It seems I forgot to update on my Medical Situation of Doom. Well, it turns out that not all healthcare practitioners keep virgins locked in their basement and howl at the moon. The doctor I saw was pleasantly tartany and consoling, hunted out a speculum a quarter of the size of the previous one, scoffed at the idea my cervix was hard to find and indicated by slight though not disloyal hints that she, too, thought the Nurse From Hades could use a stint in the Iron Maiden. It turns out my cervix is peachy awesome, and in her doctorly opinion the only reason it had looked inflamed the last time is that the nurse had bungled and assaulted it. Words cannot describe, etc.
Anyway, this is in the past and we shall move on to happier and less cervical topics.
I made a cake (for instance). Tomorrow is the twenty-first birthday of practically my only sister, who is autistic and therefore should not, according to the textbooks, be inviting upwards of a hundred people to the accompanying bash. (How many people came to my twenty-first? Like, ten. Including me and a foetus. All blood relations, again, including the foetus.) My mother cunningly inveigled me into making and icing the cake, back when I thought this was a modest twenty-person shindig; and now - a hundred icing flowers, nine cups of sugar, 1.5 kilos of butter and two significant mishaps later - the thing is done. It is large. And purple. Not my fault, in both cases. I tried to take a photo so I could be like those bloggers that make things, but it came out blue (which was depressing, because it actually looked a lot better than the current colour scheme) and I couldn’t find the camera cable, and then the pig wanted the milks and I got distracted looking up Hypnobabies, which I’m totally going to do next time I have a pig, but I will still call them “contractions” and not “power surges” because good heavens, who do you think I am.
Also I made butterscotch straciatella ice cream, tomato oregano bread and marbled chocolate-orange cheesecake. ‘Cause after Becky’s party we are coming straight home to have another one, this one for me. I turn twenty-four on Thursday. A near-as-dammit quarter-century, and I’m still not clear on the role Japan played in World War Two or what happened in the movie Primer.
I leave you instead with a thought that gives me daily succour: “It’s pow’ful hard ter po’ outer a bung hole inter a go’de”.
Mother Says: