• I am personally insulted when the pop machine at work is out of Diet Coke
• Purple eyeshadow should be for all times
• I have a highly inappropriate crush on one of the guys at my favourite EB store
• Last night I had a highly inappropriate dream about one of my friends
• Apparently, the installation of the WSD has done little to quell my sense of the highly inappropriate
• This is good
• Also good: me. I feel good. There’s a very slight occasional twinge of cramp, but other than that, I feel great.
• I cannot wait for the weekend. We have no plans, but it’s going to be great outside and I want to have some fun.
• Anyone want to make out? I am totally craving movie-style make out sessions with inspirational background music and perhaps a rainfall. Girls, boys – anyone can apply. Bonus points if you’ve appeared in one of my increasingly frequent and naughty dreams.

In some ways, that wasn’t so bad.

In others, it felt like someone was hammering my uterus like a steel drum.

We got to the doctor’s office right on time, and had to wait almost half an hour. I passed the time looking for Waldo, finding him on every page. Ed read a magazine and did his best to look inconspicuous amongst all the pregnant women. Eventually my name was called, and I was whisked away into a small orange room and told to strip from the waist down and to cover myself with the paper blanket for the sake of modesty and style. I did as I was told, and got as comfortable as I could with my ass hanging off the end of a steel table.

Before long, the doctor arrived with the enormous scary box. She was a different doctor than the last time, meaning once again I’d be displaying my inner privates to a total stranger. We joked a bit about the size of the box – I opened it last night because it was like Christmas and I couldn’t wait to see what Santa brought me to shove up myself – and got down to work.

A quick internal exam to determine that I do in fact have a uterus, and then the cold speculum of joy. It had to be adjusted twice – my cervix ran away – and then she applied some sort of industrial cleaner to my insides. It sounded like she was stirring a cup of coffee, and it was mildly amusing.

Then she told me to take a deep breath.

It hurt. I squeaked and bit my lip, and I began to have second thoughts about the whole damn thing. I couldn’t very well do much about it though, as she was wrist-deep in my garden. I took several more deep breaths, and the pain subsided a little. I thought we were done, but then she said some scary words: “okay, now the IUD is going in!”

Shit. A shove, and pain. This hurt a lot – I squeaked some more and grabbed the sides of the steel table for comfort and a potential weapon. All my insides ached very badly, like the worst cramps I’d never had. My uterus protested, trying very hard to expel this foreign object now sleeping all up in my business, but it stayed. She stripped off her gloves and said we were all done, and that I could go. I think I said something witty – I was trying very hard to keep breathing – and she left, giving me time to collect myself and my pants.

I sat up. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad – sure, there were cramps and a general discomfort in my regions, but other than that I was okay. I hopped off the table, proud of my vagina’s abilities.

Then I simultaneously almost threw up, passed out, and pooped.

I came very, very close to completely passing out. The entire world was fuzzy and bright; everything sounded tinny and far away. I don’t know how I managed to dress myself, but I did and wandered out into the lobby to find Ed surrounded by very pregnant women. I clutched at walls for support, and grunted when he asked how I was. Words weren’t coming, but that was okay. I had more to worry about, such as how the hell was I going to make it to the car parked half a block away? I could barely walk. The months of vertigo I experienced late last year were nothing compared to this. It was by far the worst part of the whole experience, and completely unexpected. I’d never been that dizzy and feeling like I was seconds away from a face plant – everything around me was wrong and wobbly. I gripped Ed’s hand in a kitten-like death grip and weakly made my way to the car.

I remember asking for the back seat and literally collapsing into the safety of the Mazdabator. I lost a shoe, but Ed grabbed it for me. He poured me into the car and we drove home.

Cramps schamps. Yes, I hurt, but my entire body was dizzy and my eyes wouldn’t focus. All I wanted to do was go inside and crawl into bed. With Ed’s help I did exactly that, and whispered out commands: I needed a drink and a MacBook and an assortment of cats. Ed brought these things to me, and hung out on the bed as I flopped around in distress.

Then I fell asleep.

I’m awake now, and feeling much better. My uterus is mildly cramping, and most of the unexpected vertigo is gone. Sasha is on my knee purring, and Ed brought me a McChicken and some Diet Coke. I am fully IUD’d and will be 99.9% baby-free for the next 5 years, after which I will be able to get my tubes tied unless they up the never say never age again. In two or three days I should be able to resume having teh sex, and in 6 weeks I will return to a random doctor for a vaginal inspection.

