It seems like now that the new year is here, everyone is declaring their two-thousand-and-hate for 2009. For some reason, I was really surprised at all the “OMG, 2009 sucked my cornhole! Happy NYE!” updates on Facebook last week. Maybe it’s just me (and I’m sure that there is some likelihood that it is just me), but I didn’t think 2009 was all that bad.

But hear me out, people, because gawd knows I didn’t have a smooth ride of it.

First let’s remember that I spent roughly 8 months of 2009 shitting myself. On my awesome scale, that ranks right around getting my vag sewn up for 45 minutes after getting Bee ripped from my vag.

Side note: it occurred to me the other day that I haven’t written, in detail of course because duh, about my Bee birth story. It’s more of a Bee-forcefully-ripped-from-my-baby-hole story, but I’ll get to that later.

Next, to deal with my ass-exploding problems, I started pooping, I mean popping pills (legal and prescribed, just to be clear) and saw a therapist for the first time in my life.

I made new friends and lost some friends.

I/we struggled to get pregnant for 12 months. That’s a lot of sex, people. 2009 was exhausting, yo.

Mr. Bee lost so much blood that he got a free trip to the ER with a complimentary blood transfusion. Oh wait, that shit wasn’t free? Damn!

But even with all that (literal) shit to deal with, I still can’t say that 2009 was total suckage. Mr. Bee is now back to 90, okay, 80, okay 75 percent, but with all those issues I think we’ve gotten a better hold on some of his symptoms.

Through my poo issues and therapy, not only did I recognize behavior and symptoms I’ve been having all my life in response to anxiety and agoraphobia, but I also got amazing feedback on difficult personal relationships that I was dealing with.

Mama Bee’s Advice to Live By: Don’t make someone a priority in your life when you are only an option in theirs.

And even better, I came away in 2009 with a reconnection with a old friend that, sweet Flying Spaghetti Monster, I really needed! The timing really couldn’t have been better.

Probably most frustrating was spending all year “trying” for a baby. As every month drifted by, I couldn’t help but think of how much bigger the age gap between kids was getting. But struggling for Cletus reminded us to be thankful for what we have and to not take anything for granted (especially how easy you think it will be to get knocked up).

So even though 2009 was filled with our fair share of bodily fluids, and I can’t believe I’m actually going to post these words, everything we went through had a purpose.

If the only lesson I took away from last year is that needles in your vagina can impregnate you, then I consider 2009 a success.

Song title: The Spirit of 2009 by Dada

After last week’s disappointment, I was thrilled yesterday to go to my very first acupuncture treatment for fertility (and a little bit for anxiety).

Appropriately, I began the appointment by being retardedly nervous. See, since information is my one true love (you know, besides Mr. Bee of course) I had tried my best to research the crap out of acupuncture prior to the appointment. But you’d actually be surprised with what little information is out there about where in your vagina they stick the needles.

KIDDING!!

Overall, the appointment was pretty non-eventful. The pretty little office was located (and still is *rim shot*) between Patty Murray and Maria Cantwell’s offices in Tacoma which, being the nerd I am, was pretty cool. I asked if Maria would be joining us but the receptionist just looked at me like it was a totally ridiculous question. Rude much?

After explaining why shoving needles in to me would totally be a good use of a senator’s time, my super sweet acupuncturist brought me back to The Room…

The Room was a dark and cold dungeon-like space lit only by candles…

Oh wait, no, no it wasn’t.

Sorry, since my appointment was so not story-worthy, I’m feeling the need to embellish a little. The Room was actually a warm and lovely little room with a massage table.

See? Not very story-worthy.

After an hour of discussing the consistency of my bowel movements and size of my menstrual clots (okay, maybe it is story-worthy), I was told to take off my shoes, socks and tee shirt and lay down on the comfy massage table.

I don’t know why the acupuncturist got nervous when I asked where the stirrups were and when I’d have to take off my pants.

Laying on my tummy, I got one needle in the top of my head (to release all the hot air, I presume), one in my right wrist, one in my left foot and about a dozen or so in parallel lines on either side of my spine. I was told to expect some cool Qi sensations but I guess my Qi took the day off because all I felt was my anxiety picking up. I mean, what if I got a stomach ache during the treatment?!

