on full blast with nothing to slow the flow?
• If it is a windy day, will my lower lady lips make a flapping sound in the wind if I wear a dress?
• Will my ovaries just fall out like marbles on the floor and I'm running around chasing them like that guy in Return to Neverland finding his marbles?  I mean, I know I won't get to fly, but still...
• Will my vagina just fall out one day?  Like, "splatt!" right onto the ground.  I pick it up, dust it off and put it back in?  Put it in my pocket?  
• Will I need a vagina fanny pack that I attach in the front of me and it just rides around in there in case I need it?
• Will my vagina truly become nature's purse and I can carry stuff around in there?
• What about sex, will I just hand it to Shark Bait and say, "let me know when I'm getting close."
• Will I need to wear shorts like guys do at the gym to keep their balls harnessed?
• If I sit down on a bench that is wet with paint, but I didn't know it was wet, so I sat down, will I leave a normal butt print in the wet paint, or will it be a butt print with a little extra splotch in the front for my girl stuff that just hangs loose?
• Will I be able to lay in a hammock without my vagina falling through the mesh netting and trapping me there?  
• Will it fall in the toilet when I pee? 
• Will I be able to slide into a booth at a restaurant?

And those are just some of the vagina questions! What about my hormones?  Will I get facial hair?  Like, big, thick black hairs radiating from my chin?  Will my voice lower?  What about that empty space down there internally?  What goes in there?  Fluid? Cellulite just moves in?  What happens to the ovaries?  They are just hanging out like a couple of bats?

So many questions.  I mean, I know for most people it is a great life change and they are so happy they did it.  But what if I am part of the small percentage of people that has post partum uterus detachment syndrome?  I don't know if it is a thing, but it sounds legit.  Like, one day, I'm like, "Back when I had my uterus, this wouldn't have happened..."  I can't think what that event would be, actually, but it could be a thing.  Maybe I'll think, "I can't blame my bitchiness on shark week now."  Now I will need to like, take accountability for my actions or have a legit reason.  This is bullshit.  I've partnered with this uterus all these years to scare the shit out of people every 28 days and now, I just have to be randomly scary to keep them on their toes.  I mean, I actually think I may already do that, but this sounds like extra effort that my hormones provided naturally.

For the record, The Rug Doctor doesn't think I have anything to worry about, but she does want me to talk to the Gyno Doc to feel better about my choices.  She strongly recommended against utilizing my Google MD research techniques and just relaxing until I have more information from the doctor.  She also said it is normal that I would be feeling sad about losing this very important part of my anatomy.  Even if I made the choice to not have children, it is still a big deal and my feelings are valid.

I'm sorry if this was a little over the top, but vagina placement is a big deal.  I'll keep you updated if it does fall out after surgery, because I am going to make a ton of money on my vagina fanny pack invention.

This is what it will look like as my vagina sucks me in.

How Hard Does Sprint Wireless Suck?

The question begs to be asked, "How hard does Sprint Wireless suck?"  The answer to that question is that modern technology has yet to develop testing equipment with a capacity to measure this. I do believe, however, that a good comparison might be that Sprint sucks harder than a hooker trying to make rent to her pimp before getting beat up.  I don't have any first hand experience with that scenario, but I would assume the suction would be intense.

I should start by saying that the only reason I have Sprint is because Shark Bait had it when I met him and it was cheaper than what I was paying, so I switched over.  It's been an underwhelming user experience ever since.  I mean, who even came up with the name, Sprint? The service isn't fast or reliable.  It's like the Special Olympics of cellular service.  But, alas it seems like whenever we are in the mood to change, we are in the middle of a contract.  Basically, we are dumb-asses.

So, what brings on today's rage?  SO GLAD YOU ASKED!

Yesterday (Sunday), Shark Bait and I were heading on a road trip for the day.  I got in the truck and was settling in as the trusty passenger and pulled my phone out.  Half of the screen was black.

Notice how half of the screen is black? Yeah, so did I.  So, Shark Bait and I traveled over to Eastern Washington and when we got there, we located a Sprint store.  The dude in the store is quick to inform me that he cannot help me because he is not a corporate store, nor does he have technical help in his store. He then suggested that I had caused damage to the phone, even though, not a mark on it. After not really believing me, he said my options were to pay off what was owing on the phone (allegedly $200) and get a new phone, or I could call the insurance company and see what they would charge for a deductible to replace it.  I said, "Well, that's bullshit.  The phone is worthless, why would I pay $200?  And, if I pay insurance on it every month, what the fuck good does that do me if I just have a huge deductible over something I have no control over.  I didn't do this to the phone!?"  Pablo basically was ZERO help.  He says, "$200 isn't that much, I'd just pay it off and get a new one."  Oh yeah, chump change.  No big deal. Clearly, Sprint over pays him.

But wait, Pablo wasn't done. He continued on with more great news.  He said, "Yeah, these HTC Bolt phones are bad news.  I don't know why anyone would buy one.  I never let a customer leave the store with one of these.  I've seen a lot of problems with them."  I looked at him, clearly pissed, "Well, that's fantastic, because the girl that sold it to me assured me it was the next best thing and would be faster, have more range and not drop calls, and now you tell me it's shit?  That's awesome that you sell it, then."

He suggested we visit the Marysville store which was a corporate store. With that, we left Pablo to think of more ways to scam customers.

Upon returning to the west side of the mountains that evening, we stopped in at the Marysville store.  Right off the bat, we are told they are not a corporate store.  Said they haven't been one for over a year and a half now.  Huh.  They said I should take the phone to the corporate store in Everett or in Lynnwood. That sure sounds super convenient, I'll just take a day off work and run around the county trying to get my phone fixed on Monday!!!  They hypothesized some possible issues the phone could be experiencing and then we just cut our losses and left.

Fast forward to today.  It's a Monday, so it's already a challenge.  I decide to go on my lunch hour up to the CORPORATE Sprint store in Everett.  I know where it is. It's in the Trader Joe's Parking lot.  The boufante-haired and under-showered guy at Sprint told me so.  I walk in to the store and no one is there except two guys, one at each counter.  They looked like contestants on Jeopardy.  I gravitate over to the orange-haired lad with gauges in his ears.  I explain the problem and tell him I need it fixed.  He informs me what he thinks is wrong with the phone and then tells me that he can't help because he's not a corporate store.  I said, "are you kidding me? The dude at Marysville said that you were? They used to be one, so I went there thinking they still were."  Orange hair dude says, "No, they've never been a corporate store."  I can't do this, I can't argue about that.  So, now I'm pissed. I said, "So, you are the THIRD store I have been to.  Each of you tells me something different. I don't have $200 to pay off this phone and get a new one, nor should I have to!"  He says, "Well, it's actually $375 to pay it off, but it might be worth it to cut your losses."  I looked at him incredulously and said, "Seriously?  Why in the hell would I give you $375 for a piece of crap phone that doesn't work?  Why in the hell would I do that?  And then you're going to charge me for a new one and to upgrade, etc.  I have insurance, what the fuck good is it if none of this is covered?"  He's like, calm as a cucumber, nothing was going to rattle him.  He was probably smoking weed before I got there. He then hands me a piece of paper telling me that the corporate office is in Lynnwood and I need to go there.  I was so beyond pissed.  I said, "Where the hell is that store??? What is it by?"  He says, "Well the address is on that sheet of paper."  I looked at him with sheer rage in my face, grabbed my phone, shoved it in his face and said, "WELL, I'D PUT THE ADDRESS IN MY PHONE TO GUIDE ME, BUT I CAN'T!!!!!!!!!!"  With that, I thanked him for abso-fucking-lutely nothing, and left.

When I was safely in my truck, I considered my options.  I wanted this dealt with TODAY.  I needed this rage to help me through this.  I was going to that fucking Lynnwood store.  Vengeance would be mine.  Justice would be served.

I arrive at the Lynnwood store.

I walk in and I see a crowd of 20-something boys in the back, all of them seemingly work there. They could all see that I was a crazed fat girl with an axe to grind.  They sent a tribute.  A little guy, his name was Hugo.  He asked how I was.  I said, "I'm very cranky and I need help, but first, are you or are you not a corporate store?" He confirmed that yes, I had located the mother-ship.  The other guys in the back, settled in to watch the show.  I told Hugo of my travels and that he would be the fourth store and that I would not be told one more time that I needed to pay $375 for a piece of shit phone.  He looked at it and said he could have his repair guy look at it, but his repair guy was really busy, so it might be a while.  Strike one, Hugo.  I elevated my voice a bit and said, "Look, I have been told three different stories by three stores, I'm trying to get my phone fixed on my lunch hour.  I live in Stanwood and work in Everett, I don't have time to travel all over God's creation just to be told I need to come back.  I want this resolved...and not by getting a new phone after I pay a bunch of money.  Do I look like a baller to you?  Is $375 chump change to you?  You Sprint people get paid so much you just make it rain?"


Hugo returned to the back room and had the tech take a peek at the phone.  Hugo informed me the tech had seen another phone already today with this same issue and someone else had called and was bringing one in, also with the same issue.  They said because I had the insurance and because it seemed to be more of a warranty issue and not customer created, there would be no charge and they would fix it.  It would only take 7-10 days.  I may have lost it again just as one of the girls that worked there was arriving for her shift and walked up to the counter.  When she heard me start to talk, her eyes got big and she scampered away quickly.  I said, "That's awesome you're going to fix it, but are you shitting me?  I won't have a phone for 7-10 days? Seriously?  This is ridiculous!"  He said, "oh no, we would give you a loaner phone."  A loaner phone?  Apparently, they give me some random piece of shit phone while they are fixing my phone.  They just transfer my phone number over and bam, loaner phone. (Sad thing is, the loaner phone might be lame but it's still probably a better phone than mine.)  So then, Hugo says, "So, the technician is super busy working on someone else's phone, so it will take him about 30 minutes to get to your phone so he can transfer your stuff over to this loaner phone."  I looked at him like I was going to pick his body up and stuff it into a phone case.  He then said nervously, "or we can just get your number moved over and you out the door in about 5 minutes, but you won't have any of your info from your phone."  I said, "Let's do that, shall we?"

So, I'm a little calmer now, as Hugo works away and getting my number to work on this loaner phone. We are making idle chit-chat and I say, "One of your people told me that this is the worst phone and he never lets anyone out of the store with one, but the gal that sold it to me told me how much better it would be, blah, blah, blah...."  Hugo says, "uh, yeah, I don't sell it either.  It doesn't get great reviews.  I think they thought it was going to be great, but it wasn't."  I said, "That's fantastic that your sales people push shit phones on people and then try and screw them over when something goes wrong.  I feel great about doing business with Sprint."  He looked a bit nervous and said, "Well, a lot of times the manufacturers of these phones have sales incentives to sell specific phones, so the sales people push them."  I just looked at him and slow-blinked, unimpressed with his reasoning.

We then discussed in great length about the difference between corporate stores and all those Sprint re-seller stores and how confusing it is for the customer.  I told him the guy in the Everett store almost got killed.  Hugo then says to me, "I just don't understand why you didn't go to the corporate store in Everett?  Why would he tell you to come here?"  I stood there stunned.  I said, "I did, the one in the Trader Joe's parking lot." Hugo says, "The Everett corporate store in Everett is right across the street from Applebees, you could have gone to that one."  I stood there, livid.  "Why didn't the dumb ass at the Trader Joe's store tell me there was a corporate store literally a couple blocks away from where I was?  And why would Sprint do that to their customers?  WHY?"  Hugo had no answers, but he did ask me to give him a 10 on the survey that would be sent to me.  I'm not going to lie, more slow-blinking.

Hugo then asked me where I worked.  I told him.  He then proceeded to complain about how slow my company's internet was.  He has NINE people in his house that game, stream movies, and use it full-time online.  Oh, I'm sorry our internet is not fast enough.  I think he could tell I was not interested in talking about anyone's short-comings other than Sprint's.

The bonus of waiting for Hugo to work on my phone was that I was lucky enough to enjoy the musical stylings of Michael Bolton over the sound system and then the boys in the back of the store blaring some gang-banger hip hop.  I said to Hugo, "I'm loving what you guys are doing with the music in here, it's like it calms you down while you get pissed off." He said, "yeah, sometimes the guys do that, I don't understand it."  Well, finally we can agree on something.

Finally a few minutes later, I left there with my very used loaner phone.  Better than nothing, I guess.  I felt a sigh of relief that Shark Bait and I do not take nakie pics on our phones because I wasn't able to back anything up or take anything off of the phone before handing it over.  I hope the tech guy doesn't spend too much time reading the Boot Bitch Gang group chat or my text messages.  I hope he likes weiner dogs, selfies and ponies...and bunnies.

