Sing-A-Long Time...

(Sung to the tune of "Bingo"...derrrr)

Cory had a surgery and...

Unilateral Salpingo-Oophorectomy was its name-O...

Sal-P-I-N-G-O

Sal-P-I-N-G-O

Sal-P-I-N-G-O

Unilateral Salpingo-Oophorectomy was its NAME-O!

Tomorrow I'll have one less ovary...

Tomorrow I'll have one less ovary...

Tomorrow I'll have one less ovary, because...

Unilateral Salpingo-Oophorectomy was its NAME-O!

O-V-A-R-Y...

O-V-A-R-Y...

O-V-A-R-Y...

Unilateral Salpingo-Oophorectomy was its NAME-OHHHHH!

PSA: Pubes & Pee

You would think that this should not have to be stated, but ummmmmm, clearly it does.

OK...look...I accept the fact that there are still people walking around with pubes.

I am not sure why...and I do not ask...but I accept it.

I don't want to see that situation and I don't want to know about it, but I accept it.

That being said, if you are a person who has chosen not to pubescape, may I adamantly request the following...?

Please look at the toilet seat before you leave that area.

If you notice that one of those less-than-adorable little curly fellas has been left behind, please wipe it/them off the seat.

I know it may seem as though I am not a "team player", but I really do not feel that cleaning up someone else's pubes should ever be the responsibility of another person.

*gag*

It is a toilet seat. It is not supposed to look like a Chia pet.

Wipe that shit up.

The same goes for pee.

Seriously.

If you are a dude, shake that nonsense off like a pro, not like a tweaking 2 year old.

If you are a chick, there is really no excuse for drips on the seat.

Hover your junk over the bowl, sistas.

Then wipe...while still over the bowl.

Don't do a goddamned dance over the thing to get every last drop out. You could hurt yourself...and make a hot mess.

That should just about cover it.

I would like to personally thank that hairy assclown who inspired this blog for completely triggering my gag reflex this morning, thus ensuring that I am in no danger of adding holiday weight today.

*2 entirely snarky thumbs up*

F*cktardery

Dear Fucktard:

Yeah you. You know who you are. Guess what? The fact that someone else does not like this made up word does not take away from the fact that you are in fact a fucktard.

Here is the definition for the context in which I have always used this word (as I am not and have never claimed to be the inventor of this word):

Fucktard (noun): A person of unbelievable, inexcusable and indescribable stupidity. (Stupidity being defined as "knowing the correct way and doing it incorrectly in complete disregard".)

True Fucktards are 100% responsible for their situation and provide vast entertainment as they are usually blissfully unaware of their own Fucktardery.

Ex: One who would actually piss on a live transformer.

Someone not liking the usage of this word does not take away from the fact that no one came to your defense about your pathetic ranting over your piece of crap prickmobile and the bodily harm to someone else.

You or anyone thinking I am an asshole for what you have decided I meant by the use of the word does not make you any less of an asshole. That is something you fail to realize.

You are still an asshole and likely have heard this your entire life. You likely have a small, dysfunctional penis and a ginormous wookie bush and think you are the shit in the sack but in reality are too insecure and self absorbed to bring another person any true pleasure.

You are an affront to the cycling community and to the human population as a whole. I feel sorry for you. I am sure you have worked your ass off your entire adult life to be able to afford the material things you have, but in the end, what people really need in life cannot be purchased.

You will polish your shiny black piece of rolling identity and call yourself a man, when in actuality, you are a sad and selfish child.

You will convince yourself that you are misunderstood and that there is a clique who is simply against you, but the fact is that the St. Louis cycling community is pretty damned welcoming...unless you are a fucktard.

At some point you simply have to ask yourself what part your actions played into people being angry at you.

I think your story is crap. You made it up. Even if it were a true story, you come across as an asshole...and not just with that story.

Your shitty attitude and disregard toward the hard work of others is unacceptable. GORC works its ass off so that everyone has cool trails to ride.

FYI: GORC has been responsible for over 50 miles of new multi-use trail construction on public land in the St. Louis area; maintenance workdays have touched over 85 miles of trail in Eastern Missouri. In all cases, the trails were designed by GORC members, approved by the Park/Land Manager, and built with 100% volunteer labor. [read more here]

So, yeah...when they request simple respect for the trails which THEY maintain and design, you should give it. If you choose not to, that is your call, but you threw that disrespect in their faces when you could have been a bit less douchebag and rode them without a word. It still would have been wrong, but at least you could be a douchebag in private.

