I've been on the commode all day with the lady bits problem. Soooo sick of my period. I've covered it in ghastly detail in the past so I won't shock you more.
Let's just leave it that my periods are out of control since passing three children, one of which was a 10 lb. 1 ounce baby, and growing fibroids.
It makes me beyond bitchy. It makes me want to pull my hair out. Pluck my feathers. Insane. Yet I sit.
In all seriousness, I wailed from the bathroom this morning to my husband doing laundry that I knew what I wanted next year for Christmas.
"I want an hysterectomy."
He yelled back for clarification from the laundry room.
I added an lipo, a boob job, and a tummy lift in my wish list.
He rolled with it.
I don't phase him much anymore. I've been coveting uterine ablation for years aloud.
He is a kick ass husband, compassionate and rarely squeamish to the less refined condition of the female body. We are a bathroom door open type of marriage. Nothing phases him and I have no filter when it comes to the mysteries of the female persuasion's body.
So caring he had an epiphany a few minutes ago as I was yet again stuck in the bathroom, barely missing an accident, with blood clots the size of lemons.
He suggested a curling iron.
I looked at him for a hint of asshat? A drop of humor? A twisted grin?
He worried about my hair at this moment?
He presented a genuine, sincere, just trying to be helpful persona.
I continued to stare.
CG is getting frisky....and a bit demented today me thinks.
He helpfully explained the shape and heat would be ideal for cauterization. (edited)
"So do it yerself runs in the family."
He said this quite innocently with only a hint of Marquis de Sade.
My, my, my. It's looking like my snark is rubbing off on the dear boy.
I definitely would be blogging this. He knew this instantly as did I. This would be blogged.
Such helpfulness could not be left unrecognized, now could it?
He asked me to portray him in this post as a loving, caring husband who suggests home remedies for my benefit.
"I mean, don't portray me as the Marquis de Sade or anything, okay?"
He asked hopefully and with only with a slight hint of nervousness.
The idea of something so innocuous turned creepy seared into my brain. Heh!
I didn't have to portray anything.
Any husband who suggested taking a hot, "ideally shaped" curling iron to "cauterize" the canal that birthed his three children and for where he hopes to visit often and soon, needs me not to say a word.
Not a word. Shrug.
He made his own bed.
Before you crucify him--he was joking.
Twisted man that I love.
The man I tease about not having a sense of humor made a funny. It's definitely a pin-up moment: