Awkwardly Social

My new office is conveniently located down the hall from one of my grad school friends and his partner (business, not life, not that there’s anything wrong with life, just they’re hetero…. oh, how they’re hetero) and we lunch on occasion.  The new office building is kind of rad because we get a different lunch truck every day, and I don’t know if this is a nation-wide trend, but in LA, the food truck situation is bananas.  Now, some days this is good, because there will be a fantastic truck with tasty food, and other days we are stuck with the “French fry truck.”  Which is just that.  A truck that serves French fries.  With toppings.  No protein.  While I’m not turning my nose up at French fries per se, I am turning my nose up at the idea of eating only French fries for lunch.

Today was the No Tomatoes truck, which is a dumb name for an Indian food truck, but whatever I love me some Indian food.  So Waller and I got our lunches and went back to his office to lunch with Mike.  Mike unpacked his salad and we all marveled at his salad making prowess.  There was steamed asparagus (double points because asparagus is actually in season right now!) and grilled chicken, (that he grilled!  himself!) tomatoes, and peppers and it was a real “Look at this Fucking Salad” moment.

Waller proceeded to mock me and tell me to take a picture of the “fucking salad” for my blog.  And I proceeded to tell him that no one wanted me to post a picture of a fucking salad on my blog.  Especially since this blog is all about my ‘feelings’ and my period (according to Waller) and I had no way to relate a picture of a fucking salad to either of those things.

Then Mike pulled out his fucking salad dressing and that’s when I could have somehow tied in this dumb blog and my feelings because the fucking salad dressing was some kind of ridiculously named Trader Joe’s brand - Goddess Dressing.  Whatever the fuck that is.  I mean really.  If a salad dressing has 120 calories and 12 grams of fat per serving, I’m not prepared to associate it with a higher being.  It better taste good and be calorie and fat free if I’m higher powering that shit.

Mike ate his fucking salad, and Waller and I ate our delicious Indian wrap thingies (with NO TOMATOES!) and we talked about their dumb idea* that will probably make a jillion youtube dollars for them.  Or if nothing else make them a hundredaire.  And in the end, I wish I had a dumb picture of that fucking salad so I could end this post with it.  But I don’t.

I do imagine that Mike will one day repeat his culinary feat.  And you can bet I will not be so stupid as to pass up taking a picture of it.

*Their idea is not actually dumb, it is just not appealing to me.  And they know this, and yet, they torture me every time I eat lunch with them by telling me their story ideas. And even though I try to be nice, they see through me, and this is why I like them.  Also, one time they made me watch an episode of Archer, which they were sure I was going to love.  And I did not.  And we talk a lot about that these days too.  Mostly, my lunches with them consist of me being a horrible guest in their office.  I cannot believe they invite me back.

Last week I had a horrible procedure that rivaled the urology visit.  I left my doctor’s office with tears in my eyes, a maxi-pad in my bag and serious cramping.  I was furious with the chipper doctor who did the procedure and wanted to quit going to the practice because of it.  I waited for half an hour IN THE STIRRUPS, unable to get up because the x-ray machine blocked my exit.  And then!  Then, the HSG x-ray and I did not get along.  My cervix kept kicking the balloon out of my uterus.  If I hadn’t been in so much pain while it was happening, I think I would have been proud of it. After it was over the nurse looked down at me and said, “Are you alright?  I can see three veins in your forehead…”

Um, no, hand mistress to the chipper devil, I just had a balloon crammed through my cervix three times, filled with iodine and cramped out.  It was like having a balloon baby.  THREE TIMES.

My doctor, not the one horrible chipper one that did the test, the good one that I like who takes long pauses, called me while I was sitting in the Burger King parking lot weeping and told me that the results were good.  That my fallopian tubes were beautiful structurally and that despite what the Chipper Idiot said, that there were no real signs of scarring or issues whatsoever.  He also told me that judging by the size of my follicle I should come in and get inseminated.

So we did.

And now we wait.  And I pray that all my cycles line up with my doctor’s schedule so I never have to see the Chipper Idiot again.

I am being flooded with some new lady hormones thanks to my new fertility doctor.  I am hot all of the time, weepy when asked to get out of bed, cranky when out of bed, sleepy when not in a full standing position and full of rage when anyone says anything to me that remotely resembles something that a sensitive person like my self would take as a minor off hand comment because now all of those off hand comments make me furious.

I am not too crazy about the lady hormones, is what I’m saying.

In addition to the hotness, I am also suffering from what I’ve just decided should be called Lingering Surgery Sadness.  My ear is deaf for a good week and a half still.  I cannot sleep on the ear I like to sleep on, and I do not enjoy going into the public sphere because I cannot hear out of my left ear and when I sit on Seth’s left he cannot hear me because his left ear is also deaf.  So that keeps me in bed wondering about the mysteries of Kraft Mac ‘n’ Cheese noodles and why the cook time on the box says it’s 7 - 8 minutes when in reality they are done at 5 minutes.  Is this a magic stove I’m cooking on?  Or am I dealing with a bad timer?  I do love a good weekend in bed, but I prefer weekends in bed to not be about me not being able to leave the house and more about just wanting to spend time with my husband, the way they used to be.

I am regretting having the surgery.  I’ve been regretting it since I found out it would take 3 weeks before I could even start dissolving the packing out of my ear.

I’m halfway there.   Deep breaths.

I had my post surgery follow-up this morning, and while I was in the shower getting ready to go to that, I did the one thing  I was strictly forbidden to do.  Blow my nose.  I am a nose blower.  It’s just something that after being a kid with chronic allergies and then a young adult with a nose drug problem, I spend a lot of time blowing.  I do it in the shower, I do it in the car, I do it in the office, I do it when I’m going to the bathroom.  I tell other people who are having sneezing fits to do it.  So I’ve been really on the ball about stopping myself from doing it, until I got into the shower and blew.  It wasn’t a hard blow your brains out, just a little snort.

I was so nervous to tell my doctor, but he was like, “It’s probably fine, it’s been a week, your body has a lot of glue it creates, plus all the packing I put in there, don’t worry about it.”

He clearly doesn’t know who he’s talking to.

He took the wound dressing off my Frankenstein ear and pronounced my wound looking really good.  And he said while my ear is sticking out a little more than it used it, it SHOULD go down eventually.  I knew it!  I wasn’t being crazy.  Also, I was being crazy.

So then he got his ear tweezer thing out and pulled out a piece of the blood crusted packing from my ear canal.  It looked like an ear mold made of Fimo clay topped with red velvet cake.

Do you guys remember Fimo clay?  Was it all the rage for a while, or just in my sister’s circle of friends?  For a while there in the 90s it was all my sister talked about, her Fimo clay projects.

I wish I had been able to keep it, but I was so worried about my nose blowing fuck-up that he just tossed it into the trash.  My scrap book of horrors is incomplete.

I don’t have a scrap book of horrors.

Unfortunately.

So I have two more weeks before I start using the drops that dissolve the rest of the packing out of there.  But now I can finally wash my own hair.  Seth washed it for me on Monday night.  I used to think that was a really romantic thing for a man to do for a woman, but I didn’t imagine that it would be because the woman had a big ol’ nasty incision and a plug of scabby Fimo clay in her ear that couldn’t get wet.

I am still not 100 percent and I am a terrible patient who hates being sick more than most people.  I am fighting with a bit of depression because of the whole my hearing on my left side has been reduced to a muffle situation.  But, I survived, my ear SHOULD go back down and I PROBABLY didn’t ruin the surgery by blowing my nose.