Don't get me wrong, I love that you are so fucking obtuse that you don't get it. It provides me endless entertainment. But when you come after me in a misguided attempt to deflect the fact that you are a complete fucking dicknozzle, my gloves come off.

I feel sorry for you, dipshit. I will have some "down time" when I have surgery, so I invite you to bring that shit after the 30th. I'll be cut open and off the bike. Cyclocross season is over and I will be bored.

I went really far in school too, so I have all the $10 vocabulary words you can handle, mother fucker. (OOOOPS! That last one just slipped out. That was my inner Brooklyn. My bad.)

Scared Ovaryless

I am scared.

That's it.

I am not "super" or "special" or particularly "strong".

I am deformed and bloated and sore and tired.

I have never wanted "magical fairy dust" more in my life than I do right now.

I already lost my boobs.

Now I am losing part of what's left of me as a woman.

This is psychologically fucking.

I can usually hold it together.

I can usually feel sexy...even with my scars.

There is, however, something completely un-sexy about swollen ovaries.

Ewwww.

(Yep...that is a swollen ovary being removed. saWEEEET!)

I am exhausted.

My body is shot and not yet recovered from the last surgery.

I cannot get anyone from the medical community to give me even a false sense of comfort.

With the swelling that started Sunday all they can say is that the best way to alleviate said swelling is by removing the cyst/ovary.

(Derrrrr!)

...however...

There are so many surgeries scheduled at the end of the year so that people can claim their deductibles on their taxes that I am sort of screwed by the schedule fairy.

Seriously?

Yes.

...and while they *hope* that it does not rupture, that is likely the only way that I am getting in before the 30th...but they have put me on "the list" to be moved up if someone cancels.

(Lucky me!)

This list must be the medical community's equivalent to the "Naughty List" and my name is written in thick black Sharpie.

I am to be a "good girl" and to take my pain meds (sweet baby Jesus!)...

...and try to use a heating pad (is baked ovary like baked brie? Will it be complimented if served with grapes and red wine?)...

....and limit my activities.

Hmmmm.....

Define "limit" please...I am unfamiliar with this adorable term and it does not quite dance off my tongue.

She couldn't really clarify this for me and maybe I should not have asked, but I asked if I should continue racing my bike and her immediate response was, "Good heavens, NO!"

Soooo...

Is that a "No" then...?

Ughhhh.

Why did I bother to ask?

I was additionally told to take it easy, no strenuous activities (Sorry Jay. This means we are over yet again), no trauma to the body (there goes running...at least the way that I do it), and rest.

Rest?

Help run a company, raise a teenager and a horse-loving-super-girly 1st grader, raise a puppy, decorate for the upcoming holidays, keep body from atrophy and keep my ass the size that it is (yes, that actually matters), nurture a relationship (while sharing a residence), and keep a healthy attitude about things...

Where in that scenario is there time for this alleged rest that I hear people speak of?

Rest is like the excitement/hype surrounding Duran Duran and NKOTB in the 80s...

It somehow eludes me and I just don't get it...

I don't think it's my thing.

I want to have fun.

I want to sing Christmas songs and believe in Santa.

I don't want to take it easy because some fucktard with a medical degree neglected to make a big deal out of a big deal in September simply because he discovered the issue a week after I had had surgery.

Sure, had they ripped me open then I would have missed almost the entire 'cross season...but I would not be in the position I am in right now.

Pussyfooting around trying not to rupture body parts because the surgical schedule for tax write-offs has been filled is not really all that groovy.

My bad.

I feel that you should just get a medical procedure done when you need it. Not when you can best fiscally benefit from it.

I am terrified and stressed and terrified (did I already cover this?).

I am wigging and approaching a funk and trying to find the funny...

But I feel that I have made all the ovary tossing jokes I can humanly make, so unless someone can somehow tie my ovary to a Tiger Woods joke, I am out of funny at the moment.

I am on the verge of tears and yet happy that I can still cry and contemplative about whether I will lose that ability after the 30th.

Should I cry more just for good measure?

Should I attempt to embrace kittens and Lilly Pulitzer so that I feel like a girl?

Should I buy sparkly nail polish?

InStyle magazine...?

I don't know.

I know that I am suddenly feeling very young to be losing my junk and my bottom lip has made more guest appearances in the past week than it has all year.

I'm scared.

It is what it is.

...but I *might* feel better if the doctor tells me I can take my ovary and cyst home in a jar of Formaldehyde.

Then at least I have the comfort of knowing that I could (hypothetically of course) throw it at a skanky ambulance-chasing attorney or a boss...

