We got my results back today and surprise, surprise, I have a perfect liver! Bollocks.

The doc said all the biopsies came back clear, no sign of necrosis, etc., yada yada. Great, that’s dandy… except now that means we are back to square one and no one knows what’s wrong with me.

Which means that I’m pissed AND that I think I should be allowed to drink now. 😀 I mean seriously, my liver looks fine and I can deal with feeling like shit tomorrow if I get to feel niiiiice tonight, lol.

So I’m feeling much better (my side still aches and I can’t lift anything for awhile), and my memory of Friday is basically gone, LOL.

The drugs were definitely amnesic. I’m glad I posted that bit on Saturday because I don’t even remember half that stuff.

My parents have gone, and my mom only cleaned the oven, the toaster and the microwave (last time she cleaned the floor on her hands and knees), so it wasn’t too bad, lol. My parents love our little beach house and I’m pretty sure my dad wants to move into our backyard. Trees! Little stream! Hammock! Crickets! Patio! Best ever! It was hysterical. 🙂

We also took them to our favorite breakfast spot, where we sat at the counter in front of the open kitchen (otherwise it was an hour wait) and my dad exclaimed over every dish that left said kitchen. The cooks completely loved him and gave him free watermelon, LOL. The food was awesome as always, and he proclaimed their cheesy grits the best he’s ever had (and he’s from Texas). He can’t wait to come back in November and go back there, and I guarantee they will remember him.

After we dropped them at the airport Sunday the Chop and I had a mini movie marathon: Sherrybaby (don’t bother, it wasn’t that good), Marie Antoinette (quite good, actually) and I watched the Sound of Music (always good) while he recorded.

Overall, not a bad recovery. 🙂

Yesterday I had a liver biopsy.

Billed as a minor surgical procedure, it still required IV sedation, so to me, it seemed a smidge more than minor.

The drugs they gave me were, according to the nurse, “to make you do what we want, but be half-asleep… and they’re slightly amnesic, so you won’t remember much.”

The nurses were great, my IV was in with not much trouble (first time I’ve ever not had a massive bruise on my hand) and they were marking me with a pen when the doctor came in.

Fortunately the drugs weren’t in me yet, because proclaiming that Doogie Howser wasn’t doing my surgery didn’t seem like the best plan.

Instead, I smiled, said, “You look younger than me. You are SO not allowed to do my surgery.”

Fortunately they all laughed and he assured me that one, he was older than me (maybe, but just barely), and two, he would be assisting the other doctor, who, I would be happy to know, was a grandfather.

Here’s the thing. You’re getting a delicate procedure done, one that requires many years of experience because most of it is done by eye from outside of the body. I’m sorry, but I want the oldest person on staff who’s been doing this since before I was born, not the kid who has perfect skin (unbelievable, he said it was genes), blushed when I flirted with him and said he used to watch Doogie Howser too. Uhuh, no way.

The doctor who came in had the perfect balance of wrinkles and white hair and a lovely German accent. The nurses told him that I was pleased he was old enough to do my surgery and as he looked at me over his spectacles, I grinned and said, “Perfect blend of age and beauty.”

He chuckled and said I was cheeky. Then he asked if my dad was old enough to ever do my surgery and I said, “of course, but also, he gets automatic dad points.”

By this point they were starting to drug me, so they pulled aside the gown, draped the area and started the ultrasound to see my liver.

I vaguely remember this part, but basically they numbed my side with Novocaine and used a spring-loaded pressured giant needle to push into my side and take the biopsies. They took four.

The weird thing was I distinctly remember the sound of the pressure releasing and the pain of the needle plunging in. Mainly, I think, because they had to keep me awake to hold my breath every time they put the needle in.

Why, you ask? Well apparently it’s because your liver moves every time you breathe, due to its proximity to your lungs. And that’s a pain, because now every time I breathe it hurts. Lovely, all around.

I was quite lucid when they wheeled me to recovery and aside from the pain when I breathed, was ready to go home. Unfortunately they want to make sure you clot, so they made me lay on the offended side for an hour, then stay there for three more.

My parents and the Porkchop came back to sit with me and whilst we waited I taught my dad how to use his laptop, lol.

They gave me lunch and wanted me to drink liquids, but then neglected to tell me that if I had to pee, I’d need to do it in a bedpan until the allotted time lying down was over. Yeah, I’ll hold it, thanks.

We used to live in the area when my dad was in the military and he and my mom desperately wanted to visit a turkey farm they remembered (for pot pies) and an ice cream stand. Since it was only 30 minutes from the hospital (and we were about two hours from home), I said why not and we ended up spending most of the afternoon having lunch at a diner on the side of the road (they hadn’t eaten), buying pot pies at a turkey farm and going into sugar comas at a huge ice cream stand (gah).

