Worst Nurse

We did it. Or, I should say, Chris did it.

He had a vasectomy on Monday.

It’s true; there will be no more bulging bellies for me… no more first glances at a new baby… no more brand new fingers curling around mine… no more first smiles… no more sleep-deprived, hormonal, dazed first weeks… no more sore, cracked, bleeding nipples! No more tiny feet crammed up my ass in a bed that’s already too small! No more RESPs to open! No more baby equipment to bleed our already stretched funds into! WHOO HOO! NO MORE BIRTH CONTROL!

The procedure went well. We had every confidence in Chris’urologist, but I must admit that I got a bit of a pang as we walked into the hospital that I had given birth to Dove in for the sole purpose of ensuring that I would never be walking in there to give birth again. Of course, this whole process is full of bittersweet ironies and understandings, many of which have years left to play themselves out.

We went to register in the Urology ward, where a corkboard on the wall was plastered with dog and cat pictures. I turned to the receptionist. 'They're all neutered, right?' Waka waka. Without missing a beat she responded, 'Oh definitley, but we sure are glad to have a human to practice on.'
Oh, urology humour. Such an overlooked area of medical comedy in general.

There was little intake to go through, save for putting on the gowns, and Chris was taken in after only a short wait. I went and got a coffee and tried to flip through a magazine but I couldn’t really concentrate, and every time the automatic door slid open my head snapped up, looking for him. I didn’t realize that I was worried until he was away from me, and as the moments slipped by my adrenaline became elevated until, with a flush of relief, Chris appeared in the open doorway and waddled towards me.

He was a bit pale, and there was a stain on his gown, which, thankfully, was only iodine. Of course, my mind had already registered blood, and it was quickly trying to talk itself back to a less gory place.

I waited while Chris slowly got dressed, and then we made our way out of the ward. We literally live less than a block from the hospital, and Chris insisted that he could walk home, no need for me to get the car.

However, by time we made it to the sidewalk, there was some discomfort – mine.

I tried not to let my mind go there, but all of a sudden it was deep in medical procedure territory, and I guess knowing that Chris was ok allowed my ‘fight or flight’ instinct to switch from the the former to the latter. My heart started beating really quickly and my face flushed. Then came the black spots and before I knew it, I was down, splayed on the sidewalk trying to find centre in a world that was spinning.

‘K! Are you alright? Do you need me to go get the car?’

Awesome. My husband just voluntarily had his vas deferens severed, but I’m the one that passes out. If you want to accuse me of being a spotlight hog, now would be a good time.

Somehow we make it home, but once we got to our front porch I abandoned Chris for our couch, where I took refuge for a bit until the second bout of nausea passed. Chris managed to get himself settled, and it occurs to me that I am like the husband that passes out in the delivery room – and I would be pretty peeved at me right now.

I eventually get my shit together and spend the rest of the day doing penance for my initial faux pas (seriously, how tacky is it to pass out at your husband’s vasectomy), slathering Chris with pillows, ice, magazines and attention.

So, now I’m feeling good. Better than Chris, that’s for sure, who has cut his weenie icing recovery a little short to attend to the load of freelance work that has been finding it’s way to him. But he’s doing ok, and I have been trying my best to take care of him and keep him and his gonads comfortable. I do of course totally appreciate his willingness to go under the knife for the sake of our reproductive freedom, something I’m sure he’ll find ample opportunity to remind me of.

Everyone has been calling and wishing Chris well; my BFF wished him a mazel tov on becoming a Jew (heh heh), and many people (well, mostly guys) have had the same question: when can Chris resume his husbandly duties?

Not to worry; he’ll be able to take out the trash as early as next week.

…and to answer the first question every Jewish mother asks: yes, yes, yes, but what did you eat? You can find out here.




Yeah, yeah, a picture is worth a thousand words, blah, blah, blah, but it does not answer the million dollar question:

Was there any point to Tuesday’s election?

Was that Madonna I saw at the Chick n’Deli?

How was the drive to Florida?!

