Sometimes I Just Need to Vent Archives

Moms Gone Wild

August 20, 2013 By ace 3 Comments

Don’t let the title of my post mislead you – you aren’t going to get to see any boobies or anything. If you were going to get to see some mommy boobies, your best chance may be with this fine lady who is starring in my post. She used to be notorious for allowing her cleavage to make appearances at parties with close friends. Her chest was a well-known guest at barbeques, baby showers, and other functions of ours.

Those days are over now.

Sorry.

I have to share these pictures with you, because when we were on our annual camping trip this summer with friends, this friend was the one who got in trouble because she dared step too close to the all-important horseshoe tournament. Last year it was ME in trouble. Of course.

So I loved that another woman felt belligerent about this very NON-inclusive game the men spend a whole day playing every year.

Let me back up.

We have an annual camping trip that is called “The Reunion” – even though it is with just friends, not family. But sometimes friends feel like family, right?? Especially when they are like crazy Uncle Larry who falls in the fire because he is overly enthusiastic when telling stories and who also has had way too much whiskey in twenty-four hours.

My friend Kimmie and her husband Troy plan the trip every year, and most everyone in the group are Troy’s friends best friends from high school and college. Families come from all over the place to this event up in the mountains of Utah. Since we are old, we all bring our RV’s and pop-up campers to maximize our sleeping comfort for our bad backs. We let our kids roam the campground in large, sugared-up, raggamuffin gangs on bikes. The adults sit around and drink camping cocktails, read magazines, play Scrabble, sit near the river, and eat. We eat a lot.

One of the most active things that occurs every year at the Family Reunion is the horseshoe tournament. Wait, let me clarify: THE MEN’S HORSESHOE TOURNAMENT. This annoys me greatly, because I am a competitive person and I want to try to win $160 too. Last year I got tired of watching and threw a huge stink. A big old tantrum. Because somehow this matters more when you’ve had a lot to drink in the middle of the day.

This year Troy said on our email itinerary that we were going to have a CO-ED horseshoe tournament on Friday night, the day before the “real” tournament. And guess who entered? Me and Brad. That’s it. NOBODY ELSE COULD GET THEIR VAGINAS AND HUSBANDS OVER TO THE HORSESHOE PIT ON FRIDAY NIGHT. I mean, is it that hard to get your vagina and your twenty dollars to support another sister in her fight for equality??

Saturday afternoon was spent, as usual, entertaining all the kids while the guys played horseshoes and drank whiskey for over five hours.

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Not only were the women entertaining the kids, but we were also trying to get ready for the big group dinner that we always have on Saturday night. Mike the Chef was playing in the finals of the horseshoe game, so we were trying to help him out a bit. This year dinner was a Hawaiian luau, and we had pig served four ways. Beatty was hugely disappointed when the plan changed from having a whole pig buried buried in the ground on coals to multiple dutch ovens full of pig – but he understood when Chef Mike explained that he couldn’t figure out a way to drag a gigantic pig carcass up to the mountains. Since none of us had a casket, the pig was brought up in pieces.

Instead of me having one too many cocktails and getting fired up about women not being allowed to play in the horseshoe tournament, it was my lovely friend below. They yelled at her for interfering in the game, or stepping too close to their line of fire, or SOMETHING. So she went and put on her Luau outfit and decided to have a protest dance-party. A protest of one.

She danced and twirled and ran around the guys and their horseshoe game, a whirling vision of Hawaiian wonder and lovely leaping distraction for the men.

This kind of stuff is very dear to me. I had to document.

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Then she had the great idea that if she braided her skirt into what resembled a straw penis, she might be allowed to play in the tournament. The real penises might be fooled.

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Fat chance, sister.

But I AM on your side. I am. I’m hoping to convince Kimmie – because of her organizer status – to put some sort of game on the agenda next summer for chicks ONLY. A game which involves prize money and many, many hours of our time. Since we can’t call the ACLU on this, it’s the closest we can come to making the men as equally bugged as we are with their horseshoe-throwing, whiskey-swilling sausage party.

WOMEN, UNITE.

My Face in a Hole

July 15, 2013 By ace 11 Comments

I fear my poor blog has become so boring and neglected.

I know there are still some of you out there checking in, and let me tell you right now, every time I see a comment or a stat showing me that you were here, it makes me so happy. Because lately life has been a little too much for our Piper.

I don’t want to sit here and bitch. That’s not my point. But there are some things I haven’t mentioned because I just don’t know how. You may know that my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in February. She has gone through two surgeries and five months of chemotherapy. I will make this short and sweet so you get the general gist: Chemotherapy sucks ass. It makes people sick and tired and it also makes some people crazy and a little bit mean. That’s all I’m going to say.

