Email Orgasm

I nearly orgasmed reading my email.

Williams-Sonoma is having a cup cake pan, decorating kits, essential decorating items (for me, that would be ALL) sale this weekend, at Wrentham outlets.

That's right; good ol' J doesn't have to do much in the way of foreplay when there's a Dyson sale on somewhere, a floor cleaning model show, or, the Mother Lode, cake stuff on sale. To look at. And touch. And decide if I've already bought it, truly need it (that would be, ahem, yes) as well as if the sale is large enough to captivate my interest.

Naturally, while down there, I most assuredly should check out the place settings, serving pieces, Easter items.......really, kind of like porn, for girls.

I had a girlfriend tell me we were going to a Pampered Chef party, to look at bakeware - was I in? Well, DUH! Of course!

It wasn't that kind of party.

It was a sex toy party.

I didn't really enjoy it all that much. I learned some new things I didn't know (like the fact that clitorises come in all shapes and sizes - the book they had? some woman had one that looked like a daffodil in full bloom - her hubby ought to be able to find that I would imagine) as well as all sorts of creams that taste like stuff, and accessories to purchase for your shower, that look innocuous, but allow your partner to stand at the right height. I wisely kept my mouth shut through the majority of this raw experience; reaching orgasm isn't something I think should be done alone. Why do something myself, when someone else could do it for me, eh?

But I digress.

What annoyed me the most, was that I really was all primed to see bakeware. The host thoroughly enjoyed the look on my face when the Athena, Goddess of all that is sensual (oh boy) brought out her first lubricant, and it wasn't the new Crisco with Flour already in it that I was looking forward to.

That spray for baking? A Godsend. Seriously. Now? I cannot find it on the shelves anywhere. Amazon didn't even carry it...not, mind you, that I would be so ridiculous as to order bakeware coating spray including shipping charges, simply because I couldn't find it elsewhere.

Oh, all right.

I would.

I'd even pay shipping.

I cannot wait for Saturday. I don't really care what J and the kids do; I could spend hours in that store, cheeks pink, fingering all the wares, wondering if I would indeed use the cake mold that looks like a train. (I so totally NEED that).

Honestly.

If I'm going to be all hot and bothered over cookware?

The least I can do is order the appropriate lubricant to go with it.

Life isn't fair.

Having spent four days in the care of a local hospital, I had loads of time on my hands to consider that. Having a kidney diagnosed as 5 times it's normal size, and being unable to surgically repair something for which they've yet to figure out what the issue is, my Doc went the obvious course:

Use a mallet to drive a giant spike in my back, shove in catheter, and retreat. Fast. Especially since they couldn't give me all the good meds, only the local ones. Finding my "happy place" turned out to be a hell of a lot harder than I anticipated - though I will admit, the shock of looking over on the sterile tray of instruments to watch Mr. Surgeon lay down a mallet proudly bearing True Value on the side left me shocked enough I nearly missed the 30 foot needles they stuck in my back too.

Notice, I said nearly. .

Personally, I prefer to aim for as close to unconscious as possible when undergoing a procedure not only ensuring you a several night stay in what is not a spa, but is jamming something deep enough in to penetrate vital organs. My eyelids fluttered when I listened (sort of, since I was still swimming in agony) to the possible list of issues....mostly the leaking of ickiness into the abdominal cavity causing death. Maybe, one might have mentioned that prior to whacking away, hmmm?

It was about this time I contemplated becoming a drug addict. I don't really care much which drug, but one centered on reaching oblivion would be a great place to start. Morophine leaves me itchy. Percoset isn't all it's cracked up to be. I've heard cocaine is lovely? But a, where do I get it, it's not as though I've those kinds of contacts, a b, yeah..........I don't snort stuff up my nose. Clearly, I've an issue with needles, so heroin is out. As is anything else you inject. Have you seen what meth does to your teeth? Fine. Hospital grade narcotics it is. Instead, surfing through all three channels on the tv, in silence, since I dropped the nurse calling thingie where the volume came out, I contemplated instead, just upon whom I might wish this particular, un-medicated, totally awake, not sedated procedure.

The list? Very short. Kind of fat, but short, really. The offense to deserve such torture, unintended by physicians or not, should honestly be for a particularly nasty offense. Like, maybe, hurting my child. Or fucking my ex. More than once. And lying about it. Which basically, in a nutshell, breaks the All Time Girlfriend Code: do not ever get naked with someone who belonged to a friend, acquaintance, or the gal pal who you already royally screwed over. Especially if you met him at HER house. It's unkind. Unfair. But mostly? Rude.......although I prefer downright despicable - especially since the I have the kid thing to throw in there too.

The beds? Not spa-ish at all. The food? J will eat anything, and when came to visit, every night, bless his heart for dinner, but wouldn't eat what was on a tray? That's some seriously bad food. I was pretty careful not to share too many of my hospital provided, perfectly proscribed narcotic mental meanderings with J; though I must admit, when Mag's dropped by? We had a really good laugh about them - terribly uncomfortable with something hanging out of your kidney - but worth it, nonetheless. My personal favorite? Hmmm. Nevermind. It's quite hysterical, but requires some action on my part, so best saved for another time. Let's just say, to the victor, go the spoils.

I'm home now, surrounded by my friends (who are really my family), with J, totally adhering to the list of items I'm Not Allowed To Do (read: everything). He walks the dog, in the rain, totally exhausted from making sure I don't fall out of bed, or that I find the pain meds in the middle of the night, so perhaps, I can go from a 10, down to a kind of bearable 8.4 on the pain scale. He's cleaned house, done laundry, washed my hair, let in the visiting nurses, that come at this point, on a daily basis, learned how to clean stuff, bandage stuff, while not ripping skin off with surgical tape removal.

In the long run, (in four short days), I found out what many of us take years to learn: my soon to be spouse isn't nearly as squeamish as I am (thank goodness), will take me as I am, one good kidney, one on the DL, keep my dog from sleeping atop me, when I finally nod off, and insist that I let him do things. He's amazing to me - still a tad tough to get used to - however, nodding off the last night in the hospital, mostly dazed out of my skull, it occurred to me: I won't be an over forty, pushing 200 pound man-stealing pathetic loser. Single, loser, ps.

I got the spoils.....and spoiled rotten. I've gotten everything I've wanted. A great guy, who is currently encouraging pedicures, since he doesn't "do" toes, while manning (pardon the pun) every appliance in the house.

My drug induced revenge fantasies receded along with the dosages; I suppose, I don't really care what happens to her. Taking what I had won't get her what I have.

Gosh, I guess life really isn't fair.