Please don’t misunderstand. I love kids – the smaller the better. I love my nieces and my nephew. I’m looking forward to the day when my younger sister & her husband decide to start trying to create their own little mini-mes, mostly because I can snuggle them and smooch them and spoil them without ACTUALLY taking any long-term responsibility for them.

First and foremost, LABOR. I think we all know where this one is heading.

Most women endure the pain of labor under the pretense that they’ll be taking home a soft, pink bundle of sweetness they can cuddle and love and brag about to their friends because OH ISN’T HE/SHE ADORABLE? And for about five minutes, he/she is.

I seem to be lacking whatever biological element makes women overlook the fact that for AT LEAST six years FOLLOWING nine months of bloat and back pain and cravings that would normally make them wrinkle their nose they won’t have a life of their own (you know, until baby X goes to Kindergarten for a few hours a day).

I can’t imagine having a baby of my own. For starters, after watching Izzy for a mere eight hours or so (beginning at the watery light of dawn) I thought of how little sleep parents get to have. I love to sleep. Except for naps. Naps bug me. Naps make me feel like I’m starting my day all over again and needing another shower to rinse off the lingering grogginess. But solid, middle of the night sleep? I can doze with the best of them. Lazy Sundays are my favorite. If I had a baby, my Sundays would be spent entertaining the baby or feeding the baby or washing the multiple outfits the baby puked on. Not so fun.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I feel like parents SHOULD devote all their time and energy to raising their kids. (I blame a lot of the problems with today’s youth on absent parents). When you have a baby, they SHOULD become your life. Your whole life.

Meanwhile, I like my life. I like sleeping in and taking spur of the moment trips (not that I do that very often – I should really take more trips) and having drinks with my friends and spending my money on lipstick and jeans instead of diapers and formula.

Maybe someday my priorities will change, but currently I can’t see myself becoming a mother. I have way too much respect for exhausted, selfless, actual mothers to count myself as a potential candidate.

It’s been nearly a month since my surgery, and I finally feel well enough to stop lazing around on the couch eating potato chips and concocting elaborate fantasies about David Boreanaz watching the third season of Bones.

Yesterday I went to the gym. I did my regular workout, which includes 25 minutes on the elliptical, and I didn’t start having pain in my side until about the last ten minutes. (Do not bother to ask if I stopped, the answer will only make my loved ones roll their eyes and lecture). I lifted weights and was annoyed when it proved harder than it was a month ago. I stopped short of jumping rope, because sometimes I do have a smidge of common sense.

Every Wednesday night they have volleyball at the high school gym; usually there’s a decent crowd and it’s a lot of fun. I started going a few weeks before my gall bladder attack, and went back tonight filled with anticipation. (I seriously considered going last week but was warned that if I attempted such nonsense I would be forcibly tied and gagged – or at the very least turned away by the other players. Having a low tolerance for humiliation – weird, considering all the practice I’ve had – I opted to stay home). I thought I did pretty well, excepting the last half an hour or so, when my side started to hurt and my serves started hitting the net. Everyone played really well. We had two full teams and we were evenly matched. I had more fun tonight than I ever have before, nevermind the ache in my side.

It’s such an incredible relief to be physical again. I didn’t realize how much I was enjoying my workouts until I was ordered to sit on my backside for a whole month. Thank god that’s over.

I’m off to bed, as I agreed to wake up far too early to take care of my best friend’s infant daughter. They just found out the severe allergies she’s been suffering from are caused by dogs and cats, and her regular babysitter has a dog that sheds everywhere. I love Izzy to bits, and have zero problems taking care of her for a day. I think my weakness for the kid is completely evident considering that I’ll be rousing myself from the comfort of my bed at dawn to change diapers and chase her away from the various sharp objects littered throughout my house.

Sleep tight, everyone.

For a little while, I believed him.

I believed we belonged together, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The tightness in my chest eased whenever I saw him. I smiled easier, and laughed harder. I felt like a better version of myself. Being with him made me want to accomplish more, experience more, live more.

He said he loved me, but I didn’t believe him. I never believe those words when someone else is speaking them about me. I thought it was enough that I loved him. Love is a gift, I told myself. And gifts are given without expectations. Or at least they should be.

My defenses got a little bit weaker every time I saw him. He brought me a flower. He didn’t just say I was beautiful, he looked at me like he really believed it. He promised me someday.

Someday is never coming. I know that now. Someday was the bait, and I was just hungry enough to swallow it.

Heidi and her husband went to Billings last week, for the state wrestling tournament. (I was planning to go – my brother was there to compete – but alas, having an organ removed isn’t a great prelude to visiting a crowded, sweaty gym).

Since I was stuck at home, anyway, they asked me to babysit their miniature dachshund, Rowdy. I agreed, and Heidi agreed to buy me a t-shirt. Everyone was satisfied.