All in all, I made pretty good time running around the county and got back to work a bit beyond my lunch break, but not horribly so.  I made a quick stop at McDonalds across the street from my work to pick up a chicken sammy and the gal that took my payment says, "Oh, I love your outfit today! It looks really good on you.  I could never pull it off because I have three kids, but that white looks good on you (it was actually a yellowish-white)."  I said, "Thank you, I have a hard enough time pulling it off with no kids."  She says, "Well, if you had long hair, that might be too much, but because you keep it short and it's a cute style, you can pull it off...but yeah, long hair would just be too much."

I'm just going to put this out there.  I got better customer service and fashion advice in two minutes at McDonalds than I did at four different Sprint stores.

Sprint, you suck harder than a Black Hole.  Harder than a hooker in a Black Hole.

Probably Not Getting Kidnapped...

I can't sleep tonight. I'm restless.  Perhaps I am subconsciously stressing about my upcoming adventure.  You see, as of Friday at 5pm, I will be entering the Admin Protection Program.  That's right, Saturday morning I am leaving for 10 days and going with my friend to visit her family in  Colorado.  During this time, the amounts of fucks given about work will be zero. I shall not think of the Glass Palace, not even once. I'm excited, but also nervous about the trip.

First things first, let's just get this out of the way, just because I am going to be gone for 10 days does not mean any of you home-wrecking tramps get to come over to my house and love on my dog or my man.  Yeah, you heard me right, Shark Bait is mine and he will not be entertaining wild women.  As a matter of fact, he also gets to babysit my sister's cat while she is also out of town.  That is the only pussy he gets.  Vulgar, I know, but it was right there, I couldn't just let that go.  Sorry, not sorry.

Secondly, it should be mentioned that I am not that big of an adventurer.  Like, in the 13, going on 14 years that Shark Bait and I have known each other, we've never been apart for more than an occasional couple of nights here or there when it is hunting season.  Aside from that, we are glued to each other like construction paper and uncooked elbow macaroni in a first grade art class.  We're tight.  So, yeah, that's a big deal.  Also, I'm kind of scared of travel.  Like, I'm a big scaredy-cat.

Last night Shark Bait and I were laying in bed and I said, "Shark Bait, do you know, if I was kidnapped in Colorado and then somehow managed to break free and get my abductors gun and shot him, would that be self-defense or would I go to jail."  Shark Bait, not even surprised by my question answers, "Well, there would be an investigation to see what happened, but you shouldn't go to jail.  I would think that would qualify for self-defense." I said, "oh, okay, but are you sure?  I mean, why does there have to be an investigation if I was kidnapped.  You know, like we were reported missing and I'm all bloody and stuff from being smacked around and I probably soiled myself because the bad guy wouldn't let us go to the bathroom and I haven't showered in days and there is tape residue on my wrists...like, you can tell I was in tough shape and I was clearly kidnapped.  I won't get in trouble, right?"  He says, "You're not going to get kidnapped."  I argued, "you don't know!!! I'm fat and out of shape, I could be easily taken over by a couple of creepy guys that want woman suits and it could happen!"  Shark Bait is unflappable and says, "That's not going to happen, do you know how small of a percentage of people get kidnapped?  VERY SMALL, like it's not going to happen."  Clearly, he hasn't been paying attention to what we watch on TV.  I also was undeterred by his steadfast beliefs about my safety.  I continued, "That's bullshit!! Every NCIS episode and shoot-em-up crime drama you watch has people getting kidnapped!  What about Dateline and 20/20??! What about them?  What about every movie out there with people being TAKEN??!!!  I don't have Bruce Willis or that other angry dude...(Liam?) coming for me  because I'm their daughter!  Or, what about that movie Seven, where the guy kills people for the seven sins, I'm a sure candidate for the gluttony sin! I'm going to be killed in Colorado! Like, you're never going to see me again once I get on that plane!"

It's like no one even tries to take me seriously anymore.  I have legit concerns.

Fast-forward to today.  I'm talking to my Mom and I said, "Mom, Shark Bait doesn't think I'll get kidnapped in Colorado, but it could happen."  Mom buckles up for the ride, as she has on many occasions and says, "You're not going to get kidnapped in Colorado.  If you think for one minute I believe that anyone is going to attempt to kidnap you and Pal-o-mino, you've got to be out of your mind.  Not gonna happen."  She continues on, indulging me, "who is even going to try to kidnap you girls?  I don't think so."  I said, "Mom, there is some guy (or guys) out there that want women suits.  They just need to get us in their van, store us in their basement and starve us for a short time and our skin will be saggy enough for them to harvest what they need.  It's a thing Mom, it could happen.  We are getting old, we can't even run."  I could envision the look on Mom's face.  Her mouth is in that half-smirk thing and she has her head tilted to the side and she's rolling her eyes.  This isn't her first rodeo.  Mom says, "There is NO WAY that anyone is going to mess with you girls, no way."  I don't really like to be shut down so I finished the only way I could.  I said, "Whatever, Mom, when I don't come back from Colorado, you'll see."