Heading for home, the Porkchop agreed to drive (my dad had been driving and the man is a BAD driver.. he doesn’t pay attention, he hits all the potholes and he slams on brakes.. not good for a person whose side hurts and needs to take shallow breaths to control the pain) and we made it home in an hour and a half.

I went to bed almost immediately and this morning I feel much better. Although my side is still painful, I’m more aware of how to breathe to minimize the discomfort. I can’t twist around, I move quite slowly and can’t lift anything or do anything for the next three days.

The rest of them are still asleep, so I’m padding about the house by myself, trying to decide if it’s been 24 hours since the procedure so I can shower.

It hasn’t, but I’m thinking two hours doesn’t make much difference, lol.

Oh dear god, a 200 yard spider web.

It’s my own personal nightmare come to life. Gag.

**Update: The bloodwork came back and yes, she is in the early stages of renal failure. 🙁 However, he thinks with a special food and weekly rehydration, she’ll live for a couple more years. 🙂 My mom is very happy.
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My mom promised my sister and I, when we were young, that when we got a “real” house (my dad was in the military at the time) we could get a kitten.

The instant we moved off base and got our real house (with stairs, hence, real), we clamored for the promised pet.

That Christmas two little furballs were found in the laundry room and the two Himalayan kittens entered our lives.

When my sister moved out she ended up getting two kittens of her own and when I moved cross country, I did as well. By that time our babies were getting on in years and had been with their current vet for a decade, so my mom wouldn’t let me take them, lol. Truth is though, she absolutely adores them and couldn’t bear to part with them.

Both over the years have suffered from different health issues. Mine has a mega esophagus and has to eat standing up; my sister’s has had kidney issues.

Bonnie, mine, has been displaying some signs of more serious issues and my mom took her to the vet today.

They gave her intravenous fluids and are waiting on the bloodwork, but the vet says she’s in kidney failure. 🙁

I’m sad.

Bonnie is on the left and Precious is on the right. This picture was taken in 1989.

Right before my parents come to town I always get my car detailed. And it’s especially important now that Regina thinks cars are the best things in the world.

I got a call from the dealership I took it to about an hour ago. They wanted to put some emissions tags or something on it and I said, yes, please. Then they called me back. Did I know my tags were expired? They couldn’t put the emissions tags on it until I fixed that.

Confused, I got online looking for registration renewal in my state.

OK, online it says registration is good for two years, so since I got the car in ’05, I should be only a few months behind. Damn, why didn’t they contact me?

I go to renew online, and lo and behold, since it’s over three months expired, I’m not allowed.

So I call the DMV, whereupon I am directed to four separate automated lists (press 10 should be the suicide hotline). When I finally do get a person, she tells me that my registration did expire in May… of FREAKING 2006.

Shit, I think, wtf?

She tells me that in this state (which I now loathe and think should die) the registration renewal is sent to the town you live in, not you (already I’m thinking this is the stupidest thing ever) so that you can pay your taxes before you get your new tags.

Taxes? ‘Scuse me? I’m fucking moving to my own island with no damn taxes, is all I’m thinking at this point.

So I sigh, and call the town hall of where I lived last year.

And the tax lady tells me I owe $387 and it needs to be in cash and I should come today because interest is assessed at 18%. What. the. fuck.

You have to be kidding, I say to her.

No, we don’t take personal checks. [Figures I get a joker.]

Well, I said, I never received notice so I would like to know how to fight the interest. I will pay whatever the tax is, but I should not have to pay interest.

Oh you can’t fight that, everyone always pays the interest. And we did send out a notice.

To where? I never received one.

She reads off the address of my first apartment in Warren. The one I moved from in June of ’05.

I don’t live there anymore, I say. I haven’t lived there in years! (All the while fuming at the mean woman below me who, upon buying the house from her dad who loved me, kicked me out to move in her good-for-nothing nephew. Now the house is purple-not kidding-and his stupid giant truck is perpetually parked in the yard. Yeah, real keeper.)

Well that is the address we have on file and you have to pay this or you can’t get registration for your car. It’s not our fault you didn’t notify us when you moved.

I didn’t know I had too. I don’t even know what you people do. Why do I have to pay taxes to a town FOR A CAR?!

This conversation was not going anywhere, and at this point I was in tears.

The woman was now telling me that I should call my new town because I probably owe taxes there, too.

Great, I say. Thanks, bye.

And I hung up.

And proceeded to slam my fist into a wall. Good times all around.

Fortunately I owe the new town nothing… yet. I’ll get a notice in June. What the hell kind of sadistic practice is this to tax people when they get a new car?! Shouldn’t we be encouraging the economy, not penalizing people? What the hell?