It was great. Easy, even. Ok, well, no 24-hour drive is easy per se, but it was aight. The key is to keep the kids strapped in their seats and throw scraps at them every couple of hours or so. And to turn up the volume of the music in conjunction with the volume being upped on the whining.

Honestly, the kids did great. Dove pretty much conked out as soon as the car went above 80 km (that’s kilometers, not miles, which we really had to get used to, because going 80km on a U.S. highway may anger your fellow drivers), and we didn’t even unpack the lifesaver baby crack DVD player until our 12th hour on the road. From then on, Bee was in a Dora-induced state of bliss, and on our first day alone we made it to Dalton, Georgia, 1000 km from home, just a little north of Atlanta. Pretty damn good, I’d say.

We broke up the second part of the drive into two more days, with a stop at my in-laws' trailer for the night. It stays year-round in a park on the Alabama/Georgia border near Eufala, and they spend much of the winter there. The trailer is anything but rustic, pimped out as it is with satellite, a computer, fireplace, wireless internet and a kick-ass porch that my father-in-law built for porch sittin’.

However, the surroundings and the rest of the people there? Um… rustic. The grounds are really nice, and the surrounding area is pretty country with the Chatahoochee running through it (YOU'RE a Chatahoochee!), and the people that live in the park year-round are nice racists. There’s no other way of putting it. Me and Chris talked about it at length, and agreed – they are not nice but racist; they are nice. And they are racist. The N-word comes up in casual conversation. And they welcomed me with warm handshakes and fresh-harvested oysters, but I am white. I have a very hard time divorcing someone’s personality from their hateful politics, so I’m glad we only stayed the one night. And I’m kinda glad that no one knew I was Jewish. Ask me about the Jew Gold billboard in Eufala some time.

(This should in no way reflect on the character of my in-laws. They are not there for the company; they are there for the golf and the weather and the proximity to far less racist places to take their trailer on road trips, and have the capacity to always see good in people and so can tolerate certain things that I cannot.)

So yeah, we leave buttfuck nowhere the next morning and head to Florida, which, don’t kid yourself, is the DEEP South. That means awesome food, weather and lots of Snowbirds such as ourselves, but it also means traveling through some of the tightest Bible Belt to get there. I’m just not used to it. In Canada, we don’t wear our religion and our politics on our sleeves (or our bumper stickers). I’m not used to all of the God talk; all the anti-choice propaganda; all the stupid little fish on the backs of cars. Some of it was entertaining, some of it baffling, and some of it downright offensive. Like the billboard (Billboard!) on the highway that showed a depiction of the twin towers burning, with this written beside the image:

Wake Up America! Profiling would have prevented this terrorist act from taking place!


And Covenant Trucking? Sorry, but a major WTF to that one. Especially to the slogan printed on the back of each and every truck:

It’s not a choice, It’s a child.

Actually, it’s a fucking fetus, and my fucking body, and I’ll thank you to keep your legislation off of it. Oh, and did I mention Fuck Off?

(No, I’m not pregnant; just making a point)

I did love this bumper sticker:

Criminals prefer unarmed victims.

Nice! Let’s all shoot each other.

Then there were the ones that just made me shake my head:

McCain/Palin 08


Women for Palin

But you know, I expected a few of those. And hey, we just reelected our own useless, Conservative Prime Minister and I thought we were an intelligent nation, so I have no reason to believe that the U.S. won’t enjoy another 4 years of neglect and abuse by the Republicans.

Sorry, I digress.

Anyway, I’m going on a bit, as usual, and I’ve probably managed to alienate my last 12 readers, so I better put an end to my rant. But let me end with this, my favourite U.S. bumper sticker of all time:

God, Guts and Guns Made America.

‘Nuff said.

Next up: Sun, sand and my own trail of tears.



...and a good time was had by all

this is where we stayed

this is dove moments before she shoved a handful of sand in her mouth

this is my future surf punk

this is my very cool m-i-l

this is our tornado

this is after our tornado

and this is us!