In which I say “my uterus” way too many times.

I’ll give you three reasons why I haven’t posted pictures of the Spring Cleaning project, two of them aren’t true. You guess:

1. I did all my Spring Cleaning so fast that I didn’t want to make you feel bad.
2. I took so many pictures they are still downloading.
3. I didn’t do shit.

Let me end the suspense know and tell you that it’s number 2. Ha! Seriously, I had such good intentions, I even went shopping and got supplies. And I took before pictures*, which are a total humiliating example of my housekeeping skills. And I did finish the sock, plant the garden, and walk the dogs. Then, my uterus went all on the fritz and I haven’t done anything since.

I had to stop taking birth control because we are (hopefully) starting more treatment next month, and let me tell you who isn’t happy about it: my uterus. Last night I was almost positive we would end up in the ER with another exploding cyst situation. The pain leveled off, though, and I was able to get through it and watch six episodes of Californication** while pressing a heating pad on my stomach. Whew.

*So, I went to Fred Meyer and downloaded all of my cell phone pictures to disk, and I am standing at that stupid machine in the middle of the store sorting through 468 pictures, when up on the huge screen comes a close up shot of the penis straw that I got for the bachelorette party next month. I’ve never tried to hurry up a touch screen scroll as fast as I did just then.

**Have you all watched this show? I am LOVING IT. It is obscene but hilarious, and it is feeding my weird longing for California that I’ve had lately.

Anyway, I was feeling better today but not well enough to do anything of significance, so I decided to fill out my uterus’s application to the BUD. That is what it felt like, seriously, an application. Like I would come upon a question and I knew I didn’t have the right answer, and I wanted to fudge things to make my uterus look better. There were a lot of questions that I needed help with, so I called my mom. The conversation went something like this:

Me: How old was I when I started my period?***
Her: Well, we lived on Tamarack Way, and we had just gone to Disneyland. On the train! Remember that? Anyway, that was the year after we moved from California and that year I had just . . . JIM! (my dad’s name) WHAT YEAR DID WE GO TO DISNEYLAND?
Me: (trying to protest because I don’t want to know what effing year we went to Disneyland)
Her: (muffled sound of my dad doing a similar time line in his head) (loud clatter noise) OKAY I’M BACK! Dad thinks we went to Disneyland when you were in sixth grade.
Me: Ok. Let’s move on. How old were you when you had your last child?
Her: Well, I was pregnant with your sister when we lived in Aloha. And I was born in 1950. JIM! WHAT YEAR DID WE BUILD THAT HOUSE IN ALOHA?
Me: (not even trying anymore)
Her: (muffled sound of my dad reminiscing about building the house in Aloha.) OK I’M BACK! Dad says we build the house in Aloha in 1976.
Me: OK GREAT THANKS BYE.

Sigh. My poor uterus. It’s an uphill battle.

***Why didn’t I know this? I have no idea. It was summer, I remember, and it was painful. But I couldn’t for the life of me remember how old I was.