Snaps

I haven't updated the photos in a long time. There are now new pics on the flickr. If you haven't viewed before or can't seem to see anything when you click, just ask me [click on "view my complete profile" for email addy]. There's no test required to gain entry. .. unless you want one.

Here's a taste:

Other things:

I'm healing well, I think. I kind of don't want to go back to work tomorrow and am hoping there's a snow day or there's something to let me stay in my little bubble. I went for a nice, slow, long walk today in the foot+ snow. It was really wet out and the snow was still falling. I like walking with a destination so I decided to go scam quarters from the laundromat nearby. I took the messy way home through the park and went back out again with my camera. It was so quiet. Not because there was no traffic or cars, but because the cars were silenced in the slush and people stayed inside. I realized that this was the last February 25th I'd have in Madison and that made me kind of sad. A little lonely on the inside with visibility like the Arctic Pole and only slowly-filling prints in the snow to remind me that I'm not alone.

I wish I had a boyfriend:
**to tell my silly jokes to [a blizzard outside last night, I would have liked to call him up and say, "Can you drive over and take me to the grocery store? I'm out of juice." Then, I would have said I was totally kidding. Because it really was a blizzard outside.]
**to crack my upper back - I just can't seem to do it on my own.

School is plugging along. I'm happy that crazy cat lady Econ prof is so flaky. It helps relieve me from studying so hard for her class while I'm constantly trying to keep up with Stats. My next Stats exam is a week from tomorrow. Probabilities are not as easy to understand - especially when I don't have good, everyday or professional examples. I don't play poker. I am not a geneticist wondering what the probability of 4 girl babies from 10 couples.

The acceptance letters from schools have slowed as I won't hear anything until March - which, I know, is around the corner. I am requesting an expedited renewal of my passport though. Why not wait? Well, there's this possibility [which is not a probability] that I'll go to Mexico in May with the new guy [who needs a name]. He's got a gifted-over time share and a ton of frequent flier miles, and for the most part so far we get along really well. Minus a very important factor which I've only shared with James - and so shall it remain until I'm ready to talk.

I'm totally riddled with senioritis at work. I really could care less about things and feel like my performance and dedication is slowing to about 80% right now. Then again, I guess it's only due. After all, I have like 115.32 vacation hours and 161.86 sick hours left to use - which only means I've fucking worked my ass off for years.... Jeezus. I just tallied that and divided by 8. I better get to work on taking time off!!!

So, I totally omitted any info on my last weekend before the surgery. It was like "The Last Supper for Lola's Snatch." I was truly horrible. I don't even know if I want to confess out loud. If James and I were still going out, he'd totally guess what I mean when I say "I was bad." And, he'd secretly get a stiffy thinking about how naughty and slutty I can be. And, he'd love me for who I am. There are those of you out there reading who I'm not so sure you'd be so happy for me and my conquests and accomplishments. I do remind myself often to not remind myself of the readers. This is my space and my place to write. [I think you're right, Clichemonster. I do tend toward some kind of confessional self-observance of my writing right before I launch forward with whatever truth I'm going to tell. God, even this sidenote is a reflection on that confessional self-observance. Make myself sick.]

Anyway. I filled Lola's lil' holes with my darling dates. If you're smart, you'll note that Flickr adds dates to the photos. Andy in the Friday afternoon, [new guy] in the evening, and SirMax on the Saturday. Okay, so that's not so bad, is it? Shuddup. Yes, yes, yes, it's true, I could actually understand how Anna Nicole's custody conundrum would come about. [I couldn't pee to save my life at the hospital for the pre-surgery pregnancy test. I was asked if there was any way I might be pregnant. I said no. I mean, there's always a way a chick could be pregnant. Shit, the Immaculate Conception says so. Then again, I wasn't about to say, "Well, maybe, but trust me. If I am, there is no way I'll be having it so a little anesthesia won't kill anyone."]

Yes, I had a wonderful last hurrah before I had to calm down, starve myself silly, poop everything out of my body, and go through the craziness that was the hospital. I have to say that I was remarkably calm throughout the whole process. I think the most I freaked out was when I wasn't allowed to eat after 12noon on the day before the surgery. By about 10pm I was soooo hungry and so sick of berry-flavored clear water. And, I only shed one tear in the out-patient cubicle I was assigned to - when my nurse [her name was Festival] asked if I was experiencing any anxiety about the surgery. "No, no anxiety but I'm a bit nervous." One little tear of pride mixed with bravery and a bit of fear.

I stopped taking the meds yesterday. They gave me a dehydrated hang-over drowsiness and I wasn't digging sleeping for 14 hours straight. My body was starting to ache and the bed was starting to sag and I was wondering if I was going to start growing bed sores. So, if anyone wants some A-grade codeine something something rather - I've got like 12 of 'em left.

