The J-Man is home sick AGAIN. He has been puking steadily since last night, puking into butter containers, puking on the floor, puking (miraculously) into the toilet, puking, puking, puking. I am feeding him toast and 7Up and watching him, warily, waiting for the next onslaught.

I don’t know what the hell is going on with this child, really. I am worried, and of course the damned pediatrician can’t see him until the tenth of March.

He looks peaked.

Still no fever, still good spirits, still no lack of appetite.

I am stumped. I am disinclined to take him to the ER because other than the puking he is fine, I’m keeping him hydrated, and he seems to be in good spirits. I’m not sure what the ER would even DO.

I don’t freaking know. This is one of those times in which I really wish I’d read the manual.

You know, that manual they hand you at the hospital when they give you your little bundle of joy?

Right.

He’s in my mom’s bed right now, laughing his ass off at Spongebob or some shit. He really doesn’t look SICK, maybe a little pale, which is odd for him, but not SICK.

I am kerflummoxed.

And that is all I have to say about that.

In other news, I am obsessed with the show Say Yes To The Dress.

Stupid, I know. Stupid, and very unlike me.

The premise of the show is that all these starry-eyed brides go to a wedding salon (Kleinfeld’s, in New York City) and search for the wedding dress of their dreams. It’s sappy. It’s totally mushy. Watching these brides cry over dresses with their mothers is pure schmaltz.

I can’t get enough of it.

Although I HIGHLY doubt I will EVER take a trip down the aisle, I have a confession to make:

I fucking LOVE wedding dresses.

I love them. I absolutely adore them. I even have my virtual wedding dress all picked out. A-line or ballgown, nothing too cupcake, no lace, no ruffles, not a lot of beading, maybe a little chiffon or tulle overlay, possibly some corseting, strapless or spaghetti strap.

I am such a sap.

I am also in love with the gay fashion director of the salon, one Randy Fenoli, who fulfills the fantasy of my perfect gay boyfriend. I want to run away with him on a random cross-country trip in which we would hit every bridal salon on Route 66 and try on wedding dresses and drink pomegranate martinis.

There you have it, I am a super lame lame-o of the lamest proportions.

I don’t want a wedding, really. I just want the dress and the party. So if someone would like to marry me on these terms, I would be more than willing to go for it.

Any takers?

Happy Friday.

“Mom, you can’t wear that hat in Green Bay.”
“I always wear this hat in Green Bay. This is a warm winter hat. I love this hat.”
“That’s totally a cancer hat.”
“WHAT?”
“It’s a cancer hat. It’s the kind of hat cancer survivors wear to cover up their bald heads.”
“Um, I think that would be ANY hat.”
“No, it’s THAT hat. Look.”
*puts on hat, dances around*
“It’s not a cancer hat, it’s my winter hat.”
“It’s an old lady cancer hat.”
“I love that hat, and I’m wearing it.”
“Suit yourself, but it’s totally a cancer hat.”

Sometimes I can’t even believe the conversations we have in this house.

“Aw, look at mommy in the skinny jeans. You look all EMO.”
“What the hell is ‘emo’ anyway. This has never been explained to my satisfaction.”
“It means ‘emotional’. You know, like ‘emo kids’.”
“Isn’t everyone emotional? Aren’t your stupid girlfriend-punching rappers even emotional?”
“I don’t like Chris Brown!!”
“Anyway. Emo. It’s a dumb word.”
“Well, you have an emo haircut and now you have emo jeans. And you listen to emo music. So there.”
“I listen to emo music?”
“Yeah.”
“So what are you?”
“I think I’m kind of emo, too?”
“So what is Gramma?”
“Gramma’s just… old.”
“Oh, I see. Gramma’s old school.”
“No! Just… old.”

Happy Thursday from your emo blogger.

All I have done for the last two days is try on clothes.

Let me first tell you how this came about.

I am a clearance shopper. The clearance racks are the first place I hit and generally where I stay. And while I have to dig and dig and dig, sometimes I find a gem. Whether that gem is exactly my size is another matter.

I sometimes buy stuff that is too small. I don’t wear it! I just throw it in the back of the closet for motivation. Forty pounds ago, this stuff was just a dream. However, the thought occurred to me recently that some of this non-fitting stuff might now actually fit.

It did. It ALL fit. The Calvin Kleins I got for a song, the skinny jeans from Gap that I sort of laughed at when I bought them (my mother laughed harder), the shirts that were not an extra-extra large, they all fit!

So all I have been doing is trying on clothes, and reveling in the trying on.

Normally I would not be caught dead in a dressing room and am loathe to put denim on my thighs, but I’m finding it sort of liberating.

My body is still squishy and imperfect and well, fat. I’m not a slim girl. BUT, neither am I two hundred pounds.

Neither am I two hundred pounds.

I’m happy about that today.

In other news, the J-Man came home from school yesterday, having puked in first period. This is probably the fourth time in two months that he has come home puking during school. Once he gets home, he appears to be fine. No fever. No loss of appetite. No lethargy.