I think we can all appreciate the horror of having explosive poo while you have a needle in your foot and needles all the way down your back.

Needless to say, the relaxation breathing technique went from recommended to goddamn necessary real quick.

Overall, the experience was pretty cool and I’m looking forward to next week’s appointment. Now that I kind of know what to expect, I’m hoping to enjoy the experience instead of having to concentrate on not pooping all over the massage table.

In the meantime, I’m trying to transition from being a 30 year old to being approximately 75.

What do I mean, you ask?

Well, besides the crazy nutritional requirements (you mean, I’m supposed to eat vegetables???) and weird ass bone marrow soup I’m supposed to make myself (yeah, I might wait a while to dive in to that one), I also was given approximately 1800 new supplements to add to my daily regimen.

And by “given” I mean they cost like $90. OUCH!

So yes, I’ve had to start using one of these:

I shit you not, people. Look how many pills I have to take every day:

This definitely goes on the list of Shit I Will Make Cletus the Fetus Feel Guilty About When He/She is Finally Conceived.

And yes, I’ll start the guilt trips as early as conception.

Song title: The Next Step by Island Rhythms

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from confronting my newly discovered “issues” it’s that I’m going to be learning a lot.

Being a Psychology Major, I already am captivated by analyzing my physiological responses to outside stimuli and when and where it happens.

But a difficult life lesson that I’m struggling with is adjusting to my new life of psychological issues and conveying the seriousness (to me) of my problems to other people in my life. While I have found a few fantastic people in my life that I can talk to about my issues, I still fear that people don’t fully understand what is going on in my head and/or body. I’m not even used to labeling myself as an agoraphobe and panic attacky, so how can I expect others to?

I even had to have a sit down conversation with Mr. Bee about how, despite my tough exterior, I am really sensitive right now and need to be treated with kid gloves. That’s when he responded with a compliment and a problem all wrapped up in to one, “I just have a really hard time seeing you as fragile!”

And even recently, while dining with friends, we got in to a conversation about being emotional and I talked freely about the fact that I could easily cry at a moments notice. This is not a recent development. I’ve always been quite the cry-baby (ask Sissy). Of course in the normal course of any social activity with my friends, I don’t usually burst out in to tears, so when they all responded in shock that I am “that girl” it really made me realize that who I am and who people perceive me to be could be drastically different.

What people see: A funny, confident and outgoing woman.

What’s going on inside: An insecure girl who never quite feels like she is fitting in.

What people see: A social butterfly.

What’s going on inside: Someone who constantly suffers from what I’ve deemed “friend paranoia”, which is when you become convinced that your friends are really annoyed by you and don’t like you anymore.

The problem is: I am fragile right now. For the first time in my life, I actually have to convince myself to attend some social situations when the panic and anxiety get overwhelming. And even though my new medication has taken away my painful (and horribly inconvenient) stomach cramps and Exploding Butt Syndrome (trademark!), it seems that those stomach aches were distracting me from the real underlying panic symptoms, such as freaking the fuck out right before a big event.

While I was initially irritated when people didn’t respond right away (or at all) to my new-found crazy, I soon began to realize that my crazies are totally internal and it’s not like I really explain my insecurities to everyone I meet. I mean, I’m usually too busy describing my most recent bout of explosive diarrhea (because, let’s be honest, that seems to be what fascinates most of my readers and friends. Weirdos.) to fit in to how insecure I am when it comes to my interpersonal relationships and social situations.

I suppose we all see what people want us to see when it comes to friends and acquaintances. But how do you know that what you are seeing isn’t just a facade to distract you from what’s going on inside?

Song title: Who I Am by Jessica Andrews

Funny story.

Remember that one time, long long ago, when I said I was totally getting better.

Yeah. Um, not so much.

Apparently the shits were just scared off momentarily by the menstrual cramps.

And Keegan and Greg, you wonder why you are like the only two boys who comment/read the blog? (Please reference previous sentence.)

As a dear friend suggested, it is highly likely that my ass and my vagina have decided to gang up against me. The latest theory is that they are angry about their personal bizzle being published on the internet for everyone to read and so they are rebelling against me until I cease and desist.

But the joke’s on them, because it simply gives me more to blog about, which is more than a little disturbing for me to admit to myself.