Except for Luna, that is. Luna is very territorial. I figured it wouldn’t matter because Rowdy is a dog, and the last time there was a dog in the house (Molly) Luna sat on the top shelf in the pantry for a month and refused to come down. She’s afraid of dogs, or MOST dogs. She wasn’t afraid of Rowdy at all, possibly because he looks more like a giant rat with floppy ears. She took one look at him and I could see the thought bubble over her head. It said: “LUNCH.”

I spent most of the week chasing Luna away from Rowdy, or scooping Rowdy up to protect him from any wayward claws. I think he genuinely wanted to play; he’s used to having other animals around, and he kept approaching Luna, barking and rolling around like he would pounce if he didn’t think it would get him killed. Luna regarded him with open disdain, and kept shooting me dirty looks that seemed to say, “Really? ANOTHER DOG? Or wait, is that a rat? Haven’t I suffered enough?”

She did spend some time on her shelf in the pantry, glaring down at Rowdy when he happened to waggle by. Fortunately, I’m a good referee, and neither pet seems irreversibly traumatized by the experience.

I admit I spoiled Rowdy a little. I gave him a blanket I didn’t like and bought him a ball to chew on, as well as some rawhides. He’s damned lovable (despite having sewer rat lurking somewhere in his ancestry).

I also learned to appreciate Luna. Luna doesn’t drag me out of bed at just shy of 7AM because she has to pee and expects me to watch. Luna doesn’t whine or bark in the middle of the might – the worst she can be accused of is trying to sit on my head and smother me because I forgot to fill her food bowl.

I learned something about myself, too. As much as I enjoy other people’s dogs, I probably won’t have one of my own. I’ll just borrow Rowdy once in a while.

There is a man in my life who likes me. He’s single and considerate and persistent, all of which are good qualities (especially the persistence, especially in my case). One night while I was working he popped in unannounced with a couple of tabloids for my entertainment. He grabbed two or three, because while he noticed my weakness for them, he didn’t know which ones I liked. He calls sometimes – not often enough to be labeled a stalker, but often enough to let me know he’s still interested.

A week after my surgery, he had flowers delivered to my house. I’m helpless against flowers, and normally a gesture such as that one would have caused me to swoon and immediately kiss the person responsible senseless. The card said that he was thinking of me, and hoping for a speedy recovery.

He’s a genuine, sweet man with the best of intentions. He’s the type to marry and raise a family and never take his wife for granted (or at least not usually). He works hard at the BioDiesel plant here in town, and he doesn’t smoke. He comes from a large, close-knit family of his own.

He stopped by the office last night to ask me to go to dinner on Valentine’s Day. I have to work, thank god, so I gave him that excuse instead of just telling him he doesn’t have the slightest chance with me. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings. I wish I could fall in love with him, or at the very least be madly turned on by him. The problem is, he excites me about as much as watching paint dry.

My sister says this is because I won’t give him a chance. She says I took note of the way he dresses and his balding head and dismissed him. I admit she’s right about the head thing; I like a man with hair, end of story. I’ve never been attracted to hairless types. It’s just who I am. As for the clothes, she’s wrong – I could care less that the guy wears Wranglers and Carhartts. She claims I want someone more stylish, like her husband. (Truthfully, I went shopping with him once, and it scared me how GOOD he was. He was quick, he knew just where to find the sale rack, and exactly what looked good on his tall, lean frame. I was amused & a little intimidated. I have never been that good at shopping). I’ve never cared what clothes someone wears. As long as he’s not filthy or patched together with duct tape, I say live and let live.

The Marine has a style similar to mine, but like Heidi’s husband, he’s also a better dresser than I am. Now that I’m thinking about it, most people are better dressers than me. I consider jeans and a sweatshirt acceptable for almost every occasion, I wear socks with my Keen sandals (PISS OFF, naysayers), and I consider throwing on my American Eagle khaki pants being “very dressed up”. But I’m getting way off track here.

The point I’m trying to make is, The Marine makes me laugh. He keeps me interested. I find him (and his dark hair) very sexy. I worry about what to say and what to wear when faced with seeing him. When faced with the sweet, genuine man who actually likes me and DOESN’T blow me off, I feel nothing. Except for a hopefulness that he’ll take a hint and give up on me and date a woman who wants nothing more than to settle down and be his wife.

I’m not wifely material. Heidi? Heidi is wifely material. She’s considerate and thoughtful and attacks dust and grime like they’re the enemy. She has GADS of love to pass around, absolute gads. Her dogs are a little spoiled and very happy, and I suspect her children (when she has them) will be the same.

I wish I could spend Valentine’s Day with the man I love, laughing and eating chocolate (or possibly whipped cream) and just BEING. I wish the Nice Guy could spend it with the woman he loves. I wish we could all, just for one day, eat conversation hearts until we’re sick and smile until our faces ache.

Welcome back to the fourth grade. You can sit next to me if you want to.

And hey, while we’re being all chummy, let’s GOSSIP.

Boys suck. All of them. All of them with their cute floppy hair and their sudden charm which they seem to be able to turn on and off like a light switch. I’m finished trying to understand or decipher or have ANY IDEA what the hell is going on with them. Except, of course, the obvious – they SUCK (or drool, as the case may be).

