thematically fickle

I woke up this morning in what I like to refer to as Soap Star Mode. Just like Hope Brady coming out of a coma, I had a smile on my face, last night’s lipstick matted on my lips, all my makeup in tact, hair full and bouncy with just enough muss to it. “Baby,” Sam said to me as I wiped the drool from my cheek. “You Michael Phelpsed it!”

So many of my peeps came out of the woodwork to support me and I know how big that is, given it was a school night and all. To each and every one of you: The checks are in the mail. Rachel, even though you videotaped me when I asked you not to, I’ve decided against docking the originally agreed upon payoff amount. Instead, I’ll send you the bill for the nose job I will have to get once I see myself on YouTube. If you can’t afford that, the least you can do is cover the cost of the chin implant.

But about my first evah reading…

Fortunately, I didn’t trip as I took the stage and my knees didn’t buckle. My ankles held firm in my shoes.

But that’s probably because they’ve got such great arch support.

I didn’t spit on anyone—at least, I don’t think I did—my hands didn’t shake, and I didn’t lose my place while doing the look-up-at-the-audience-then-back-to-the-page routine. There was one row of people forced to stare at my ass the whole time I read, and for this, I felt a twinge of self-consciousness. It certainly didn’t help that I was on day two of my period and things were—are—a bit bloated. Good thing I didn’t pack it all into my most favorite and extra tight pair of jeans!

Speaking of being on my period, my dog has a thing for (and this is where this blog post goes south faster than China can falsify it’s gymnast’s birth certificates) used tampons. I, of course, don’t flush them but wrap them in toilet paper to create what we call in these parts “menstrual bundles.” These menstrual bundles end up in the waste basket, which subsequently gets emptied each day. Unless I forget to empty it in which case, it doesn’t get emptied.

So. Ya still with me or are you dry heaving yet? Right. So yesterday, not only did I not empty the trash but I also forgot to barricade Ella into the kitchen when I left for work. (All you dog lovers and burglars, please know, we have a dog door and our vicious beast can roam when she wants to.) When I came home, it was clear there’d been an afternoon feast, a smorgasbord, a menstrual bundle buffet. And wouldn’t you know, what goes in must come out. It’s the damndest thing.

Too bad for Sam: Peristaltic contractions sometimes just don’t cut it when it comes time to expel items that have been ingested. Tonight, while on a dog walk, my husband had to pull four (that would be F-O-U-R) tampons out of Ella’s ass. He was relieved that the dog park was free and clear of any witnesses to the extraction. I can’t be certain because I quit listening so I could go throw up, but I do believe he made sound effects as he described the removal process.

Yes, he’s a saint. But it’s not like I wasn’t at home with a vomiting, shitting child all afternoon or suffering cramps that would level the most seasoned childbirth veteran of them all, Michelle Duggar. So I think we can just about call it even.

Just about.