Besides the constant use of the toilet, I don’t feel half bad. I am getting a bit dehydrated and am totally dependent on my eye drops because my contacts are getting really dried out. Yum.

The silver lining to the shits and the blindness is that I’ve officially lost about four pounds this week!

I know, I know, you aren’t really supposed to depend on bulimia a stomach bug as a reliable dieting plan, but I’m only about one and a half more viruses away from my goal weight!

I should get on the Wii Fit today just to weigh myself and tell that chubby little Mii character to fuck off.

Song title: Sick to My Stomach by Siegel-Schwall Band

Remember how yesterday I said that I’d give anything to not be explosively pooping out my butt (or any other orifice thankyouverymuch) anymore?

Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly say it on the blog (or out loud) but I was thinking it. Loudly. In my head. Maybe.

Well, apparently my totally made up wish has been granted.

The poo flood of ‘09 has receded only to be replaced with ridiculous hunger from two days of my body forcefully expelling anything I did dare eat.

Oh, and did I mention the stupid menstrual cramps?

Right-o. 48 straight hours of grossness just to be topped off with sure-I-knew-I-would-be-pregnant-because-I’m-doomed-to-be-barren-and/or-Bee-will-be-retiring-before-I-get-knocked-up-again-so-of-course-I-would-get-my-period-but-why-do-I-suddenly-have-cramps-too?!

Holy shit, that was a lot of hyphens.

HyPHens, you sickos. With a PH.

Anyway, the moral of the story is that this week sucks some pretty sweaty monkey balls.

I’m going to go enjoy these menstrual cramps now while, hopefully, squeezing in a nap before Bee wakes up.

And maybe eat some chocolate. That’s the cure-all for cramps right?

Song title: Bloody Bitch by Insane Clown Posse

This morning marks Day #2 of my food poisoning fun (otherwise known as Mama Bee’s Record Breaking Pooping – if you call shooting water out of your ass “pooping” – Day).

It’s almost as if the universe knows that I need blogging material and sent a nice batch of colon evacuating bacteria my way.

You’re welcome.

Today is also my Mommy’s Morning Out Tuesday (otherwise known as I Have The Awesomest MIL In The Universe And You Are Totally Jealous Day).

Luckily for me, that means I can spend the morning in my pajamas tucked away in the bedroom bathroom while Bee spends the morning watching westerns with Grandma.

Unluckily for me, that means I get to spend the morning that would have originally been spent shopping and having a follow-up appointment with my crazytown nurse on the toilet instead.

So I’ve traded one form of explosive shits for another.

Oooh, the irony.

Song title: Hose Me Down by Save the Wawona

I am falling apart.

Almost kind of literally.

See, last night I had a delicious dinner at a local Pacific NW-known establishment (it rhymes with SchmIvar’s), and I’m pretty sure that they served me death (or) aids (or, maybe more realistically) some bad seafood.

All I know is that ever since I woke up this morning, I’ve had poo shooting energetically out my ass.

Yes, I said it. Energetically.

No pain, no cramping, but basically a firehose of poo water reminiscent of you-know-what.

On top of that, I haven’t eaten anything today in fear that any food may somehow remain intact and I have to endure an entire whole bagel being forced out my butthole at roughly the speed of light.

Not fun, my friends. Not fun.

Oh and did I also mention that I totally sprained (Google MD diagnosis) a ligament in my food (or my FOOT, if you want to be all spell-checky and whatnot, geesh!) by sitting on it wrong.

Yep.

I’m so fat that I broke (okay fine, it didn’t break) my own foot.

Laugh it up, Chuckles. Laugh. It. Up.

And the pièce de résistance is that I was (okay, and still am a little even though my basal temp says differently) completely convinced that I am knocked up.

This last week or so I’ve been nauseous, light-headed, and totally exhausted. In fact, my really horrible blogging the last few days is a direct result of my napping during Bee’s nap times instead of blogging.

But just for shits and giggles, I thought I would look up the side effects of the new medication that I’ve been taking for the last two weeks (see a correlation yet, people?).

So…yeah.

The medication’s side effects are pretty much EVERY. SINGLE. pregnancy symptoms minus having a goddamn fetus in my uterus.

Super.