All is good.

Team No Babies for the win!

After the initial trauma wore off, I admit to feeling a strange sort of affection for my tiny plastic hentai victim. I thought perhaps she was lonely, so I went one step further and attempted to order her a friend.

My plan backfired, though – instead of a fresh new tiny plastic hentai victim, I got the same one. Boo! I was very disappointed, and now I have two of the same girl:

I can’t imagine gazing at herself in the same position all day would be very comforting, so I am offering up the second tiny plastic hentai victim up for adoption. Surely someone has room on their desk for this utterly disturbing piece of Japan. Let me know if you want it – it’s my gift to you.

Also, I feel like this thing looks:

I gave it the old collage try (mm .. glue), but the alcohol didn’t do much by way of fixing all my problems. I got extremely drunk extremely quickly – I am nothing if not extreme – then had a very bad headache for a great many hours afterward. I also turned lobster red – I was dubbed Zoidberg for the night. All in all, a failed experiment.

I don’t know why I feel so out of sorts. Things are quite well – there is a kitten, and new boots. My job is great, I love my apartment and the assorted creatures in it, and there is nothing looming over my head like some sort of horrible spectre. This, then leads me to think that perhaps TEH DEPRESSIONS is rearing an ugly head – except this time I am catching it as it happens instead of letting my world implode and then realizing that I am insane again.

Usually there is much to be said for progress, but this feels like a hollow victory.

I think I will listen to some happy music, doll myself up a little, and maybe ask Ed to put on that assless kilt and dance around a little for my amusement. That, or go shopping. Maybe both – at the same time!

Wait, that would get Ed arrested.

Which could also be highly amusing, actually.

Excellent.

It is unnerving to see rope outside your window.

It is a thousand times more unnerving to see that same rope falling very quickly to the ground.

I’m not really afraid of heights, but I *am* afraid of falling off high buildings.

It was supposed to happen this morning, but for the sake of office harmony, we moved it to this afternoon. I doubt I’ll have time to update when it all happens, so I will spill the beans now:

Before the day is out, you will get to meet Cream Lemon, the Incestuous Bad Idea Kitten!

I’m adopting the kitten from a co-worker. He’s 9 weeks old, and some sort of Siamese brown point/gray point mix. The pictures I’ve seen so far, while blurry, are adorable. I will have many pictures to share before the week is out, I’m sure.

What’s with the name?

I have a history of giving my animals outlandish (if not downright ridiculous) names. Lemon (as the new kitten shall be known) was named because I was Wiki’ing “incest in popular culture” (don’t ask). I stumbled upon the Cream Lemon saga and thought it was a great name. Very shortly after, the decision – a bad one, according to almost everyone – to adopt the kitten was made. Upon learning that his parents were brother and sister from the same litter, it dawned on me that this kitten was in fact the product of incest – which tied in nicely with the whole “Cream Lemon” thing. My coworker was a little embarrassed to let the whole cat incest thing be known, but I found it hilarious because I am highly inappropriate.

I am very excited and also sleepy. I took the rest of the week off to work on Operation: Kitten Integration, and will be living in the spare room with the door closed for the next couple of days. I’m hoping the kitten will bond with Hobble, who really needs a playmate – he likes to pounce on Cheddar, but she’s getting old and can’t really take a 22lb wall of cat flying at her from all directions.

Sasha will sit in her corner and hiss as usual.

I am well on my way to becoming a crazy cat lady.

After Gillian came to my rescue last week after a salsa-related emergency, I came to see the wisdom of carrying a Tide-To-Go pen with me. I bought one that afternoon, and have used it a half dozen times since then. It’s a very good idea for someone like me – a klutz with an ample bosom – to have the ability to rapidly remove stains. Ed suggested that I choose my wardrobe based on what I’d be eating that day, but I don’t own that much red. Besides, it doesn’t work – I’m wearing white right now, and I managed to drip butter on myself. I’m spot-free – for now – but just to be safe, I think I will eat lunch with a bib.

Tomorrow, I will finally let you know what this Cream Lemon thing is all about.

You cannot wait.