So I did what everyone does in this situation (primarily everyone who can’t drink or smoke or do anything that makes it all go away)—I called my mom.

And through my tears raged about the government and how I didn’t want this car and I want my old one and oh my god, no WONDER people go into debt, what the hell!

Because the sum total of what I will be shelling out? Right around $500. For the taxes and the new registration, which won’t come for a month and if I get a ticket, I’ll have to pay that too.

How I haven’t gotten pulled over before this is beyond me. I almost wish I had, because then I would’ve had less interest.

Because they do interest like this: let’s say it was originally $50. And then I don’t pay for a month, so that’s $9 at 18% interest now that I owe. But then it gets more fun, because the interest isn’t on the original amount, oh no, it’s on the total due. So now it’s $59 plus 18% interest, so that’s $69.62.

.. So I just spent 10 minutes on an Excel sheet and I think it originally cost $35. THIRTY-FIVE FREAKING DOLLARS.

And now i owe $387.

That. is. bullshit.

Update: Apparently it was originally $245 and the tax lady was wrong about how interest was assessed.

Whatever, I still owe a ridiculous amount.

Sunday morning we woke to find Regina had an open sore on the top of one of her back paws. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a cyst that she had licked raw. Lovely, all around.

We had a fun trip to the emergency vet, where we learned that sometimes young dogs get these sort of cysts and that if it doesn’t go away on it’s own, she’d get to have surgery. But for now, ointment, antibiotics and.. drumroll please.. an Elizabethan collar. And yes, that is what they called it on the receipt.

She calls it hell.

It’s kinda cute though.. she reminds me of Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, lol.

Best eBay description ever, as found by the Porkchop on Pajiba.

Six kids? I don’t think so!

The main problem with having a blog is feeling a need to always write something.. preferably once a day, but there are those who accomplish this once a week by detailing vivid stories for four screens.

A great majority of blogs aim toward a particular niche: cooks, moms, college kids, religious folk, designers, geeks, movie buffs, music aficionados, etc.

Sadly, my life is not vivid enough for four screens of copy and I don’t really have a niche, seeing as how I a) have no kids (two cats and an insane dog don’t count), b) only have the Chop to cook for (and he basically only likes two things, lol), c) am out of college and no one at work is very interesting, d) am not religious, e) am not a particular buff of anything and f) don’t like to blog about work (i.e., design or computer geekdom).

Boring, I know.

In a couple of weeks my parents are coming and I’m getting a liver biopsy. I’m not particularly looking forward to it, but hopefully it’ll finally give me a diagnosis.

My friend who got married last weekend has been in Cancun on her honeymoon and since the hurricane is quite close I’ve been trying to reach her to no avail. I’m sure telling their kids about getting evacuated on their honeymoon is going to be a great family story, lol.

Porkchop was down in NYC for 3.5 days, back here for 1 and is back down there again. Regina has moped non-stop and her whining is driving me insane.

I read several books while we were away, including Goodkind‘s latest installation, three books by Gregory Maguire, a newish John Irving and a newer Anita Shreve. All of whom are amazing writers.. get thee to a bookstore.

I have now read everything in this house and Amazon is calling my name. It’s not pretty. Anybody read anything interesting lately?

One of my favorite bloggers wrote her memoirs and has been emailing the chapters one at a time to those of us who requested them. Aside from being an awesome writer, she has an incredibly sad story with an incredibly happy ending and getting the chapters in my inbox has become my favorite time of the week.

Oh, and I just found out from an old friend that her sister made it to the LA cut for America’s Next Top Model.. she’s gorgeous and adorable and only 19. I remember when she was in 6th grade and completely gangly and goofy. Ugh, I feel old, lol.

E met J at a wedding about two years ago. I distinctly remember the first few conversations we had about him, mainly because I wanted to make sure he wasn’t a jerk (as her previous guy turned out to be) and because we were both intrigued by his persistence.

Which, obviously, paid off.

On the other hand, before we headed out there I was very uncomfortable about them getting married. I’ve met him a couple of times, but not nearly enough to get a feel for his character and they’ve been dating barely two years.

I kept telling the Chop, “It’s too soon! Why are they jumping the gun?!”

I think his reply was, “sex,” which, considering their religion, does make sense.

After being there, meeting some of his friends (some nice, some assholes), meeting his family (brother and sister, both incredibly nice) and hearing that her brother completely approved (aside from the fact that they would be having sex, LOL), I became much more comfortable about the match.

That being said, I’m still a little sad (in a good way) that she’s married. And I think it’s because the door to our childhood slammed shut this weekend and I just wasn’t prepared.