To end on a high note, I got to see the musical Wicked last week and it was, for a lack of a better term, wicked. But for serious, it was truly amazing and I recommend it to anyone who loves, well, anything. It’s that good.

Also, a quick shout out to the Mom to Bee reader in the cream colored cable knit sweater who was sitting a few rows over from Sissy and I. My dear old Dad pointed you out to me and I was going to go introduce myself, but then I chickened out.

You’re welcome.

Song title: Weakness of the Body by Judy Torres

Don’t forget to enter my NEW GIVEAWAY!!

The winner will receive a Trio of Philosophy’s Award Winning ultra-rich 3-in-1 shampoo, shower gel and bubble baths!!

Contest ends TOMORROW!! Tuesday, August 25th at 9 p.m. I’ll announce the winner Wednesday, August 26th.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the newest update of Mama’s Butt and Anxiety Saga, I’ve now spent two weeks taking Xanax when needed for my explosive butt disorder anxiety issues.

It’s worked fairly well but the number of days that I need to take medicine (in a non-addictive, stomach-wrenching because of nervousness and stress kind of way) have definitely out numbered the days that I can not take it.

Basically, the only days that I don’t have symptoms are the ones that I stay at home.

So my conclusion thus far is that I have three options:

(1) Stop taking Xanax and all other medications to be as healthy a vessel for a possible future baby as possible.

This option also requires me to wear adult diapers and be bald, as I would have literally pulled all my hair out due to stress. Oh, and I’d probably turn in to an agoraphobic hermit, too.

(2) Keep taking Xanax, become addicted, quickly become a crack whore and die in a dirty alley somewhere giving a homeless dude a hand job for a swig of Pepto.

Not horrible, but not ideal.

(3) Switch medications to something daily to manage my anxiety and pair with therapy to gain coping and management techniques.

From what I’ve read online (because if it’s on Wikipedia, it must be true) is that this option means that most likely my future children will resemble a potato in form and have the intelligence of a moldy piece of cheese. If I’m lucky, I will be able to teach my misshapen potato babies to grunt the ABCs and how to do some menial yard work (because why else do people have children? I have weeds to be pulled, people.)

Man, doesn’t a baked potato with the works sound so good right now?

But I digress.

Actually, the anecdotal evidence online suggests that a medicine, like Zoloft, probably won’t horribly deform my future Cletus the Fetus any more than my natural genetics will so I’ve decided to make the switch from Addictive Pill Poppin’ Mama to Official Crazy Pill Popping Mama.

And, of course, I call them “crazy pills” with all due respect. “Happy pills” make them sounds like their made out of unicorn droppings by leprechauns and “brain pills” sound like some sort of futuristic robot experiment (Soilent Green is People!!)

The next step of the Saga is to get an appointment with a therapist to discuss coping mechanisms so (hopefully) I won’t have to take the crazy pills forever. While I’m totally surprised by how nonchalant I am with pill-popping, (because, well, who isn’t popping pills?), I’m hesitating on contacting a real honest-to-god psychologist. Because, therapy? Isn’t that for broken people?

This coming from someone with a B.A. in Psychology.

Yeah, I’m kind of an asshole. (surprise!)

But I swear I’m going to make an appointment to chat with someone in the next few weeks. Somehow I just envision laying on some sweaty dark leather coach while some creepy old dude asks questions about sexual repression (uh, none of your business creepy dude. I prefer to discuss private matters like that on my blog.) and my fear of clown dolls (because, well, duh. Poltergeist, anyone?)

Song title: Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morissette

Last week, right before the Auburn Road Rally of 2009, I finally had an appointment with a doctor to discuss my craziness anxiety issues.

After having the ass camera procedure and analyzing (and over-analyzing) my symptoms, I became 99% certain that I have some sort of general anxiety disorder that has been YEARS in the making.

The first time I remember having stomach issues was (surprise!) my first semester of law school. Things gradually got worse and worse until this summer when my stress and anxiety peaked and the stomach issues got so bad that I turned in to a hermit.

When I found out that I’d have to wait two weeks between my colonoscopy and my doctor’s appointment, my anxiety got so bad that I thought I’d have to stay in the confines of my house until the appointment. When the appointment finally arrived, I was convinced of my ailment and what I needed for it: pills.