I will wrap myself in the comfort of these warm and amusing thoughts and tuck myself tonight as I watch/listen to the people whom I love sleep...

*sigh*

Festivus: Part One

I intend to "celebrate" Festivus today instead of tainting (yeah, I said "taint") next week's holiday activities.

(Hey, even though I had my mom, I actually love my kids enough to NOT ruin their holiday.)

Additionally, I only intend to partake in the Airing of Grievances (and not the Festivus Pole or the Feats of Strength).

The celebration of Festivus begins with the "Airing of Grievances". It consists of lashing out at others and the world about how one has been disappointed in the past year.

DH is supposed to do this too, but he has thrown it on my shoulders to play bad cop.

Ready?

Here we go...

Grievance 1: DH - I have a real problem with you, Mister. You allegedly celebrate Festivus but have left it up to ME to write the damn Festivus blog. (Weenie!) For this, you will be punished by unexpectedly pedaling through horse poop on your next mtb ride.

Grievance 2a: Multiple Parties...mostly female (alleged or perceived romantic relationships) - Grow the fuck up and deal with your shit without creating so much effing drama. Guess what? If you feel that you should ask someone else's opinion about whether you are being irrational, immature, or unhealthy, you probably are.

If you have to convince yourself or seek other people to convince you that the person you have feelings for has feelings for you in return, they probably do not and you have created it all in your head. Regardless, if the person that you have feelings for has not returned those feelings, then you should move on. Period. (This is totally where the whole "Shit or get off the pot" expression can be used. Try it. It works.) That being said, you are not allowed to throw a blue streaked fit if they choose to get off the pot and this is where the "growing up" begins again...

Grievance 2b: Multiple Parties...mostly (but not only) female (everyday stuff) - Grow the fuck up and deal with your shit without creating so much effing drama. (hmmmm...that sounds vaguely familiar, yes?) It's not that tough. Really. Life just is not that fucking difficult. There are people who have it worse and there are people who have it better. Deal. With. It. Before you open your mouth to bitch about something/someone, ask yourself how you would feel being at the receiving end of the bitching. Ask yourself how you would feel to hear it. What if it was about you? Would you rather the person come directly to you? Take a deep breath and proceed in the appropriate manner.

Personally? I do not give a rat's ass. I do not give a shit who you like or dislike. However, if you attempt to drag me in the middle of your shit, I assure you that you will regret it and you will likely end up with a stutter and a twitch and will most certainly cry.

Believe me, I do not wish to make you cry and frankly no one can make another person cry, but generally you needy, spineless, whiny people are the ones prone to dropping tears at a fart's notice.

This does not please or entertain me and does nothing to gain my respect. If it happens to be between the 21st and 28th day of your cycle, I *may* be more forgiving, but it really depends on where I am in my own cycle.

Good luck to you if you continue this behavior after Festivus and after I have had my ovary removed. I will have less Estrogen and will be less prone to hand you a Kleenex. God speed.

Grievance 3: Sandbaggers - You do not get to claim to be "ultra competitive" if you choose to remain at the entry level your entire racing career.

I am an entry-level racer. I am acquiring my skill and hope one day that the race fairy drops off some power and strength. I do not claim to be ultra competitive and we all know that I am not. Racing is mostly social to me.

That being said, and maybe I am more competitive than I think, if I find myself improving and continually beating (*snicker*) the women whom I race against, I will race against faster people. It does nothing for me to beat people whom I know I will beat otherwise I would simply go out and race my daughter or my mom every damn day...

When I was in high school I tried out for the cheerleading squad. I had never cheered before. I was not a particularly cheerful person. I was however a good dancer and had a cheesy assed smile and a loud mouth.

I made sure that my tryout immediately followed the most uncoordinated girl out there. She was a bit unfortunate looking and ridiculously shy. She made me "look" good. However, the next day when it was announced that I had not only made the squad but had made varsity, I felt pretty shitty.

After that, I never wanted to beat someone simply because I could. I wanted to beat the people I thought I couldn't. It meant more. But that's me. And I will feel sorry for you every time you sandbag. And because I'm a dick, it will feel really good to beat you...but I will not bullshit you about it and you should take it as a compliment.

Grievance 4: Pseudo-victims - OK, let me clear this up for you...

If something happens to someone else, it did not happen to you. You do not get to discuss it as if it did. You do not get to seek attention for knowing the actual victim. You do not get to use the event as conversation filler so that you can appear more interesting to people in your life who likely do not matter or probably shouldn't. People who matter will like/love you even without the associated drama (unless they themselves are co-dependent, at which point you should either run or get married to each other, or seek group therapy).

