muffy bolding

Reason #727 that you can’t take boys grocery shopping together; they act like right hooligans when in the proximity of Camembert cheese:

Reason #12,461 that I madly adore my husband:

He patiently and lovingly removes slivers from the feet of cute, sniveling little dudes so I don’t have to.

Greetings from The Land of Excruciating Cooters!

Well, not cooter exactly, but certainly close enough. I just really wanted to somehow work the word “cooter” into my opening salutation. So there you have it.

First of all, many heartfelt thanks to everyone who commented, called, wrote, and texted their good wishes! I can honestly say that it has made all the difference, as even a stalwart, peasant class, keep-picking-grapes-and-forging-ahead-despite-a-spear-through-the-side sort of broad like myself can use a cheering from her friends at a terrifying and transitory time like this. I love every single one of you. Yes, even you.

So, after having spent the better part of last week in the hospital, completely whacked on demerol and other various and assorted stultifying narcotics, I am home and awaiting my day of judgment. Thursday afternoon, Gregory and I and my lavish stacks of medical records will be trundling off to one of the world’s most preeminent and highly-esteemed gynecological oncologists, who works out of what is — thanks to the misfortune of one of my greatest heroes, Ms. Gilda Radner, and her determined husband, Gene Wilder — inarguably one of the world’s most preeminent and highly-esteemed medical facilities specifically dealing with cases like mine. It seems that even in my wretchedness, I am blessed. Also, for those who are keeping track, let it not be overlooked that the main reason I married my husband is that he patently reminded me of Mr. Wilder…and who could turn down a lifelong romantic adventure with one Willy Wonka, after all? Not me.

The hospital in which I was ensconced was fine as far as hospitals go — lots of sugarless jello (hurray!) and lots of painful (boo!) yet at the same time pain-relieving (hurray!) shots in the keester. In fact, I got so many shots of demerol in the ass over the course of my stay, that even as I sit here at my very own cozy desk in my very own cozy home, I am completely unable to feel my right buttcheek. I mean, my logical mind knows it’s back there — but I just cannot feel it. It’s rather like having had a root canal on my rectatum dentata…except the dratted anesthetic just won’t wear off. Gregory informs me that it is also rather purplish and bruised in places — sort of like a lovely Sicilian plum.

Well, a Sicilian plum.

Well, a Sicilian.

At any rate, even though I was gratefully sprung from that needle-ridden house of horrors on my own recognizance and am temporarily convalescing here at Toad Hall, I must admit that I am a little fretful regarding what is yet to come — the removal and identification of the ponderous orange that is currently nestled alongside my right ovary, rendering it feckless and not very fun — and, from what I can gather, quite possibly the removal of much more. God knows I am certainly all done having babies, but there is still something mournful about the abrupt and irreversible end to what was inarguably the greatest purpose I shall ever have. I come from a long line of copious breeders who know little else except to fuck, make babies, shoot guns, and eat men like air. As the current situation probably can’t be helped, I suppose I shall simply have to find another vocation.

Regarding a possible diagnosis, there are a few theories floating around as to what it is that ails me, but I will hold off on disclosing or discussing them until after our parley with The Grand Poobah of Toomas when the sun rises upon the field three days from now. Much to my delight, it seems that this guy is pretty well considered the international rock star of such endeavors, seeing that he appears to be the go-to guy for not only celebrities, but royalty, as well. Just think, the same hands that have tickled the girly innards of various dames from the Saudi Royal Family and other members of The Royal Houses of Europe shall be frolicking amongst my very own before too long. It’s all just too exciting to think about!

So, in the end, desperate times call for desperate measures and it looks like it’s time to haul out the hand-mirror, the hedge clippers, the Coast soap, and the refreshingly chilled Jean Nate spritz…for you see, even in the matters gynecological, I aim to impress. Rest assured that when that magic moment arrives and Herr Doktor asks me to put my feet up in the oven-mitt-covered stirrups and to please scoot my butt down to the end of the table, relax, let my legs fall to the sides, and concentrate on the picture of the frolicking kitten taped thoughtfully to the ceiling above me, my cooter shall be golden.

Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

And amen.

I was dragged kicking and screaming — and in unimaginable agony — to the emergency room on Sunday evening. I was officially admitted about midnight and am still here. I am posting this from my Blackberry so please excuse the robotic-sounding nature of this post.

