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Tuesday, January 20, 2015


On Friday, I went into the hospital to have a few spare parts removed in what my work apparently deemed to be a solely cosmetic procedure based upon their reaction to me taking three weeks off after having a couple of organs removed.  This has got to be one of the most solid adult decisions that I have ever made. I have zero regrets about the surgery. I tried to get my doctor to do some additional rummaging in there to remove any other potentially problematic spare parts, like my appendix or the excess stomach fat I have, but he wasn't as excited about that as I was.  He was more about the fact that a robot named DaVinci was going to be doing the surgery.  This isn't as sexy as it sounds, folks...really the doc is the one controlling it, so it's more like a really big, expensive remote control car.  Or scalpel, if you will.  My sister was all disappointed that it was not an actual robot doing the surgery, but I was kinda glad because I recently had a conversation with a client about when the robots become aware and take over the world, and that woulda just hit a little too close to home for comfort...

Despite her disappointment, my sister did her best to comfort me in my time of need.  She did it in the only way the Lambkins family knows how:  through food and humor.  She totally would have brought me alcohol too, I know she would have, but I was still on the Vicodin at that point and that might not have been a good idea.  Or maybe it would have been a good idea because I keep trying to do shit around the house like laundry and picking stuff up, and if I don't sit my ass down and stay still my lady parts are gonna end up getting further mauled when they have to re-stitch me back together.  But maybe then I could convince the doctor to do some extra nipping and tucking....or perhaps I should have had this conversation with the robot?

I digress.  She made me a cake.  A wonderful, sparkly, purple uterus (because naturally, that was what my uterus looks like.  Duh.). And cupcake ovaries.  With RIP written on the right one because that one was removed. Then she printed off Happy Hysterectomy because she couldn't get it to fit on the cake in frosting.

Here is the inspiration for the cake:

Notice the boring, flesh colors.  Not fun at all.

Here is the actual, far superior cake:
 Purple, sparkly, and fabulous.  It was amazing.

Folks...I come by it honestly.  But in all seriousness...why aren't hysterectomy cakes a thing?  Or cards, for that matter...personally I would like one that says "That wonderful moment, when you will never have to ever worry about pregnancy again."  Now I realize that not everyone is as excited about reproductive organ removal as I am...but I really feel that there might be an overlooked market here for an aspiring entrepreneur.  
Only downside...the laughter makes your incisions hurt.  But that is where the Vicodin comes in.  And the alcohol.  Just not together, first!

Monday, January 12, 2015


As I was driving home from work tonight, I was admiring the way that the snow was drifting and blowing ethereally across the roadways, kinda wispy and mystical.  Then I started to skid a bit and my immediate thought was "Imma find that bitch Elsa and cut her frozen ass."

The number of times that I find myself in very adult situations and come up with a reference to children's programming is truly alarming.  And get your mind out of the gutter, pervs...while I'm as nasty as the rest of y'all, I'm actually just referring to every day adult situations and not just the boudoir.  What's really sad is that I actually watch very little TV.  I am *that* parent that is always making my children do things like get off their asses and go play, preferably outside.  Or at least get Mama a refill on her wine to wash down this Xanax.

I can't tell you the number of times I have had to restrain myself from asking "Do you need to poop?"
when someone complains of stomach pain.  I distinctly remember one time in a graduate class, working on a team project with three other women (all in their early 20's, single, with no children).  Something did not go right and I let loose with a "Rut-Ro!" in my best Scooby-Doo voice.  Two of them looked at me like I grew a third nipple out of my eyeballs, but the third just laughed and said, "I can tell you have kids."

Those sneaky little bastards totally take over your life.  I don't know that I know how to have an adult conversation any more without some kind of reference to kid stuff.  I probably have bored my coworkers to death and back to life again with my stories of my children.  (Wait...does this mean I work with zombies?  Freaky, but explains A LOT...especially the irritability as I would imagine being the undead would make one pretty cranky...)  I'm willing to bet that there is probably an underground betting pool of when my kids will finally drive me to the psych ward or to get arrested.  Or maybe even to get arrested on the way to the psych ward.  Hell, go big or go home, right?  I mean, most parents are bumbling idiots according to children's shows, right?  So truly, I AM kinda expected to do both at some point in my life.  May as well kill two birds with one stone.

And let's just discuss how parents are portrayed here for a minute.  Now, I am not necessarily a goddamned ninja or anything, but I like to believe that if my beloved (new) spouse was trying to poison my ass or to drive a wedge between me and my children, I'd go all seriously pissed off Samurai on their ass and boot them to the curb.  But how many times are either the marriages seriously dysfunctional because one partner is totally unaware of the other trying to off them, or is there some other really evil adult lurking in the shadows waiting to take over the kingdom?  If that were to happen now, I'd be all like, "DUDE.  LOOK AT MY HOUSE.  YOU ARE INHERITING MY MOUNTAINS OF LAUNDRY AND THE MANY JUICE BOXES MY CHILDREN LIKE TO HIDE IN THE COUCH CUSHIONS TO FUCK WITH MY SANITY, ALONG WITH THE PILES OF DOG SHIT IN THE YARD.  IT'S ALL YOURS, MOTHAFUCKER."  Do children really view their parents as this inept?  I like to think that I recognize evil.  And that I am only inept enough to add, say, 6 months of therapy to my children's ever growing time.

Perhaps this is the way that the nebulous "they" are going to take over the world.  It starts with the insidious but seemingly innocuous Disney songs that get stuck in your head.  "Do you wanna build a snowman?"  I dare, DARE, any parent out there to read that last sentence and not sing it.  You can't fucking do it, can you?  It's THAT pervasive.  Next thing you know you will be a slave to the likes of Dora, Callilou, and Elmo, while secretly admiring the style of iCarly characters and thinking that Steve from Blue's Clues is kinda hot.

Perhaps there is more to the Doc McStuffins theme song than meets the eye..."This will only tickle a little"...perhaps they are referring to the insertion of their characters into the very fabric of our being...

Or maybe I just need to get out of the house more.