Well, I've got to go finish up the laundry before the Oscars. Not that I'll be watching, I've got homework to finish, but it'll be a nice break to see all the pretty people in gowns try to hold their tongue about the war or poverty or Darfur or God Bless or Anna N.S.

Her name is alive

I'm home. I'm fine. My babysitters were very nice. The drugs are very nice. I've got a ton of movies. Drinking lots of fluids. Excited to poop someday soon. Eating lots of fiber. Resting. Bathing. Sleeping. I think I might go for a short walk before the snowstorm hits.

Movies:
[either loaned or rented]
The Search for Robert Johnson
Big Fish
In America
Hero
Elizabethtown
Jesus Camp
Running with Scissors
Half Nelson

more laters

Now I lay me down to sleep

There's a new guy in the rounds, I'll have to think of a name for him. I went on a date with him a while ago and then this past Friday. I kind of like the variety I have going right now. Each of my lovers meets a part of me and fulfills that part.

I have no poop inside me anymore. At least that's what I'm hoping. I was tasked to have a 'light lunch' and then a liquid diet after through tomorrow when I stop ingesting anything but my own spit. I had to clarify with the nurse lady on the phone what a 'light lunch' meant - like could I have a salad or a bagel or a whole pizza? She said people usually pig out on like a big steak since they know they're going to be without food for a while. I went with a nice healthy salad. I hope it's passed already or the enema tomorrow [self-induced -- god that's gonna be weird] will be messy. Then, at 5/6pm I had to have 1/2 a bottle of something called magnesium citrate. When I called my parents to say good night prior to ingesting this they related that I'm on the same diet they were pre-colonoscopy. Except their mag-cit tasted like crap [not literally] and mine is now flavored with lemon. How nice of the manufacturers.

This was not my experience. In fact, about 1/2 hour later I calmly pooped a nice lil' log and that was it. Where's the rest? Where's the explosion? Where are my innards? I was all braced for some kind of fireworks or pain or moving the TV into the bathroom for the evening. Nope. Okay, something must be wrong with me. Or not. Then again, about a year ago James force fed me Epsom salts to drink to make me poop one weekend -- and it didn't work. Oh well. We shall see tomorrow morning I guess. Ugh.. enemas...

So, yesterday I had to plan for this crazy liquid diet. Yeah, I eat twigs and seeds at work and for meals, but I also chow down at dinner and on weekends. I love food. Really I do. I love healthy food and junk food. And the idea of not eating from 12pm-12am was tormenting me. I cruised Copp's food store - liquid and clear, clear and liquid, clear liquid. Great choices. I bought about 3 Gatorade fancy sports drinks all clear and flavored some berry thing. Unfortunately these clear Gatorades did not come with electrolytes which I was relying on keeping me going and not passing out ... People, I said I love my food - it gives me joy and energy. Yes, 12 hours of no food will wither me. Then, I bought about 4 Glaceau fruitwaters - electros, clear, and berry tasty. I also bought some apple juice which I thought I recalled they said would be fine. And, some veggie broth and miso soup just in case. [So what if I can get 50% of my RDA of sodium in 1 fucking miso - I needed food!!!]

Well, I'm off to bed momentarily and I can speak to the yummy of the fruitwaters and the retardedness of the Gatorade bottle shape. Although they are a bit like baby bottles which is kinda sexy.

I am definitely wasting away right now, withered at least 3 pounds I'm sure. And all I can think about is Lays potato chips, tuna salad, cereal, veggie burritos, green beans with butter, whole tomatoes, beer, rice milk, Le Petit Ecolier, nutella, ... aw, man, I gotta stop. I'm salivating.

Anyway. I'm sucking the last of some of the liquids [I'll probably burn the rest of the bottles after the surgery tomorrow - no more liquid diet ever!] before I'm cut off at 9am. Then, at 9, I'll crouch on my elbows and knees in the bathtub and try to put a fleet enema in my bummie. Thanks to SirMax I now know what they feel like and how I'll feel upon being filled, and the toilet is less than a step away. Poopsie poosie. Then, the 2nd fleet at 9:30 and so help me it'd only expel water at that point.

Cab comes. Head to the hospital. Wait, do whatever, get drugs, answer questions [or, rather, answer questions, get drugs], surgery for an hour, recovery with my gal Mary. She'll bring me home with a care package [hence why I asked her to join me in recovery - I get movies and treats!], hand me over to James who will put me to bed in the afternoon, feed me when I wake up hungry, give me pills every 3 hours, rub my head to make sure I'm alive, then push me over and snore next to me all night long until he has to run to work in the wee hours of Thurs. [Right, James? Just like that, huh? hahahaha]. And on Thursday, I am going to pig the fuck out on anything I want and watch all the bad movies I wanna [although "new boy for whom I will find a nickname" is bringing over some cool blues documentary on Robert Johnson and his crossroads -- all my talk of getting the lil' devil tail removed].