I don’t get it. I don’t know whether it’s some sort of nervous stomach or whether something more sinister is at play here. I made a doctor’s appointment for him, but I’m also worried about putting him through a battery of tests he might not need.

He’s been having some problems at school with teasing, but other than that he does very well in school, and I don’t really see him as the nervous kind. I asked him about it, and he said he isn’t nervous at all.

This is troubling, but I’m hoping that the doctor will be able to shed some light upon it with a minimum of poking and prodding.

God forbid he has gastroparesis like his mother.

God forbid I should even think it.

In still other news, Weetacon (Green Bay) is fast approaching, and I am very excited. I am already half-packed and am bringing far too many shoes.

I need these crazy little getaways. They’re good soul food.

Happy Tuesday.

I had to test my poop for three days.

Myself.

At home.

As much as I wax rhapsodic about poop and am happy when I do actually poop, the idea of this frightened me beyond the limits of comprehension.

I was given a kit that included a few paper sheets, wooden sticks, and some very vague instructions.

The idea was to float the sheets in the toilet, poop on the sheets, and retrieve a sample of said poop BEFORE it hit the bowl water.

This is not as easy as it sounds.

This is not easy at all.

You also have the option of crapping into a container and then proceeding from there, but I really didn’t feel like busting out the good Tupperware.

Anyway, I somehow managed to perform this feat three times and get my poop onto three slides.

I made sure to inform the J-Man that this poop-testing was going on, because I knew that he would be horrified.

“Guess what?”
“What?”
“There’s an envelope in the bathroom with my poop in it.”
“WHAT?”
“There’s-”
“I HEARD YOU. WHAT? WHY??”
“I am testing my poop for the doctor, isn’t that gross??”
“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE ABOUT THIS, AND GET IT OUT OF THE BATHROOM.”
“Wimp. Heheheheh.”
“You are so gross.”
“One day you may be called upon to do this, and you’ll remember.”
“NO I WON’T.”
“You might.”
“NEVER.”
“You might.”
“GRANDMA. TELL MOMMY TO STOP BEING GROSS.”
“I could go to school with you, do a show-and-tell all about poop-testing.”
“MOMMY.”

I can’t help it. He’s so fun to torture.

My mother then had the charming task of dropping my poop off at the doctor’s office. I was informed today that my poop is blood-free.

So, no colonoscopy.

YAY.

In other news, I have now lost forty pounds since December. Woot woot and all that stuff.

I’ve certainly lost it the hard way.

Happy Friday.

One thing I’m having a hell of a time with is giving up caffeine. I shouldn’t really drink it. It irritates my already over-irritable stomach and makes me more prone to puking, particularly the black coffee that I love so.

However, I am HOOKED. I normally drink at least a pot of coffee in the morning and about five or six Diet Cokes in the afternoon. I NEED my caffeine, people. It courses lovingly through my veins and makes me happy.

Did you quit caffeine, ever? How did you do it? I am finding it hard to give the stuff up without chewing the drapes and/or napping frequently. I am already pretty damned short on energy, and without caffeine I am like the slothiest of sloths.

Suggestions welcome in this dry land. I am already drinking a lot of water, as the doc suggested. I probably drink about six or seven sixteen-ounce bottles a day.

Happy Wednesday.

This impending move has me stressed out. We’re supposed to be moving in a mere handful of months, and what am I doing? I am worrying about the quantity and quality of my food and poop. I am puking and passing out, and if you thought I looked like an albino before, you would definitely call me Casper now. I am a medical mess.

We have been boxing up small things here and there and taking them over to my stepdad’s, but nothing major has been done, and the fact still remains that we have an entire basement and two garages full of crap.

We are going to have to have the mother of all garage sales.

When I get back from Green Bay a lot of this stuff is going to get Craiglisted and eBayed, but there are mountains of stuff that just need to be thrown out. We could seriously give the folks at Hoarders a run for their money with our overflowing garages.

I need to give this my full attention, and instead I am measuring out half-cups of applesauce and praying to the porcelain gods every time I dare tempt fate and eat a fucking sandwich.

This is the pits.

I’m trying to get my gastrointestinal doings under control so that I can go to Green Bay in a couple of weeks, because I really, really, REALLY want to go to Green Bay. I haven’t missed a gathering yet and don’t plan to start now.

I guess the trick is just eating really, really small amounts, often. It goes against my grain, but I’m working on it.

In other news, the J-Man’s dance went very well. He met a hot girl from another school (this was a mutl-school event), an EIGHTH-GRADER, no less, and they are now internet friends. So, success.

In still other news, Alice the hamster has grown so fat that she cannot fit into the tubes in her cage. This may or may not be because someone in this house cannot resist watching her eat Cheetos. That person may or may not be me.

Happy Tuesday.

So far? The Reglan?

This is the super-pooping medication of all time, people. This medication makes you crap like there is no fucking tomorrow.

OK, I know I’m gross. I know this is really gross, but yesterday I took the largest crap you or anyone else has ever seen. I guarantee it. It was so massive in its scope that I was afraid and a little bit in awe. I almost wanted to photograph it, so amazing and wondrous was the product of my intestinal machinations.