Finally, I talked to Pal-o-mino about it.  She says, "First of all, we can't take our guns with us, so you can't shoot anyone."  I retorted, "Duh, I'm going to break free of my ropes or tape or whatever and I'm going to make a grand effort to save us.  I'm going to wrestle him down, get his gun and shoot him dead.  I'm going to save us.  I promise you."  Pal-o-mino wasn't buying it, she's like, "yeah, that's not even a thing, that isn't going to happen."  Here's the thing...she doesn't know...it could and at least  ONE OF US is thinking about it.  I don't hear anyone thanking me for being preventative or cautious or proactive or anything like that.  No, they just say it isn't going to happen.  But...what if it does?  Then what?

To be clear, I'm not saying that I want it to happen (unless it's by Channing Tatum).  I mean, maybe the terrorists will be on our flight.  Probably not, because it is super early and who wants to get up early to die, you know?  I mean, I guess I am, but I'm not planning on dying, I'm just saying, what if?  Look, I might not be the kind of girl that gets attacked and kidnapped because I'm young and hot, or because I'm a hooker (I mean, I'm not a hooker, but I'm just saying, if I was, but I'm not...trust me), but at the end of the day, I've taken pretty good care of my skin.  Shark Bait says my butt is soft as a baby's butt and my facial skin is pretty good.  Cellulite has really kept the wrinkles from coming on.  My back skin is pretty nice, too.  I've never had "backne" or blackheads or anything.  Trust me, I've seen some shit on Dr. Pimple Popper and my back skin is fantastic.  I would make a pretty good woman suit.  Now, my legs, they are pretty much like the extra parts that come with a Thanksgiving turkey, you throw them out or boil them to make gravy.

Or, say the guy doesn't want a woman suit, say he needs to sell me and my friend for human sex-trafficking........................... omg...lmao...never mind. hahahahahaha  That would only happen if he was a blind guy.  Sigh.

So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm going for 10 days, I'm a little anxious, but I'm probably going to be fine, according to everyone else.  Tonight, as I was laying in bed trying to count sheep or something,  Shark Bait reconfirmed, "I don't know what else to say, but you are going to have a great time and you ARE NOT GOING TO GET KIDNAPPED!"  I replied, "Look pal, until you have an 800# and a loyal following, I'm not going to believe your psychic bullshit."

And just like that, he had no comeback. A smug win for Angry Pony.

I'm going to try and go back to bed now.  I'd like to be kidnapped by dreams...

Violent Femmes - DO NOT Attempt to Kidnap

A Day at the Gyno - Adelle Will NEVER Understand

Today is another installment of "Putting Cassondra Back Together in 2018."

This week has been super fun.  I was given a cortizone shot in my left shoulder on Monday.  The doctor said, "Based on your history with this shoulder, if this shot doesn't help within two weeks, call me and I'll order an MRI and then schedule you with a surgeon."  What?  I don't want my shoulder operated on.  That sounds like it hurts.  That sounds like a long recovery.  That sounds like something I purposely have been putting off, thusly why I haven't been in to see you in years.  Shit.

Tuesday, the fun continued with a visit to the doctor to have an endoscopy.  Our hope was to discover if I had any shenanigans going on in my stomach which would explain all the pain.  After spending way too much time in the waiting room with a loud belching person, they finally took me back to the admitting area where they prepped me up for the procedure. As luck would have it, I was an instant celebrity as I got to wear the new gowns that the hospital just got in.  It might not sound like a big deal, but I'm telling you, it was the prettiest shade of blue and the shoulders unbuttoned.  Glam-or-ous! Once word got out that I had the new gown on, there was a bit of a scuttle about where those gowns were and who was hiding them and why no one else had been able to find them.  Then, people started coming by to check me out in this new hospital fashion trend.  I was kind of a big deal. 

