April 6, 2009
We went to Centennial Farms this weekend. Berlyn liked the llama the best, and I mean, seriously, who could resist that face?
I’m pretty sure my insides are revolting against me and are trying to get out, because the other day I could have sworn I felt a hernia.
There I was standing over a Pottery Barn catalog, when I decided to smooth out my shirt (or grope my stomach, I don’t know which), and I felt IT! It was right over my belly button: a protrusion of skin, and if I listened close enough I could hear the tiny cries of my small intestine pleading with my skin to let it out. It felt tender and just as I was about to storm out of the house and head straight to the E.R. I realized I should check with wikipedia and my husband for second and third opinions, I have some sense, you know.
My husband confirmed he felt something, and then I went straight to the computer and began deliriously reading wikipedia about DEATH regarding hernias. OH SHIT, I’M GOING TO DIE! My small intestine is really pissed off, it’s leaving, and it’s taking my life with it! This was a lot to swallow, so I poured myself a glass of wine and decided to mourn. In my wallowing I made a list of all the things I want to do before I die:
That’s all I came up with when I began to fondle my hernia again. It made me shudder each time I touched it, but I knew if my life was on the line I had to make sure that what I had was indeed my innards trying to break free. Upon closer inspection, I realized that maybe it wasn’t a hernia after all. But instead, just my formerly pierced belly button skin.
It seems that I have grown a small lump at the piercing site and combined with the tenderness, (because of the ka-jillion sit ups I did the day before, because of all the peanut butter eggs I ate the day before that) I concluded that it was not a hernia, just a dirty and semi-stinky belly button.
PHEW! I was so relieved. That was a close one. Having a hernia would have really sucked, and I’m pretty sure you guys wouldn’t even visit me in the hospital and bring me mylar balloons.
I’m not really into April Fools’ Day. It’s like one of those non-holidays like St. Patrick’s Day. Saint Patrick’s Day is the worst. Especially when I was in elementary school. I remember scurrying around for something green. But because I was a budding fashionista, I learned early that green was not my color, so I never owned any green clothing. Which meant I had two options: I could either go to school wearing my brother’s green work-out shorts, or risk getting pinched. I would always choose the latter, and by the end of the day I’d be surly and a little inflamed because of all the pinching. Oh, and one St. Patrick’s Day I was in kindergarden or first grade, and my dad packed my lunch, which meant I wasn’t so surprised when I got a handful of non-dairy creamer cups, 3 ketchup packets, and a tupperware container filled with applesauce with green food coloring. When I pulled out the applesauce I was horrified. Because applesauce isn’t supposed to be green! Gross! I tried to hide it from my friends, but they all saw it and made fun of me for the rest of the day for having green applesauce.
And now I’m all upset right now because I just rehashed all of those sucky St. Patrick’s Day memories. So in an effort to not be surly and inflamed all day I’m not going to play into this whole April Fools’ Day madness and make up a fake post about how I found out that my husband was really my second cousin and our dog has been chosen to fly to the moon as the first pug astronaut. Because that’s just silly. Plus, you guys are so smart, you’d never believe that my pug would be the first- space-astronaut-dog. She’s already “big-boned” and wouldn’t be caught dead in a fluffy, puffy, pack-on-20-extra-pounds-astronaut suit. Geez.