I know, I’m gross. I can’t help it. I blame it on my family, who talks about poop at the dinner table.

Really, though, I wish you could have seen my poop.

Really.

Anyway.

I am in a lot of pain, because as the rusty wheels of my stomach and intestines have started to turn, they have not done so without a lot of protest. I still can’t eat more than about a half a cup of food at a time.

It’s like I had a gastric bypass without the bypass.

I can’t eat anything raw, any meat, or anything that is otherwise difficult to digest. I miss fruit.

I guess I had better follow along, though, because apparently if this gets bad it gets really bad, and you can wind up on a feeding tube. Fuck that.

So, I’m just sitting around, clutching my clenching stomach, not exercising and angry about it, and pooping like some sort of record-breaking super pooper.

My son is going to his first dance tonight. It’s a Valentine’s Day dance, and he bought the Prettiest Girl In The Class a mood ring at the dollar store when we were there buying balloons (he’s on the planning committee) and is going to ask her to dance. O THE DRAMA!

He is wearing black pants and a black sport jacket with a funky t-shirt and black converse, and I do believe he will look very cool.

But I’m not nervous for him, not at all.

Ahem.

Happy Thursday.

So. I had the procedure done, which was a little scary at first since I had been up all night stressing about it, but as soon as they administered the fentanyl and the versed I was out like a light, and I woke up in the recovery room not remembering a thing.

That’s exactly how I prefer it.

There is no ulcer, and there is most definitely no cancer. Well, so far. The biopsy they did still needs to be tested, but let’s just jump ahead and say that I don’t have fucking cancer, OK?

I have something called gastroparesis. This is apparently mostly seen in diabetics, which I am not, but the medications I take such as the narcotics for pain and the anti-depressants are sometimes associated with the condition.

It basically means that I’m not digesting food the way I’m supposed to, and that my stomach isn’t emptying itself, causing pain when I try to eat, and a whole lot of throwing up.

This also explains why most of the time, I don’t crap.

This also may explain Bulimia: The Later Years. I felt so uncomfortable with food in my stomach. SO uncomfortable. SO fucking full. Often times, I just did it to get rid of that awful feeling.

Now I know why I had that awful feeling. My food was sticking around for days on end, and every time I ate I was compounding the problem.

The new medication I’m starting (Reglan) is supposed to get my stomach and intestines moving in order to help move food on out the door.

I may become an efficient eater/pooper yet.

So, I’m glad it’s nothing deathly serious and something easily treatable. I’m slightly worried about the medication, which comes with a slew of warnings and side effects, but if will make this ache in the pit of my gut go away, it’ll be worth it.

So there it is, nice and tidy. I think the doctor wants to leave me on the med for a month, see if things get resolved, and hold off on any more tests for now, but if they don’t I will still be having a colonoscopy and all that jazz.

Hopefully things will be resolved by using the medication.

Thanks for all your good lucks and good wishes! Apparently they helped a great deal, and my guts thank you.

Happy Monday.

So tomorrow I’m having a scope of my stomach done, along with a biopsy of the lining.

The gastroenterologist was nice, very thorough, but he did manage to scare the living shit out of me with the C word.

Why would you even mention the C-word to me? I don’t know. I think it was terrifying and totally unnecessary. I think he said it solely based on the amount of weight I’ve lost lately, even though I told him I’ve been dieting and exercising.

Anyway, I didn’t appreciate it much, but I didn’t allow it to make me nervous, either. There’s just no fucking way.

So tomorrow, early in the morning, there’s that. I will then be home sleeping it off, and I’ll let you know what’s been found.

Happy Sunday.

So I’m moderately nervous about going to this gastroenterologist tomorrow.

I really don’t relish the though of having cameras poked into both ends, nor do I relish the thought of the master cleanse that is going to have to take place beforehand.

I’m “master-cleansing” it up enough on my own, if you get my drift.

I have never been this sick. It’s actually pretty exhausting. I’ve had pretty serious bouts of flu, but nothing that lasted this long or was this vicious. This is like stomach flu that wil not quit. The stabbing pain in my stomach is enough to make me want to crawl under the covers and cry, but the constant puking and the shits prevent me from doing so.

It’s pretty awful.

My appointment is at 7:15 tomorrow, and although I’m slightly terrified, in a way, it’s kind of a relief. The doctor has to find *something*. I’m hoping that it’s just some sort of rogue virus that has knocked me down and not really an ulcer or something more serious.

We shall see.

In other news, tomorrow my stepdad is having surgery for a hernia, after which he will be staying here to lick his wounds. We will all have to be very very quiet and on our absolute best behavior so that he can rest.

Saturday is the science fair, during which I will have to suck it up/wear Depends/try not to puke for four hours while I smile at all the happy little children who have had their parents work on all of their projects.

Obviously I can’t wait.

I will let you know what’s happened tomorrow afternoon. Cross your fingers and toes for me.

Happy Thursday.