Okay, so, I like to play brave. I like to joke. I'm such a fool for cheap humour that I sometimes say Yust yolking! when I crack eggs open. But, today? Not so much.
I am having my cervix shaved down tomorrow morning with an electrified metal loop that will be grounded on my thigh, because cooking a woman alive through her cervix is no one's idea of good time. Or at least it is not most people's idea of a good time. I do hope that my gynecologist is in good, completely sane spirits at 8:30 a.m.
In an effort to take my mind off the impending emsmallening of my cervix in T minus thirteen hours, I have been doing all manner of things I hate, which as you know, likely involves some form of cleaning, which it does. In less than two hours I have nearly completed two loads of laundry, cleaned out the refrigerator, written this entry, folded and put away clothes, made a trip to the store to pick up a schwack of Amy's frozen food, and have popped two of those frozen blocks into the oven. What's a schwack, you say? Why, it is two boxes of mattar paneer meals, one box of a palak paneer meal, one teriyaki bowl, one rice and vegetables bowl, and two boxes of black bean enchalada meals. My squirreliness over this surgery has me nesting with clean towels and non-perishable food stuffs.
In way of excusing my boring list of food I bought, I find making lists helps to calm me down. It makes me feel like everything is in order, even if I keep having flashes of my cervix looking like the slimy exterior of a rotten mango. (Also, Amy's is not paying me a cent to pimp out their food. I am just so freaking happy to have pre-prepared food that isn't going to be implicated in my morbid obesity ten years from now.)
You are probably thinking Quit it with the cervix talk already! You've been forcing me to envision your diseased innards since September! Yeah, well screw you. Just be thankful that I didn't take pictures of the closed circuit television on which I watched my earlier colposcopy. I am all too familiar with that spongiform little devil.
In a swift about face, I am dropping the previous themes involving housework, groceries, and my interior anatomy. I have a little contest going which involves a photograph of my cat, Oskar. It begs for lolcatting, but my brain just won't put out on demand today, so I want you to go take a gander at the picture and submit your lolcat caption. If you don't know what lolcats are, check out "Lolcat" on Wikipedia or the weblog I Can Has Cheezburger? or Anil Dash's "Cats Can Has Grammar".
To enter the contest, go check out Oskar's lovely mug on this post, and submit your entry in the comments. I will use your entries to while away my loop electrosurgical excision procedure imagining your lolcat captions emblazoned across Oskar's chest.
What's the prize for adopting bizarre internet-borne cat grammar, you are wondering? It is so deep a secret that the prize's form has not yet been revealed even to me, but believe me, it will suck less than that time you got lemon juice in your hangnail, and you might even like it.