Put it into perspective. Are you really helping the actual person who is experiencing the situation?

Ask yourself the purpose of your sharing of someone else's details.

Will it somehow help the person? Will it somehow help the person you are about to tell? Will it help anyone? Does it make you feel important to have possession of such details and the only way to crest that importance is to make someone else aware of how important you are?

For example, I do not want to hear if someone is being verbally/emotionally/physically abused or if someone you know is having an affair.

If you tell me the first thing I am going to ask is what you are doing about it. If your response is, "Nothing" or "There's nothing I can do", I will think you an idiot and tell you that I don't want to hear about it. I will then be angry that I know about it and there is likely nothing that I can do about it. Now you have betrayed the person who likely wanted it kept a secret and is too psychologically fucked to do anything about it and you have burdened someone else with the knowledge.

It is NOT happening to you. It is not a topic for conversation.

Advice: Tell a member of your clergy or a therapist. Telling your friends is simply gossip and makes you an asshole. (People will think you are too fragile to tell you this, but that does not make it any less true.)

Everyone (yes everyone) has the power to change the crap in their lives. The reality is that most people don't actually want change. For some people, their issues are the only identity that they have. Resolving their issues would leave a gaping whole in which they might have to do something interesting to fill that void. That is scary.

Remove other people's issues and gossip from your mind for a moment and ask yourself what you have left. If the answer is a remote control, the internet, and a fat ass, your life has gone tragically wrong...

...or right.

If all I had to worry about was a fat ass, I'd be pretty stoked.

Happy Festivus, everyone!

Training for Fear

I was cut open from one side of my body to the other on August 28th, 2009.

2 surgeries.

Only a few thousand stitches.

I was in the saddle the next day...on the trainer.

There were complications getting the bleeding to stop.

A CAT scan accidentally found a cyst in one of my ovaries and pointed out that one of my kidneys was smaller than the other.

My surgeon advised me to ignore the cyst until it proved to be physically uncomfortable or until I started to exhibit other symptoms of an issue.

I raced my first cx race of the season 2 weeks after my surgery.

I then raced a full cx season in which I could measure my improvement and strength-gain each week.

Initially I had no core, but that started to change.

2 weeks ago I got hurt.

I had started to feel pain.

I had started to exhibit symptoms that maybe all was not OK in the ol' ovary area.

I scheduled an appointment with my OB/gyn and had the records from the CAT scan sent to him.

Generally he makes me feel good and optimistic about things.

Today he was more fatherly and concerned as he felt around and was able to feel the cyst.

He immediately sent me to a specialist.

We talked briefly about the fact that due to my recent surgery, laparoscopic surgery was not likely an option "if" there was something there.

I reassured him that I was "OK" with the reality that they may have to cut me open again.

(I wasn't, but he seemed to need that.)

In the hour and a half between his office and the ultrasound with the specialist, I did what I could to hold it together.

As I situated myself on the ultrasound table, the tech and I discussed what we saw on the screens.

The black monster measured 9 cm. My ovary is about 1.1 cm.

(Ummmm, you do not have to be all that handy with the Math to realize that a 9cm cyst on a 1.1 cm ovary is not a good thing.)

I spoke with the specialist and since she has never met me, she attempted to ease me into the idea that they were going to cut into me again.

I told her that I was aware and prepared.

(I'm not, but she seemed to need that.)

They are going to cut into me again.

They are going to cut into me and I am going to relive what I went through in September.

They are going to "move" my muscles out of the way and cut through me.

They will decide Friday whether they are simply taking the cyst or if they are taking the ovary with it.

I am so fucking angry and terrified and 20 different emotions not able to be translated in a fucking blog that I cannot see straight.

I am so fucking tired of making everyone else comfortable with what the fuck is going on with me that I want to scream.

I have no cyclocross season to look forward to this time when I go under.

I have the cold, race-less winter.

Jay reminded me that Froze Toes is right around the corner.

I want to smack him...but know that he is trying to help.

I want to shake the Universe and ask it, "WHY?!?!?"

I want to sleep.

I want to cry.

I want to be 26 again and cancer-free.

I want my youth back.

I want a fucking do-over.

I want to see my body one last time without the scars covering it and aging it well past its physical age.

I want to ride my bike for one fucking day without chronic pain and 10 years of physical beating.

I want to be 10 years old in Brooklyn, riding my bike across the bridge toward the beach when I wasn't supposed to.