I kindly appreciate all your well wishes, darlings. Think of me during the day. Deep in your heart you should meditate at least for 2 minutes so that your commands and reminders make it to Hades. Remind that lil' red guy that he cannot take me yet for I have so much more of his work to do on this earth. And, maybe, if you're lucky and gross I'll send you [individually cuz I'm not into this on the w.w.w.] a pic of rosebud healing. And, in a few weeks, if you're more lucky and nice I'll send you a pic of a perfectly puckered and clean and dazzling bumstar. And, in a month or so, if you're super duper extra lucky and naughty I'll send you a pic of me feeding bumstar some nice, hard, long dildo. Or cock!

Kisses to you all my darlings.

Nigh nigh


[time +1]

When I let myself...

There's an imagination of me drifting off counting backwards, naked under the gown on a bed that is as wide as mine at home but much more sturdy and metal. Squeaky wheels and masks and it's like ER or St. Elsewhere or any Hollywood formica floor, soft petal blue and pepto pink walls with softer lighting and nurses with mascara. And, I can hear them. I can hear them "Hemorrhoids from kids? She looks so young." "No, no, bad diet and anal sex." "Oooo. Of course, it's always the whores." I try to say something but I'm just a tiny little hermit crab trapped in a semi-truck of a body. Squeak squeak peep peep. This is what coma must be like. Struggling to force my mouth to say "I can fucking hear you, you bastards!" But nothing. And I can hear the slice, the prod, the blood, the wipe, the suture, the clean, the wheeling out. And all the while, I get to say nothing. Trapped, numb, alive.

Then there's the horror of going so deeply down that I don't come out. That it's so nice and blank out there under anesthesia that I'm comforted and drifting and floating and nothing. I loose days or weeks or ages or years. I loose important things I was trying to remember and my "to do" list, my friends' names, my parents' faces. I practice this at the gym when I'm in the weight room. I'm laying down, lifting a long, silver bar above my chest, lining up my hands, staring at a dot in the ceiling. This is not me. This is someone else. I'm only seeing through this person's eyes. And the fear disintegrates. I could almost watch the arms come down from the ceiling, slightly curved, and just not lift again. Slowly, agonizingly slow, drop drop drop the bar and the weights and sense a crushing sensation, understand a shortness of breath, but be so far gone outside/inside to not notice or care.

Then there's the terrifying fear of what I will say while outside myself. I know I'll probably cry coming out from under, but will I say ridiculous things? It's a huge moment of weakness. It's not even comparable to being black-out drunk - which I have practiced many times and succeeded in blacking out while still functioning for myself. This is a medical manipulation of reality and a distortion of myself and I will be weak. I will not be able to whimper to mama like after the wisdom teeth came out. I will not be shuffled to the car and ushered in to my teenage bed to be surrounded by the scents of mother-ness, dinner, sweet fabric softener, comfort and care. I will instead be smiled at by an unsteady and overly sisterly co-worker whom I call friend and who I recognize as my real sister in so many ways. I knew she'd be good to pick me up from the hospital, drive me home and babysit me until James came free from work. And will she smile in that "aw, Lola's cute when she's drugged up" condescending way not realizing how pained I am by vulnerability? Will she coddle me almost too much? Will I forget my manners under the waves of numb and mumble curses or insults?

James says we'll see. We'll see if he really needs to be here to babysit. That it's really just a hospital insurance. It used to be that they kept people in the hospital over night but realized it wasn't necessary, an added cost and burden. So they made sure the patient signed all the right release forms and made sure they had someone to care for them - or said they did - and then let them go out in the world. Sutured up and stapled up and on their own. He says it's really not necessary to wake someone up every 1/2 hour to make sure they're alive like my mum did after the wisdom teeth came out. He doesn't think I'll need him to stay the night.

I'm not familiar with blood. I've never broken a bone. I have suffered only in so much as knowing hospitals intimately due to asthma, ear infections, chronic bronchitis and sinus infections and many wounds on my privates. I have suffered only when the fear of the needle was so great that I had a filling in a molar without novocaine. I have never been alone when they cut me. I was not alone when they pulled out gum between my front two teeth in hopes that I'd spend an hour a day pushing them together since I fought braces. I was not alone when they put the laughing gas then the anesthesia and then took out my wisdom. I was not alone when I feel on my head and broke said front tooth and concussioned my head. I was not alone when I tore the big toe off when moving my futon around. I do not want to be alone. I am scared. I am not thinking about it because I will cry. I don't want surgery. My perfect little body might not wake up. Recovery might be harder than suffering. I am scared.

I do not want "let's see." I want hugs and I want my mommy.

Hip Hip

There are many other things I want to write about, like the draft I have about my pre-surgery appointment last week. I have been scared silly and re-considering the surgery, but fuck it. See, I'm going under.. going under.. [hearing Kruder & Dorfmeister's "Going Under"].. full-on anesthesia. Not so yay. But it's a precautionary thing I guess - in case he has to do some digging instead of just clipping. Thank god my co-worker has offered to take me home from the hospital and babysit me [she's more like a friend really] and thank triple god that James has offered to relieve her in the afternoon to babysit me through the night. He says I probably won't need it - and I know I won't - but it's nice to know that I won't choke on my tongue mid-anesthesia sleep and die alone. Yes, I do have an active and often horror-leaning imagination.

Then, there's the fact that I'm sure I totally aced the Stats exam and I got a 13.5/14 on the Econ exam this morning. [Crazy cat lady piano teacher Econ prof had us take the exam and then grade it ourselves with a red pencil. I just don't think she's got much commonsense that one.]

Then, there's how completely and utterly horny I am right now. Recently, I took some EC [emergency contraception - get some for your girlfriends, wives, any lady in your life - even if your tubes are tied] following a condom that got stuck in my cunnie. [She's just so strong that one!!] Of course, I'm over-reacting and I was like 90% sure that no spermies got out, but it's always best to err on the side of caution and $30 at Planned Parenthood now is better than $400 later. So, my cycle was all spazzed out and I got 2 periods in 30 days. And, my regular steady, mr. Andy and I have conflicting schedules and he's leaving town for a month. Other mr. Roger Traveller hasn't been around since the first tryst and I've kind of given up fishing for that one. SirMax has been available, but I've kind of fashioned a special niche for him which involves a bit more involved play. What I need to find is a wham-bam [not even enough time for the "thank you ma'am" part]. While Andy and I spend a bit of time almost daily chatting via email, we keep our play limited by time constraints and other responsibilities. He comes over, someone kisses first or strips first, suck, fuck, screw, fun, and then we're done [sometimes an hour to 2 hours]. We chat for like maybe 10 minutes, he hops in the shower, I change the sheets, he dresses, we chat for maybe 10 more minutes, he leaves, I shower happily. I really, really like that. Just the occasional fuck buddy. And it just doesn't seem easy to get... and I know you feel me on this one. Anyway... back to the drawing board for me. Back on the prowl. And if the 'net don't bring me a cheap fling, I'll troll around outside a bit. [Not in the ol' Lola on the town version, more like the classy Lola leaves her scent.]

Working out at the gym under these conditions of deprived Lola is not good. It does not help. I'm almost too horny to go there. I mean, I've found that working out has really, really helped since James and I stopped sleeping together. It really helps release those endorphins that I need to release a couple times a week - and it's healthy! But Super Duper Uber capital H horny Lola should not go to the gym. Even trolly old men barely shuffling on the cardio machines who leer over at me once in a while are beginning to look good. Then there's the super hotties on the treadmills. And the sweaty hottie who wasn't a hottie to me while dating James but is now totally fucking sexy in his drip drip dripping sweat everywhere. And then there's the gay aerobics instructor. And the two meatheads who lift in the weight room and have mullets - their big, puffy, rooster chests look so fucking lickable right now. And then there's the like 40-something guy who wears a Corona sleeveless tee and black Converse, oh my god oh my god oh my god. I could almost almost almost even see it with the Ralphie May who's been coming around a bit lately. Totally not good conditions for me right now.

Then, the biggest news.... I was checking emails today and wasn't going to open it. You know, see the subject line, decide to wait to open it when I get home. I was sure it was another rejection. But nooooo.... I GOT ACCEPTED TO UNIVERSITY COLLEGE LONDON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ohmyfuckinggod. How was I able to get through the rest of the day with the new intern, teleconferences, working out, and even sitting here typing. I mean, fuck it all... I'm going to London!!! .... well, I could be going to London. I mean, I COULD TOTALLY BE GOING TO LONDON!! So amazing. I have this bottle of demi-sec Veuve Clicquot from New Years Eve. I've been saving it for my first acceptance letter. I wonder if I drink this weekend or wait for the confirmation letter in post mail. Oh what the hell.... HIP HIP HO!

Sheesh

I have a lot to say, I just don't have the time to write it all out.

I have my first Stats exam Monday night, my first Econ exam on Tuesday, new interns start this week, I have to tweak 2 papers to submit to the Hertie School of Governance (Berlin), and I've got my period. Oh, and it's like fucking -2F outside and inside my apartment I think it's like 40F. So many cracks in this old building.

So, for now, happy Black History Month to you! In my free time, I'm totally digging this PBS show, This Far by Faith.