Then two and a half weeks ago, we found out my little sister Shea has a tumor growing in her spine. A TUMOR. Oh my god, are you fucking kidding me?? Really?? Shea is 35 years old and has a 4-year old and a 1-year old. She had been dealing with pretty bad back pain for at least nine months and her normal doctor was like, OH JUST GO TO PHYSICAL THERAPY, which is what most doctors would do. But when it doesn’t help and she still hurts really bad, wouldn’t you think that a doctor would stop GUESSING and have her go get a definitive image of the area in question??

Then Shea’s feet started to get strangely numb and her legs weren’t working right. Like she wasn’t sure about her foot placement and had to concentrate really hard to make sure she didn’t fall while walking. When she tried to go hiking on a camping trip and literally COULDN’T do the uneven terrain,she knew something was really wrong.

So she tells me all this and then when she said she didn’t want to pay the co-pay of $800 for an MRI, I lost my mind and said again (out loud??) ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?? YOU ARE WORTH WAY MORE THAN EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS. And I told her to shuffle her numb feet into that clinic and get into that imaging tube, STAT.

Which she did. She got the MRI. And the people called her and told her she had a tumor in her spine that same night. Which, of course, made her scared and freaked out and PISSED AS HELL. Because anyone would be pissed at their doctor and at themselves that they waited that long to figure out what was wrong with their body. And then, just like the determined little shit Shea is, she dried her tears and went into planning mode and said get that lame tumor out of me. She was even mad they had to wait a week to schedule the surgery.

We had a Fourth of July party at my house with some of her and her husband Paul’s friends before the surgery. I really, really like Shea’s friends. They are such cool people, so smart and well-read in lots of crazy subjects and way more knowledgeable about community activism than me. They also have stepped up to help out my sister’s little family with childcare and meals, hospital visits and treats, emails and love to my sister. It makes me feel so good because I have been sort of dangling by a thread, racked with stress and worry and sadness – and her friends loving and supporting her makes me feel that what I can do is enough.

Here we are, on the fourth with the smiley Geordie:

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Shea had her back surgery last Tuesday at the University of Utah hospital.

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The first few days were NOT fun. NOT FUN. So I figured I would climb onto the back of her hospital bed with bad hair and take a typical stupid Piper picture.

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The kids and Brad came with me to the hospital yesterday to have a picnic lunch with Shea in her new room on the long-term physical rehab floor. After the initial shock of seeing a hospital for the first time, (Sloan was very subtle about this, as you can see in the picture) the kids had a great time monkeying around the room and fighting over her wheelchair. Thank god there was no roommate in the room with Shea. They would have had to request some Valium or morphine or something.

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Shea is doing SO much better now. She is actually walking (slowly) and doing lots of physical therapy and hoping to go home as soon as possible.

I’m going to finish with an excerpt from an email she sent to her friends. I hope she doesn’t mind too much. Especially the part about the poop, but really, has anyone out there ever tried to poop IN A BEDPAN?? Seriously impossible.

Hi super supportive peeps-

You all rock. Thanks so much for the kid care, the flowers, the visits, the calls, the car, the texts. I’m so lucky!… uh, wait… except for the god-damn tumor, that part doesn’t feel too lucky. But to all of the bulbous little bastard tumors out there in the universe that may be looking for a spine to plant themselves in– you little punks should at least have the courtesy to invade nervous systems of people like me who have amazing friends and family to jump in and help. Seriously, Paul and I have such an incredible support community we should just get tumors more often.

How has it been such a busy week? Being flat on your back for 5 days doesn’t sound like it would be busy. Yeah, it’s pretty much just not, but pain medication hallucinations take up a significant chunk, bodily function time allotment has skyrocketed, and I have yet to actually watch something on a TV, turn on the computer, or crack open a new book. Of course, who needs manufactured media when you can just see the floaty marble bouncy balls exiting out of your bellybutton and up into the air above your hospital bed spinning around in the sky in front of you (this was one of the nicer pain med trips, perhaps symbolic of saying good-bye to the tumor?… if you want to hear about the worst pain med trip ask me for more details on the face in fiery furnace MRI tube hell.).