Going in to the appointment, I was certain that I was going to come off as some addict that was begging for drugs. How do I tell him what’s wrong without it sounding like, “Give me Valium! Nom nom nom!!”?

When I sat down with the doctor, he quickly put me at ease. I mean, he wasn’t hard to look at either…

Sorry, Mr. Bee. You know that smart, nerdy white dudes do it for me.

I was even offered an “annual exam” since I am behind in my womanly maintenance (otherwise known as “Yippee! I get to have my cervix scraped off today!”), but I quickly made a new rule that men, especially cute nice men, who aren’t my husband are not allowed in my vaginal region.

Okay, so that’s not exactly a NEW rule, but I have never really thought to apply it to doctors until recently. Is it weird that if the doctor had been some mean troll of a guy, I probably wouldn’t have had a problem with it?

Anywho, so Dr. McDreamy progressed to a dialog about my symptoms, every couple of minutes suggesting another physical ailment that could be the cause. Every time, I countered with, “yeah, but it really seems to happen when I’m stressed and/or anxious about something…”

He thinks I’m a druggie. He TOTALLY thinks I’m a druggie.

Off he would go with another medical rationale to explain my symptoms. “But it’s way more sporadic that that…I really think it might be anxiety related…”

Fuck, why did I have to dress up today. He totally thinks I’m some Housewives of South King County needing her fix…

Eventually, he came up with three options, the first of which was “You know that you don’t have something like cancer that is going to kill you so you could just learn to deal with it and not take anything for it.”

Uh, yeah. SO not an option.

Oh my god. He totally thinks I’m a druggie now. Am I acting like I’m begging for drugs? I feel like I’m begging for drugs. Shit. He’s probably going to call security now…

The next option is taking something on a need-to-take basis for anxiety.

Hmmm…well, yeah, I guess that could work…

Haha. Sucker. I totally don’t sound like a druggie now.

Shit, unless I’m a totally bad actress and that’s what druggie’s would say when they are trying to get their next fix.

Well, you get the idea. Basically I felt like some weirdo pleading for drugs, but hell, in the end I got some Xanax, so I guess I actually legitimately need it. Who knew?

So I am officially lumping myself in to that category of people. You know, the Pill Poppers. But you know what is really interesting?

During this whole process, I was really fighting against having to take medication for a problem that seems to be mentally associated. I didn’t want to be one of those people that have to take medication because that would mean that something was WRONG with me.

And you know what I discovered? When I started talking openly to people about my issues, practically everyone I know has taken some sort of anxiety medication or anti-depressant in their lives (and/or still does). This complex we give ourselves about how taking an anti-depressant must mean we’re broken or all alone with our problems is totally false!

Not only am I happier and less stressed now that I have something I can take when I need to, I realized that women I have known for years have needed to do to the same thing!

Not only am I helping myself, but I hope I’m helping those women, too, by being open about what I’m going through and saying, you know what? It’s okay that we need a little help.

And it’s REALLY okay to ask for help when you need it.

Song title: Mommy’s Little Helper by The Rolling Stones

Due to popular demand from my stalkers fans (you know, the fans that wanted me to Skype the whole process), here is the continuing saga of, well, my ass (or more accurately, my colonoscopy).

When we left our ass-tastic story, your truly was settled up on the toilet with her laptop sitting on a chair in front of her, simultaneously being entertained by Dexter, Season Three, and water shooting out of her butt.

Okay, so the explosive diarrhea wasn’t so entertaining.

By about 11 in the evening, my “explosions” had calm down enough for me to get a little bit of shut eye. Lord knows I needed my sleep for Round Two.

Oh yes, my friends. There is a SECOND DOSE.

Not only did I have to attempt to stomach more of the lemon semen juice, but I got to wake up at 5 in the morning in order to have time to drink and poo for hours before we left for the doctor’s office.

And shut up, five o’clock in the morning is early! I know some of you (I won’t name names *cough*Jamie*cough* have inhuman little beasts that wake up regularly at 5 a.m., but my devil’s spawn little angel sleeps at least until 7. She’s been known to be hog-tied in her bed sleep until 9 or 10 some mornings.

Those mornings don’t come often enough.

But I digress.

So I woke up, cheerful and ready to tackle the day…oh wait, no. That wasn’t me. I was pissed, hungry and not ready to poo for another four hours.