After that, I spent some time arguing about the fact that I was not, in fact, pregnant and that it was highly unlikely that I had been chosen as the vessel for divine intervention that would subsequently lead to baby Jesus Jr. being put in my belly.  I told the nurse I was positive God would not do that to me, or humankind.  I can't be responsible for baby Jesus Jr. in on the computer on Facebook, Plenty of Fish or on the Twitter tweeting, "Parted my soup like the Red Sea at Panera Bread today. #BadAssSavior."  When the world falls apart for reals, I don't want to get blamed for that.  I mean, unless the place floods again and everybody dies...or is it supposed to burn up?  I'm not up on Revelations, but I'm pretty sure I probably wouldn't be around after that, so maybe it isn't a big deal if it was my fault.  Unless God had me live.  And then everyone is going to be all like, "We used to have cell phones and be able to text each other and could stream Game of Thrones and now we are smashing two rocks together to make fire and have to talk to each other instead of texting, THANKS A LOT CASSONDRA!!!!"  Then, no one lets me reproduce anymore, which, actually, I'm fine with and then I have to carry water from the well all the time because I'm the idiot that let baby Jesus Jr. get cat-fished on Plenty of Fish and ruined everything.

Like I said, I don't want to be the vessel for our savior.  Too much responsibility.

Anyway, that whole deal ended up going fine.  My throat is still sore, but I'll live, I think.  The doctor said I should probably see the GI surgeon dude and talk to them about taking out my gall bladder if the problems continue as that is likely the root of all my abdominal pain.  Oh, okay, I'll just have another surgery. No problem.

Disclaimer: You are now entering the part of the blog where I talk about girl parts.  If that makes you squeamish, this is where you want to stop.

Today, was the big mamma-jamma appointment.  I don't really know what mamma-jamma means, but it is some epic shit, I'll tell you that.  Last week I had an appointment with the tech person running the love-wand and had a pelvic ultrasound that revealed I've got some things going on that are not ideal.  (No, they didn't see baby Jesus Jr. in there during the ultrasound, FYI.)  I could have told them I was a hot mess without the love wand.  I'm the one harboring the angry uterus.  Anyway, so today I had to have the doctor go all Jacques Cousteau again and go up in there, get a piece of my uterine wall and have that sent out for a biopsy.  I know, I know, this is A LOT of information about girl parts, but hey, I had to go through it and I know a lot of others have, so it isn't a big deal.  Except it was a BIG MOTHER TRUCKING DEAL!!!!!  It hurt so freaking bad! 

I should have known it was going to be a big deal because this is the course of events.  The doctor's assistant came in and checked me in. She started by taking my blood pressure, which was way higher than normal. We chalked that up to stress, but she said she would take it again before I left. She goes on to say, "I'll be here in the room during the procedure with the doctor, just so you know.  I'll play some music and by the time the song is over, it will be all done."  Okay, whatever, distractions during the violation, I get it.  I think the pictures they have on the ceiling aren't really great for distraction, so maybe the music will do the trick. (Note: if there are any medical professionals reading this, hey, put some naked Channing Tatum on the ceiling instead of that ugly fucking cartoon cat and the puppies in the paint can.)

The assistant then starts small talk with me about doctors and their specialties.  Did you know there is a doctor that specializes in just your rectum?  Yep, not inside of it, just the rectum itself.  I'm like, okay, well, I guess someone had to be an expert on assholes, but what lead to that person saying to themselves, "I've studied all these years and I'm going to be an asshole specialist!"  Did that doctor fail the test to be a brain surgeon?  I don't want to belittle the butt-hole because it's a pretty big deal, but of all the specialties, why that?  Is medical school like in Harry Potter where you hold the hat and it tells you what specialty you get to pursue?  Weird.

The doctor comes in and we finally get down to business.  My ass is almost hanging off the table, I got my feet in the stirrups, the assistant hits the ipod and Adelle comes on singing her heart out.  I'm staring at cartoon cats, naked babies in flowers and puppies in paint cans on the ceiling when all the sudden, shit got real.  Holy Mother of all that is painful in this world!  I hear phrases like, "oh, I'm going to have to dilate her, the cervix opening is small..." (No shit, I've never spawned a baby through that hole!) "Oh, looks like things are at an angle, this isn't going to go in straight."  I'm clawing the table and the nurse assistant gal is holding my shoulder and petting me like a scared wild animal that was just pulled out of a burning house.  I started to cry.  The cramping is un-freaking-believable.  I said, "THIS BODY AIN'T MADE FOR BIRTHIN' NO BABIES!!!" By this time, Adelle is done singing and some other random Barney was on there singing.  By the time it was over, I don't know how many songs I had heard, but I knew how many expletives I had suppressed.