The surgery itself went long but well. The tumor was a bit disintegratey and wily so they spend around 7 hours taking it out instead of the 4 they planned on. But my adorably geeky surgeon seemed very proud of himself when I talked to him yesterday– results from the post-surgery MRI (the fiery furnace MRI nonetheless) showed that they got everything out and that I didn’t leak any important brain juices. We haven’t gotten a pathology report back (probably Monday) but the surgeon felt really certain that it was benign. Which prompted me to wonder what “benign” really means. After all, here are a bunch of cells growing out of control… how is that really different from cancer? The difference is largely the rate. My tumor had probably been growing for a couple of years (causing pain since last August) but it didn’t have any yucky dead parts in the middle that indicated it was really out doing itself.

My feet and legs are still pretty numb from the spinal cord compression, not super different from what’s been going on for the last month, but today I started in-hospital rehab and stood, shuffled, pooped!!!! Amazing. I’m not exaggerating. This has been a really good day. I needed a really good day after having a major melt down yesterday when they told me that I was being admitted to in-hospital rehab for 3 weeks. I feel entirely justified in my melt down since I had only ever been told up to 4 days in the hospital. I think they (though I’ m not sure exactly who “they” are) deserve my fiery scalding tears aimed right at their hearts because for-crying-out-loud why didn’t they tell me this before the surgery?????

So the last part of this email is just to say thanks for the help so far, and to keep it coming. I don’t think I’ll really be here for 3 more weeks (though I, of course, want to do whatever is best to get my legs back in the best shape they can be). It is certain that I’m going to be in the hospital much longer than I thought. Paul is, of course, doing an amazing job as single dad. It helps a ton for people to play with the boys, bring meals, visit me. My friend Jess set up that online calendar, but it’s a bit clunky so we’d rather just do things from now on via email and phone. Paul is busy enough and since there’s so much parenting I can’t do right now I’m looking forward to pulling some of my weight by being a coordinator. So gimme a call or email if you’ve got something to pitch in. My cell phone doesn’t work in my hospital room, but you can call the room number. Right now I feel like things are well lined up through Tuesday. And I think I’m going to even crack open a new book now!

love to you all,
Shea

There we go. Shea is going to be fine. I am eventually going to get my sense of humor back. And if you find anything funny on YouTube to help me with that, go ahead and email it to me. You can find my email over on my “Contact” page.

Cheers.

You. Are. Making. Me. Sad. YES, YOU!

March 23, 2013 By ace 15 Comments

WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL MY COMMENTERS???

Not that I’ve ever had that many in the first place, but I’m peeved. I’m feeling neglected. I’m missing you. Why are you not leaving me comments? Because I’m boring? I suck? I don’t make you want to say, “Piper, you are so pathetic. You are a mother. You should not be jumping around in a thong leotard. YOU ARE 40 FOR GOD’S SAKE.” Because I would even take that shit. Actually, I like it when you give me hell.

I’m that person.

What the fuck do I have to do to get you to talk to me??

Bribes? Promises of baked goods? Gift cards to Target? My own father doesn’t even comment on my blog anymore.

Big Hands, if you are reading this, I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU. If you don’t start commenting, you’d better start sending me twenty-dollar bills in cards. That’s your only other option.

No matter you people, I know you are lurking out there somewhere (I SEE THE READING STATS, YOU KNOW) and you can just stay in your comfortable, anonymous bubble and I will keep writing and just pretend I am writing to myself.

My good friend Heather sent me this in an email a week or so ago and I thought I would share since she made sure to tell me it took her at least three hours to make because she is technologically challenged:

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She apologized for not being a very good friend lately – in a time when she figures I need my friends the most. Heather, I love you. I still text or call you almost every day and I can be the one who bugs you. I’m OK with being that half of the relationship. But your fancy picture collage means so much. And I’m thinking it is supposed to represent our friendship, but there are a few things that confuse me.

Like…

* in the picture with two ladies, are you supposed to be the bigger bitch, or is that me???

* and when I do have fucked up ideas it takes you waayyyy longer than 10 minutes to get here to participate. I know you have kids and a husband and a job and all that, but…GOD. Hurry the fuck up.

* in the picture with Barbie looking at Ken’s lack of junk…I don’t know. Yes, that’s funny. But is that representing you or me? Or should I say Brad or George?? Because I can assure you that Brad is HUNG LIKE A BIG BUDWEISER CLYDESDALE. (maybe this will encourage him to comment on this post) And I’m assuming that George is too, because HELLO, HE’S GREEK. Or does being Greek just make you hairy??

* and yes, sometimes I do write drunk. I probably write better that way. Too bad hangovers suck and too bad I can’t drink during the day because I have children swirling around me and it inhibits my ability to remember where they are or make them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It would also be a little pathetic. More pathetic than whining about my lack of commenters.

THANK YOU, HEATHER, FOR YOUR FRIENDSHIP TRIBUTE. You are a darling dear.