On Monday morning Dexter will go in for surgery to remove that "thing" on his thumb. In our parental panic last month we had him referred to a plastic surgeon (the same one who made me more beautiful) for consultation. Her conclusion: hari-horrible-itis, associated with a significant chance of developing cancer (and sprouting hair-ick) later in life. Come off it must!! And because he's so little and it's rather large, she decided that putting him under (general anesthetic) is the easiest, least scary for him, way to go.
This is the first time one of my offspring has needed surgery. It is minor. However, no matter how minor, being generally anesthetized is not something to be taken lightly. The Plan: He'll be first in the OR Monday morning, so we (Dex and I) have to be on the first boat. I wish Duncan could be there but we are shit out of luck when it comes to finding childcare that early. If ever there was a good time to have an extended family member near by, now would be it. But alas, we do not. So, he'll stay with the other babes while I brave the OR with Dex. Times have changed since I had surgery as a kid and I will get to be in there with him while he's put under. Essentially, they will breath him down with gas, keep him sedated for about three minutes (or as long as it takes to remove and stitch up the thing), and then bring him out.
It will be an adventure! I'm really not that nervous and am presenting it as an "experience" to Dex. And best of all: that hari-horrible-itis will be gone.
The marginally funny part: Saturday night Duncan and I are going out with The Plastic Surgeon and her husband to watch the Ultimate Fighting Championship at a bar. I can't wait for the bloody fight fest.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Birthday Botox
All of a sudden I've turned into a shitty (read: lazy) blogger. I'm sorry. I promise I will make it up to you.
Updates:
So I turned 31 this week. This completely blows my mind. I never imagined myself in my 30s, only as an adult: age undefined. But alas, I am growing old, which I guess is better than the alternative (death). My 31st b-day was remarkably unremarkable. I ran experiments, hung out with my rats, experienced a small depression because I was spending the day alone with my rats (who by the way, did not wish me happy birthday), but then rallied with a lovely sushi dinner and divine chocolate cake. I don't expect people to do anything for my birthday: after all, I'm a grown up, such expectations are childish. I counteract this expectation by trying to plan things for myself to do and doing things for others (e.g., buying rounds of drinks). Last year I did 30 things I've never done (in one day). It was too much fun. This year, frankly, I was uninspired: thirty-one is such a dull number, almost not worthy of celebration.
But just then there was some excitement: on one of my boat rides home I was having a talk with my plastic surgeon friend who will be opening her practice in a few months. For advertising, she's offering discounted procedures in hopes that people will be so happy, they'll brag her up to all the rich, saggy people. For the third time, she mentioned that she had some "unclaimed" botox in her fridge. I've been thinking about getting some botox for a long time: I've got "thinking" lines between my eyes that make people say, "Are you tired? Angry? Stressed?" even when I'm not. Her offer, one day before my unplanned birthday, was what I needed. On Friday morning, I got the botox. And I love it. And I think this is the beginning of a trend: my lovely surgeon friend showed me all the cool equipment she's buying and will be anxious to try out. On me. I'll look like Cher in no time! Oh, and have more friends, make more money and be famous.
I'll post a photo of me trying my best to look thoughtful soon.
Updates:
So I turned 31 this week. This completely blows my mind. I never imagined myself in my 30s, only as an adult: age undefined. But alas, I am growing old, which I guess is better than the alternative (death). My 31st b-day was remarkably unremarkable. I ran experiments, hung out with my rats, experienced a small depression because I was spending the day alone with my rats (who by the way, did not wish me happy birthday), but then rallied with a lovely sushi dinner and divine chocolate cake. I don't expect people to do anything for my birthday: after all, I'm a grown up, such expectations are childish. I counteract this expectation by trying to plan things for myself to do and doing things for others (e.g., buying rounds of drinks). Last year I did 30 things I've never done (in one day). It was too much fun. This year, frankly, I was uninspired: thirty-one is such a dull number, almost not worthy of celebration.
But just then there was some excitement: on one of my boat rides home I was having a talk with my plastic surgeon friend who will be opening her practice in a few months. For advertising, she's offering discounted procedures in hopes that people will be so happy, they'll brag her up to all the rich, saggy people. For the third time, she mentioned that she had some "unclaimed" botox in her fridge. I've been thinking about getting some botox for a long time: I've got "thinking" lines between my eyes that make people say, "Are you tired? Angry? Stressed?" even when I'm not. Her offer, one day before my unplanned birthday, was what I needed. On Friday morning, I got the botox. And I love it. And I think this is the beginning of a trend: my lovely surgeon friend showed me all the cool equipment she's buying and will be anxious to try out. On me. I'll look like Cher in no time! Oh, and have more friends, make more money and be famous.
I'll post a photo of me trying my best to look thoughtful soon.
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