Somehow chugging the Devil’s Semen (trademark!) was way easier the second time around, even though I will admit that I only drank 75% of it. Even so, I got this comment on my discharge paperwork:

So suck it, MoviPrep! I figured that if some 300-pound cheeseburger pounding linebacker would get prescribed the same amount of Shit Juice (trademark again!), then I shouldn’t have to drink the entire thing to clean out the pipes.

Butt (I know it’s getting old, I just can’t help it), in the “end” (seriously, I fucking crack {haha, I did it AGAIN!} myself up) that was the worst part.

Once we reached the doctor’s office, I was nervous, but mostly about my super hero ability to thwart the power of anesthesia. The nurse called me back and was quite possibly the nicest nurse I have ever encountered at a doctor’s office. I suppose that when your job is dealing with people who have just been through hell and are now going to have a camera shoved up their ass, it might help a bit to be friendly. And it worked!

She got me set up in a tiny curtained off area where I stripped from the waist down (bow chica wow wow) and I was pleasantly surprised when I was able to keep my tank top on (note to future patients: wear a shirt without sleeves and you’ll probably get to keep it on!). She even offered to let me keep my flip flops on, but somehow having flip flops on didn’t really scream of comfort (mentally or physically)! I’d just be that weird chick being pushed down the hallway with her flip flops on.

After the nurse got the IV going, she gave me some medicine to combat any nausea (due to my waking up and puking in the middle of IV sedation habit) and I think that helped calm me down a bit too. Well, that and the fact that I couldn’t get nervous diarrhea since I had no poo in my system.

Side note: Seriously, I can’t believe you people actually want to hear about this stuff. I really recommend a psychiatric evaluation…

Anywho (sorry, Kelcey), after a whooping five minute wait, I was wheeled back through the hallway to the procedure room. My nervous humor must have kicked in because, for some reason, I found it necessary to wave to the nurses getting out of the way of my bed like I was in a parade.

What can I say? It seemed funny at the time. Too bad I didn’t have the excuse of IV sedation yet to blame on my craziness…

Once I was in the procedure room, which was smaller than I imagined (Sissy suggested that due to my ass size, they had to reserve the extra large room for me), I was welcomed by the doctor and his assistant. By the time the doctor asked me what plans I had for the summer, I could already feel the anesthesia working it’s magic.

And let’s be honest, I’m fairly certain that I said some inappropriate things while sedated. I mean, let’s face facts: if the “average” person says embarrassing things, can you imagine what some unfiltered wacknut like me would say under the drugs? It probably went something like this:

Doctor: Okay, Mama Bee, we’re going to insert the camera now.

Mama Bee: Alright, Doc! Let’s make sure that thing goes in the right hole, okay? Heh heh.

Doctor: What we’re seeing now is…

Mama Bee: Have you ever shoved this thing up your own ass? I bet it would fucking hurt! Can I get a what what?

Doctor: Okay, maam. Let’s focus on the procedure now.

Mama Bee: Did you just call me “maam”?! If I didn’t have a camera shoved up my ass right now, I would punch you in the throat, mother fucker!

And so on and so forth.

Come on, you know I’m right.

Before I knew it, I was awake in the recovery area. No grogginess really. Just like I took a pleasant little nap. They fed me some apple juice, which I downed like a tequila shot, I was so fucking starving, and Mr. Bee took me on home to gorge on McDonalds and mini powdered donuts. I am the anti-health nut.

The rest of the day, my body took it’s time getting “back on track”. That’s a nice way of saying that I kind of had the shits until I got enough food back in my body to be on schedule.

While the results of the biopsies (taken just to check for cellular abnormalities) aren’t in yet, the overall outcome was that my ass, okay fine, my COLON, is it great shape and my unbelievable pooping issues are most likely not due to a physical ailment.

Next Chapter in Mama Bee (colon) It’s Complicated: A doctor appointment two weeks out to address my blossoming (wow, that makes it sounds lovely and not at all debilitating) anxiety disorder issues.

Waiting for two weeks with an ever-growing anxiety problem is going to be FANTASTIC. Really, I can’t wait. /end sarcasm.

Song title: Face Down Ass Up by 2 Live Crew