Finally it was over and I laid on the table as if I had just given birth to a really sharp pencil.  The doctor says I just needed a blood draw and to do a urine sample and then I could go.  This day just keeps getting better.

The blood draw was no biggie, but then the urine sample.  Men have no idea how lucky they are when it comes to this task.  Seriously.  First of all, I don't have Stretch Armstrong arms and I don't have a back-up camera or eyes on my vagina.  I'm squatting, hovering over the toilet, holding a small cup that may as well be a thimble and praying my stream of urine goes in it.  My pants are around my ankles, I'm in position, much like an Olympic skier and next thing I know, there is pee everywhere.  Mother. Trucker.  I re-negotiate my stance and fill the cup while also completely covering my hand in urine.  This is AWESOME.

I get it cleaned up and then go to pull up my underwear and pants.  Oh yeah, I totally got piss on the side of my underwear and all over the back of the leg of my jeans when I was skiing the freestyle in the downhill race.  Pretty sure this was a GOLD medal performance. This is fucking awesome.  I'm sure no one will notice.  I'm just standing there thinking, "this is awesome, my cooter hurts, I've got a band-aid on my arm from the blood draw and now I look like I was standing next to a group of guys pissing in the wind. 

Nonetheless, I pulled myself together to leave.  As soon as I walked out of the bathroom, I see the nurse.  Shit, she was supposed to take my blood pressure again.  I don't want her to get in trouble, so I say, "Hey, aren't you supposed to take my blood pressure again?"  She says, "OH YEAH!  Thank you for reminding me!"  We take it and it is 148/102, which is higher than it was when I first got there.  I told the nurse, "You just sucked a sample out of my uterus, took blood and now I've pissed myself, what did you think it was going to be?"  While amused, she was not allowed to let me leave, so she goes to get the doctor.  After much discussion of sending me to the walk-in clinic, or stopping by the Fire Station to have them check later (um hello, Firemen?  That's not going to help it go down), or having me come back later, we finally decided that I could leave, but that I needed to follow up with my regular doctor to address this high blood pressure.  We were assuming it was just pain and stress related, but need to be sure.  The doctor says, "You're not going back to work, right?"  I said, "Well, I was planning on it."  She says, "I need you to go home and CHILL OUT and not be stressed.  I do not want you at work right now."  Finally, an order I'm happy to follow.

So, I came home, chilled out and called my friend, Pal-o-mino.  I told her about the horror of the day.  She says, "yeah, I thought about telling you about that test and how bad it hurts, but I didn't want to stress you out about it.  You basically now know what labor feels like."  I can't imagine what my blood pressure would have been had she told me before hand.  

At any rate, I lived to tell the story and to over-share as only I can do on the regular.  I do have some suggestions for those of you that have not yet spawned a child via your loins and need an endometrial biopsy. 

• Get stoned before you go to the doctor.
• Get drunk before you go to the doctor.
• Do heroin before you go to the doctor.
• Stretch that shit out. Toys, vegetables, appliances, a submarine, whatever it takes.
• Don't think for one second that Adelle understands, because she doesn't.

This test is not for the faint of heart. I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you.

Also, if you are currently in medical school and considering your options, remember the rectum.  It's special and, you don't have a lot of competition for clients.

As always, my friends, I'm leaving you with more information than you asked for.

You. Are. Welcome.

Super Cellulite Girl

I thought I would take some time today and update everyone on the progress in my life since the last blog where I had just seen the Girlie Doctor and been held hostage by Dr. Nature.

As luck would have it, the nutrient IV/hostage situation that caused me to have to lay in an uncomfortable position on my bad shoulder for hours has caused my shoulder to flare up.  I have been babying this shoulder for close to 9 years after the last cortisone shot that seemed to stabilize it. Well, now it is PISSED OFF.  So, if you add that on all my other maladies, I'm a bigger hot mess than before.  On a side note, for those of you that wanted to know how the nutrient IV went after the fact, it did make me feel better and sleep better and wake up refreshed for about a week.  So, there's that.

So, I have been going to appointments to figure out what is going on in this angry body of mine.  Still a few more to go over the next two weeks, but the one constant appointment I always make time for is my Therapy Thursday sessions with The Rug Doctor.  I visited her on a Tuesday this week, so it was more of a Train Wreck Tuesday.  Regardless of the day, I always bring the correct amount of dysfunction to the session for her to earn the co-pay.

This week I told her that I was pretty much emotionally bankrupt.  Like, all this drama with my body, not knowing what is going on and having all these pains and not sleeping made me feel utterly hopeless and honestly, a little scared.  And knowing, at some level, that so much of it is probably my fault for a lifetime of obesity. Knowing how bad I want to be healthy and just continually struggling.  I told her I am the problem, but we can't fix me, Lord knows she's tried.  I just need to do what I need to do, but I'm apparently in my own way.  She says not to be so hard on myself and that there is a balance between being kind to yourself and holding yourself accountable. And that I'm still working through issues from my childhood. I called bullshit on her, "Being kind hasn't worked.  Kindness likes cookies. I need that accountability bitch in there telling me to get my shit together." She said, "so how's that been working out?"  (Insert disapproving look here directed at therapist ) I told her that nothing I have ever tried, since birth, has ever worked for me to lose weight.  No diet, no plan, no program, not even surgery has helped.  I mean, surgery did for a short time and then all hell broke loose with my work out program and my joints and the weight all came rushing back with a vengeance.

I went on to explain, it's like I can't break through the barriers.  I said to The Rug Doctor, "It's like I'm some sort of cellulite superhero."  She looked at me confused, "A cellulite superhero?  I've never heard of that..."  I said, "Yeah, you know how the Incredible Hulk gets pissed off and he's all green and indestructible? He's a bad-ass an you can't touch him.  I'm like Super Cellulite Girl, go ahead and try and lose weight, can't be done because Super Cellulite Girl (SCG) is there to fend off any sort of healthy behavior.  The cellulite has super powers.  They grab on and multiply like fucking rabbits and I am powerless to stop them.  Cellulite is stronger than any force in the food chain or in the workout world."  She considered this and said, "But that isn't true, you were able to tap into your positive self at the beginning of January and be on track, feel good and make healthy choices."  I countered, "Yeah, because even Super Cellulite Girl has a kryptonite....HOPE.  Cassondra was attacked by hope and was temporarily hi-jacked, but then shit happened that weakened hope and then SCG came in and regained control."  I acted out punching-out hope and puffing myself up like a bad-ass with puffy cheeks.

Super Cellulite Girl. Gnarly looking bitch, isn't she?

God bless the Rug Doctor, she never gives up.  She says, "I think we can access hope again by being kind to yourself and remembering what it was like when you were successful and working out and what that felt like."  I said, "SCG has amnesia.  She doesn't dwell on times she was consumed by hope, she focuses on the daily ability to hold on to power.  She cannot be defeated.  She has a cape."

We went on to discuss how having hope may have let me down in the past and how to access it again. And also about worry and how that plays a role.  I actually said to her, straight-faced, "I don't think I worry that much.  I think maybe I should worry more."  While this is not the first time I have rendered The Rug Doctor speechless, it always gives me a small sense of satisfaction when it does happen.  I like to believe this is the part of our session where she really earned her hourly rate.  It's too much to go into, but she made her point.  I may worry more than I think.

So, at the end of the day, SCG is a reigning power in my life. She's allegedly indestructible.  I know I'm the one giving her power, I just don't always have the strength to fight her.  She will always be inside, always.  She has been there since birth.  Kind of like an X-Men gene, but in my case it is an XXL genetic mutation.  Even in the most basic of action films, there is always a way to destroy the bad guy, but then there is a sequel.  Like, is Freddy Kreuger even dead?  Jason?  They always come back.  Always lurking, waiting for the stupid teens to be unattended, or in my case, a fat girl standing outside Coldstone Creamery...sniffing the smell of waffle cone...and just like that, SCG is back in charge as fast as feeding gremlins after midnight. 

I don't know what the hell I'm going to do, honestly. This constant fight makes me feel like a failure.  It's hard to build on that. And, I know I'm not supposed to compare myself to others, but really frustrated by other people's success with programs and surgeries. SCG has defeated all of them.  And look, I've watched enough positive inspirational videos to know that that I need to say "I can" everyday and I need to change the mindset, but the reality is, my XXL genetic mutation makes it so much harder. 

I have no answers in this blog tonight, no insights, no plan of action.  It's simply where I am today.  I guess I'm going to get through this next two weeks of appointments and see where I am.  Am I getting a hysterectomy, my gall bladder out, my shoulder worked on?  OR...a lobotomy?  Let's spin the wheel and see what happens.