Since arriving, I have been subjected to a large and varied assortment of diagnostic tests…all intended to help figure out why I feel like I have a knife stuck into my right pelvic area. Having ruled out appendix, and kidney and gall stones, they looked lower — and apparently hit gold.

Two ultrasounds (two of those internal) and two CT scans later, they located a fist-sized “complex ovarian mass with solid components.” I have now been referred to a gynecological oncologist and am being transferred either tonight or tomorrow morning to one of the best hospitals in the world. I feel fortunate to have access to the best specialists and facilities available to me.

Gregory has been a rock — between taking care of me and handling all this doctor business, he has also done all that was necessary to get the babies ready for and to their first day of school…and he has done it all with ease, grace, and affection…and all with a smile on his face despite getting minimal sleep and not exactly the news he was hoping for regarding my cooter. Without him, I would be dead in the water (pun, of course, intended.)

So, if you can spare a few good thoughts for me and my little family over the next day or two, it would be most appreciated. I expect that all will be well, but at this point I’ll take all the luck and good wishes I can get.

Love to everyone.

XOXO

At the Long Beach Aquarium, 25 August, 2007

Mamaphiles #3 – “Coming Home” (deadline 1 October 2007)

Mamaphiles is seeking submissions for issue #3, with the theme of “Coming Home,” from mamas and papas who are currently producing their own zines.

Questions? Email me at tenderfootzine (at) gmail dot com and I will forward it to the appropriate person.

Women who cradle baby on their right arm ‘are more prone to depression’
By DAVID DERBYSHIRE
29th August 2007

Mothers who cradle a baby with their right arm are more likely to be suffering from stress than those who use their left say scientists.

The way a mother holds her baby holds clues to her mental health, scientists claim.

Those who cradle a baby with their right arm are more likely to be suffering from stress than those who use their left.

The British research team who performed the study say the findings could help identify women at risk of depression.

In the past, scientists have found that most parents cradle children on their left-hand side, regardless of whether they are right or lefthanded.

But so far the reason remains a mystery.

Some believe that left-sided cuddling places a child’s head next to their parent’s heart and that the sound of a heart beat can be comforting. Others argue that the preference is linked to the structure of the brain.

The left side of the body is controlled by the right half of the brain – the side that deals with emotions and intuition.

The latest study, published in the Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, looked at the behaviour of 79 new mothers in their own homes.

The mothers were asked to pick up their babies and cradle them in their arms naturally, and were also quizzed on their mental state.

Forty-four of the mothers were showing signs of baby-related stress.

Among these women, 32 per cent used their right arm to hold their child.

Of those who reported no symptoms of stress or depression, just 14 per cent cradled their babies on their right side.

Although the numbers taking part in the study were small, the scientists say the results are statistically significant.

Lead researcher Dr Nadja Reissland, a senior lecturer in psychiatry at Durham University, said the findings could help better identify mothers in a fragile mental state.

“We have all seen pictures of Princess Diana – she always cradled to the right,” she said.

“However it is a tendency – not an absolute and just because a woman cradles on the right it does not mean she is stressed.”

Dr Reissland’s findings echo a study published earlier this year by a team at the University of Basel in Switzerland.

In that experiment, female volunteers were asked to plunge their hands into a bucket of freezing water before picking up a doll to cuddle.

The cold water was used to put the women under stress without causing any long-term damage.

The Swiss researchers found that the stressed women were far more likely to hold the dolls in their right hands than the women not put through the cold water treatment.

Dr Reissland said the reasons why stressed mothers were more likely to cuddle on the right were unclear.

She is following up with an experiment looking at women taking babies for vaccination.

“Many mothers don’t realise they are suffering from stress, or don’t want to admit they are,” said Dr Reissland.

“The way they interact with their child is usually the best indicator of their inner mental state.

“These sorts of feelings can have a huge impact on the relationship between the mother and baby and on the family as a whole.

“If this stress develops into depression, then the situation can be even worse.”

“And a sword shall pierce her heart.”

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

A. Lincoln

Child with Toy Hand Grenade in Central Park, New York City (1962)
by Diane Arbus

Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame

by Charles Bukowski

some dogs who sleep at night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you’ve been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here’s a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.