The Night Jesus Got Struck By Lightning

We were watching this storm cloud roll over the S Building in Clifton. I said I wished I could catch a bolt of lightning in a photo, to which Carolyn said, 'The night that Jesus got struck by lightning…'

Ha! It's the Cincinnati version of, 'Where were you when Kennedy got shot?'

I was in bed, nursing my pee bag, and received an email from a friend in Venezuela with the subject, 'Big Butter Jesus is no more.'

God is an arsonist, y'all. And no, I will never get tired of this.

He Is Risen

"Umm yeah, the Jesus is on fire."

Tgif!

How I Ended Up With A Hole In My Bladder and A Bag of Bloody Urine Taped To My Leg... Or, Why Stadium Buddies Are Awesome!

Where were we? Oh right. I peed out that giant blood clot.

Yesterday I went to a urologist because, lo-and-behold, it seems if you pee out one blood clot more are surely to follow, and so it was, my pee was riddled with blood clots.

This is probably totally normal, I told myself. Noooo big deal. Nothing to see here.

But the urologist was all, "Ummm, this is not normal. And given your... (pause) history, we need a full workup. A CT-scan and a cystoscopy."

I was calm. Cool. Collected. Ok, I said, that sounds fine, but what's a cystocopy?

Hold up... You're gonna stick a camera up my pee hole?!

When you've had my "history" (read: Oh crap, she had cancer is probably going to die right in front of me at any second), doctor's talk to you a certain way. It's a hushed tone. Like, 'Well, you probably don't have anything serious wrong with you, but because of your history, there is legitimate cause for... concern'

I am always irritated by this.  

Look, jerk-faces. I don't need you to imply that there might be something wrong with me because there isn't and I'm only doing these tests to confirm to you I was right all along, so suck it.

I could tell the urologist lady was a bit fearful of what the CT-scan might show (who isn't, right?) but ultimately she thought I had radiation cystitis. So I'll pee blood forever, whatevs.

On the CT-scan table I could feel tears streaming down the side of my face.

I was crying, but I wasn't "upset," per se. It was mostly because CT-scan contrast makes me feel like I have to vomit and wet my pants all at the same time, and the CT-scan machine kind of gives me flashbacks. Plus, what if they do find something?! Oh god, I'm gonna die... and I never learned to read!

Oh wait. Nevermind.

Back at the doctor's office post-CT scan, the urologist comes barging in as soon as I get into the room, plops down and says, 'This is unexpected and... interesting.'

Oh for God's sake, lady! Just get on with it! Am I dying die or not?!

Turns out, y'all, my IUD had punctured my bladder and was stuck in there. So she put a camera into my pee hole to get a closer look while I took pictures of the monitor, and I'll be damned, there was part of my IUD, in my bladder, with blood clots swishing around everywhere.




The good news, though, is as we were going, "Holy eff! Look at that!" she noted my bladder is the picture of health — what radiation, fools?! — and is in such great shape that it could probably win the World Cup.  

Gooooaaaallll!

I didn't say it, but I totally wanted to rub it in her face all, "Told you I was bulletproof. Suck it!"

[Ronson described urologists as "the truckers of the medical community." Hilarious and true. This woman was brash and agile with humor and swear-words. I totally loved her.] 

Conveniently for me, my urologist's office is next to a gynecologists office, and the two doctor ladies are pals. So the gyno came over and consulted on how they were going to get the IUD out of my bladder.

After an unexpected pelvic exam — thanks random gyno lady from across the hall! — they decided it could NOT come out of my hoo-ha because of scar tissue from radiation damage.




So the urologist was all, 'I bet I can get it out via her urethra.' It was then that I pretended to pass out. But I was totally numb "down there" and started chanting, "Pull. It. Out! Pull. It. Out!" Which she did, out of my pee hole, using a camera and what looked like really tiny cooking tongs. 



One minute I'd be cracking jokes during all this, the next minute I'd be crying because, well, I was traumatized from having a piece of plastic protruding into my bladder and I was lying on a table looking at it.

As she tossed the newly freed IUD into a cup she said, "You want to keep it, show your friends?"

