Mostly time passed super slowly. (Shoulda been called a SLOW! amirite) Fasting was boring and interminable. Eventually, though, it was Wednesday and I found myself getting hooked up to the IV drip and getting wheeled into surgery.
I was very sore the next day, at the liposuction sites. "We'll take the fat out of your flanks," Dr. C said, to describe the location. "First we remove the fat. Then we spin it and separate it out. While it's spinning, we do the scar revision. Then at the end, we inject the fat into the dents and bony areas."
I asked if it would take the full 3.5 hours.
"It depends on how fibrous your fat is," said Dr. C. "If you've got very fibrous fat, we have to remove more, and it takes longer to separate." I went online and looked up fibrous fat, but there is no known predictors for whose got what fat.
It turns out I do have very fibrous fat. So now I know. I doubt anyone else can see the difference, but my pants fit a touch more comfortably, so that's nice.
I don't have any bruising whatsoever, though. Or: faint little purplish outlines, of the boundary of the suction, but basically nothing. Must be because of the fasting. Who cares, Heebie, shut up about your willpower.
They glued two foam bricks to my chest:
I was appalled. First because it looked like two foam bricks, under my clothes. E. Messily helped me hack them into some semblance of brick-shaped sports-bra-constrained breasts.
But then each day they grew increasingly itchy until I was scratching my eyeballs out. "Two weeks," they said. "The foam is glued on with magic glue, and if you try to remove them, you'll tear the skin. We'll remove it with special solvent at your two week appointment."
I did not want to tear my skin, I did not want to wait two weeks, I did not know what to do. I took a shower and worked on the edges, and gradually pealed the damn things off and threw them away.
Now I look like this:
ie, I put on a binder thing in case the foam was actually providing some pressure or something.
I wanted to intersperse photos of the California house - Susie's, not Sharon's - from the 1961 parent trap.
but all the photos I found were from a few, very thorough, blog posts on the house, which made my impulse feel derivative.
I'm still going to do it, but with a more downcast acknowledgment of debt and solemn gratitude than I expected. I mean, I'm just repurposing their photos.
Post-surgery, Hawaii was also home with me, due to a fever. We made a special lunch together. She had a very specific recipe for fruit salad in mind, requiring a dedicated trip to HEB. Unsurprisingly, Hawaii is a methodical and fastidious chef.
She was very concerned about proportions of fruit, and showed great restraint with the blueberries and strawberries.
Lunch of champions.
Here is Hawaii's current favorite joke:
Once there was a lady who named her dog 'Latest Fashion'. One day, the dog ran away. The woman was in the shower. She was so upset when she realized he was gone that she ran outside that very moment, completely naked, and yelled, "Latest Fashion! Latest Fashion!" Everyone looked outside and saw her, completely naked, and they were like, "Oh! Being naked is the latest fashion!!" So they all took off all their clothes, too! Then everyone was naked and everyone thought it was the latest fashion.
At the Railyard on Friday night, Ace ran up to our picnic table, sobbing. I opened my arms and swept her into my foamy, matronly embrace. She couldn't speak, she was sobbing so hard.
Finally she gasped and said, "They wouldn't let me be the BOSS of them!!" We adults were all delighted, of course, with such a relatable source of frustration. We tried to get more details - "Did they want to be the boss?" - but she was sobbing too hard to answer.
Finally Ace said, "They don't even HAVE a boss!" Complete anarchy. She added, "I wanted to be the only boss, and have them come to my office."
Just behold that open courtyard.
When we got home, Ace said, "When it was Christmas, we had rainbow lights on the porch. But now we have yellow lights." She is correct, and I'm impressed that she remembers that.
Jammies posted to Facebook:
I'm going to start grooming Hawaii and Pokey to start a Piano/Drums duo. Yesterday I got after both of them after soccer practice for fucking around too much and basically ruining the entire practice for constantly requiring either of the coaches (one of them being me) to calm them down and try and focus them. A couple minutes later Hawaii started asking me if there were any rooms in our house that she could lock herself into without any mirrors. When asked why, she was mumbling about not wanting to look at her self in mirrors any more. She was very pouty and self-pitty-ish about the whole thing. It was quite a site. This morning, while listing to Google Music's "Pop-Punk Anthems" radio station (cause that's how I do) I contemplated that maybe it was time to feed these angsty teenage feeling of my SEVEN year old. Then I thought how much fun it would be to start a band with her as the lead singer and play drums. But that sounded ridiculous. So like any good parent I said to myself I'll teach Pokey to play drums so I can push them to live out my dreams. Fuck their dreams the little ungrateful shits. It will be great. Their music will be moderately commercially successful but panned by critics everywhere for being crap. But what they'll really be known for: the fights. The epic fights. They will put the fucking Oasis brothers to shame. To shame. I can just see it now. In the middle of a concert Hawaii will look back at Pokey with that look she gives him when he's misses a beat or is off tempo, cause Hawaii was born with a metronome for a fucking heart and can always tell. Pokey will see that look, become enraged with anger, and spout some nonsensical swear words at her with his squeal before throwing his sticks at her. She'll duck and yell back at him and pretty soon he will be attempting to decapitate her with a cymbal. I, their dad-manager, will be sitting off stage finishing my 13th Coors Light of the day yelling at them to stop ruining my life!
That'll teach 'em not to fuck off at soccer practice.
Oh, and if you have any good ideas for band names let me know. The winner will get a 1/2 point on their first CD sales whenever it comes out.
He did not really call them Hawaii and Pokey, of course.
I read Jammies' rant like four different times on Tuesday, it made me laugh so hard. A metronome for a fucking heart, that's right. It's true.