I would but my friends are kinda lame, I told her. I'd have taken a photo for you guys but I was hysterical over what happened next.

So the urologist says I can't just go home with a hole in my bladder — Why the hell not? It hasn't been a problem until now, I argued — and that I'd need a catheter.

A catheter?! Holy shiz. I saw my life flash before my eyes, y'all... no more swimming, no more bikinis, cute dresses or short-shorts, just long Mennonite jean skirts and baggy pants for the rest of my grim, grim life. I was sobbing.

"You only need the catheter for few days, until the hole heals."

Oh. Right.

Apparently bladders heal quickly, who knew. So if you're going to puncture an internal organ, the bladder is not so bad, minus the catheter. So until Thursday I have a tube coming out of my pee hole and a bag of bloody urine strapped to my leg.

But it's kinda awesome because I never have to get up to pee. Imagine how great it'd be at a bar. Not only attention grabbing (who wouldn't want to date me with this thing?!) but also useful, no more waiting in line or worrying if there's toilet paper.

I'm excited to show it to my coworkers tomorrow. It's a badge of honor really. I think they'll be stoked to see it.

I emailed my Boss Man about the whole thing, using the words "vaginally" and "IUD" and "bloody urine pee bag" to let him know I'd need a day at home to recuperate. I could have just said, "I'm sick," but I didn't want to half-ass it.

I made the mistake of telling my mom this whole ordeal — moms, they worry you know — and she was flipping out that I am considering getting another IUD. Is that weird? I mean, it was awesome for 2.5 years... minus this pee bag thing right now and the hole in my bladder.

Some people are just really sensitive. (Mom, I'm lookin' at you).

Anyway, after it was all over I was physically and emotionally exhausted, but then they gave me a sucker and some M&Ms that say 'Be nice to me, I had a cysto' on them and I was totally fine.



Mostly. Except I was too tired to go get my prescriptions so I called Ronson when I got home and was all, "I was peeing blood clots and they discovered my IUD had punctured my bladder and then they had to pull it out through my pee hole today and now I have a catheter and a pee bag strapped to my leg and I'm exhausted soooo, can you do me a favor..."

To which he replied, "I am terrified of what you are going to ask me right now."

He was grateful I just needed him to run to Walgreens for me. (And I didn't even make him look at my catheter, because I'm a good friend like that.)

I spent today checking email, filling in colleagues and emptying my pee bag. Then about 5 p.m. these lovely flowers were delivered to me! They are from my Boss Man and colleagues and the card says, "Sorry you're peeing blood! We feel punctured by your absence."

Ha!



Later on I'm walking over (slowly) to Yagoot with Erin and her husband and I'm getting the medium cup of Yagoot, because I deserve it, damn it.

Why God, Why?!

Touchdown Jesus and my red pepper plant... why has thou forsaken me?

Like White on Rice

I still got it, y'all.

Last night I got macked on by an ultrasound at a one of Hyde Park's finest drunken establishments. He couldn't have been a day over 22, but his dance moves were nearly as smooth as his baby face.

I called him "scary Justin Beiber," a) because he was shiny-young and had weird hair and b) he was hitting on me, which was kinda scary because, "Hey young man, I'm old enough to be your babysitter!" (But the really hott baby sitter who let's you eat Burger King and text your friends all night.)

So he goes, "Who is Justin Bieber?"

Riiiiiight. Like he doesn't have My World 2.0 his iPhone. Then he told me I had the most amazing hair in the bar, which was such a true and authentic line (er, statement) that I let him dance with me some more.

That kid's gonna be a real sweetheart when he hits puberty.

Everyone Was Uninvited

A few weeks ago at dance class our instructor was handing out recital fliers "to give to your friends and coworkers, so they can come see you."

I debated if I could jack her, swipe all the fliers and run away… in tap shoes.

Pretty much the last thing I need in my life is anyone to see me all blue-eyeshow'd, red lipstick'd and rocking a leotard with tap shoes. No thanks.

If you went through the cedar chest at my parents' house you'd stumble upon plenty of old dance costumes from when I was a kid. Sequins. Fringe. Ruffles. Leotards.

I am not 7 anymore, yet I still dress like one come dance performance time. For some reason dance costumes have not evolved all that much. There is a still a lot of skin-tight, sequined, sparkly madness going down.

I was so horrified anyone would find my tap costume that I hid it so well that the night before the final rehearsal I had to tear my apartment apart to find it. (It was hanging in the coat closet… pretty much the last place I'd look considering I was convinced it was stuffed into a ball at the bottom of my dance bag.)

I even drove more carefully on my way home from class the last few weeks because I was terrified of getting into an accident and overhearing the cops saying, "Her face is bleeding… OMG, guys, come look at this sequined fedora! Hahaha!!!"

On Sunday I looked exactly like Lady Gaga (see above), only not ridiculous on purpose.

The good news is that in hip-hop/jazz you get to always wear black dance pants, because no one wants to see anyone split-leap jump to a Britney Spears song in a leotard. My saving grace… black dance pants and a sparkly tank top.

It's too bad you guys didn't see me at the performance. I was in four dances. Three of them I flipped my hair around and acted like I knew what I was doing. But in one of them I completely forgot an entire combination - IN THE FRONT ROW.

Hahahaha! Ooops. Too bad you weren't there. Oh wait…

Pluto, Like A Disco Ball, Only Smaller

For some unknown reason I've had two conversations recently where I've found myself not so calmly telling someone, "Pluto is too still a planet, damn it! I'll look it up and show you!"

When the diminutive Pluto was punched in the orbit and downgraded to ice-ball a few years ago it made the front page. News that some big astronomy nerdfest decided it was a"dwarf planet," not so much.

The only reason I care is because I invested an hour of my life a few months ago watching a NOVA special on the rise and fall of Pluto. My favorite part was the hate mail from 3rd graders that Pluto downgrader Neil deGrasse Tyson received after saying Pluto was just an icy comet thingy.

Why, because it's small?! You jerk! Pluto was my favorite planet, now what?! What about the people who live on Pluto? Now they don't exist!

Pluto, still a planet. Kinda. Mostly. It's dwarf planet. Disagree with me and thousands of third graders at your own peril.

Speaking of planets, my scooter riding pal Dean works at the Cincinnati Observatory as the outreach astronomer. A few years ago he rigged up the ancient, giant telescope at the Observatory - which is a million ways badass, btw - and showed me Saturn through the lens. It's underwhelming in the sense that it's not like what you see in books or on TV. It's not giant, in your face, "I am Saturn See-My-Rings!" It's just tiny and ringed, but it's right there, and I was looking at it, and therefore it was cool as hell.

But if you want to see a photo of the giant version, and why wouldn't you want to sit in awe of this wonder of the solar system, then check out these amazing photos taken by the school-bus-sized spacecraft, Cassini. And if you don't already check in on the Boston Globe's Big Picture blog, you should. It's great stuff.

This Video, Better Than A Successory!

You mean people aren't just greedy, money obsessed materialists? You mean they actually want to be challenged, purposeful and engaged? People do things to just… have fun, be good at them and feel inspired… for free?!

Science says this is true. But I bet you already knew this. TGIF!

What's Up, Dirt Bag

Check out that bag of soil, y'all. Impressive, no? We're talking 64 quarts of super absorbing, nutrient rich, Twice-As-Big™ as redemption, tomatoes as big as your head inorganic plant feed.

Hallelujah!

It also "protects against over and underwatering. SOLD. (Is there such thing as overwatering? I know not of what you speak.)

I left work early on Friday to go buy it because my dad, balcony green-thumb extraordinaire, was driving three hours from Indiana to plant my petunias and tomatoes for me, as he does every year.

If I don't go buy dirt he will bring it with him, see. And then I'll have to help carry silt from the Mississinewa River up three flights of steps, on a tarp, leaving trails of fine dirt behind us as we go. It's just easier when it's already in a bag, you know what I'm sayin'?

Everyone's dad steals dirt from the river and loads it into his truck, right?