I ran into the Marine again, purely by chance. It was nice. We stood and talked for about a half an hour, in the way that people do when neither is anxious to part ways. We lingered and caught up on each other’s lives. I inquired as to whether he planned to stick around a little while, or head straight out of town. He said he wasn’t in a rush, and that he would call me. “I’ll call you,” he said. We talked about maybe meeting up for dinner.

Having been stuck at home for days on end after surgery I was eager for some social interaction, you know? Good, clean fun? Dinner, conversation, possibly a lusty kiss goodnight after reminding myself that he couldn’t see the gross & disfiguring scars marring my belly flesh?

BUT NO.

He didn’t call. He didn’t even call to say, “Sorry, gotta run.” He didn’t call to say, “I’m a total jackass and haven’t the slightest clue what I want from you or in general.” Do you know what happened? Because I do. He’s clearly not interested, nevermind his very confusing flirtations, and just too cowardly to say, “No, I’m not interested in dinner OR you, thanks anyway.” Which would be a lot less insulting than continually agreeing to meet and then blowing me off.

So. Now that we’ve gossiped and bonded over boys, would you like to be my Valentine? We could exchange those candy hearts and cartoon cards. I’ve got dibs on Hello Kitty. What are your V-Day plans?

Last Sunday, after more searing pain in my chest and abdomen, I was taken to the hospital in Great Falls and given an emergency ultra-sound. Not-so-shockingly, I had gall stones. They arranged for surgery immediately.

I was scared witless. I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a LITTLE ashamed) to admit that the very idea of being unconscious while someone hacked away at my insides made me want to live with the pain forever and ever, except that forever would have been drastically shortened to forafewmonths.

They admitted me and I signed a variety of paperwork, most of which was a blur due to the amazing drugs they were feeding me – I felt like I was floating, everything was disjointed and surreal. They decided to starve me (not that appetite was an issue at that point, or at least not until my older brother ate a slab of CHEESECAKE in front of me) and put me in one of those papery cotton gowns with the buttons no one can seem to figure out.

Surgery sucked. The surgeon assured us it would take a half an hour to forty-five minutes. It took an hour and a half (at which point my friends were gnawing on their cuticles, wondering about death and dismemberment), apparently because my gall bladder was very badly infected, not to mention loaded down with “a bunch of stones” – the doctor’s exact words. Ah, bliss.

They outfitted me with a draining tube (capital Y.U.C.K.) and wheeled me upstairs, where the nurse actually asked me to STAND UP to walk to the bed, despite the massive amount of morphine in my blood stream, which was doing surprisingly little for the pain. My friend Kate claims that I looked at the nurse, sporting a disturbing pallor and sunken black eyes hazed with drugs and confusion and said, in utter disbelief, “Are you kidding?”

They were not. I hate to sound like a big crybaby, but people, THE PAIN. It was not like anything I’ve ever felt. I’ve been forced to re-evaluate my tolerance for pain in general! I’m not a wimp, and I wanted to curl up and DIE when I stood up. Kate claims I went, if possible, EVEN WHITER, before my knees buckled and the nurse had to catch me.

Just to keep things in perspective, evidently surgery and intense pain don’t hinder my vanity one little bit. I have very fuzzy memories of this, but I went to pee and while washing my hands I’m told there was a sharp intake of breath; everyone rushed to the doorway to see what was the matter. I was gaping at my reflection, and a second later declared: “Well, fuck, I’m not winning any beauty contests today.”

Yes. I’m really a lovely person once you get to know me.

I was in the hospital until late Tuesday afternoon, still being starved and drugged regularly. They removed the draining tube despite the nurse’s concern that she wanted it to be considerably less full before removal, and YEOWCH. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable the damn thing was until they yanked it from my side, very quickly. And how LONG. There was at least eight extra inches crammed into my abdomen, I swear.

ANYWAY.

Guess what? I was happy to be home. Home in my own bed, doped up on Percocet and snuggling with my cat. She nearly died when hopping directly onto my freshly stitched gut, but was too fast in moving her ass out of the way when I screamed for me to succeed in killing her.

Wednesday I started feeling worse. I was dizzy and sweating. I could still hardly eat. I kept thinking about what the nurse said, about feeling a little better every day. I ate about three bites of the porkchop my grandma made me and shuffled off to bed.

I ended up passing out in the middle of the night after getting up to go to the bathroom, and naturally fell on my stomach. Hard. After quitting the Percocet (which I blamed for the incident) and trying to eat breakfast highly unsuccessfully (HELLO, projectile vomit) I called the doctor.

Thursday at noon I was back in the hospital here in town, being diagnosed with an infected liver as well as severe dehydration. Complications of surgery, they said. I’m happy to say that after getting admitted AGAIN and jabbed with an IV needle AGAIN (I have “bad veins”, which I take to mean they’re small and far below the skin’s surface) and pumped full of antibiotics, they only kept me overnight before shipping me home – with a sizable list of very foul-tasting prescriptions.

Hello, pending hospital bills. It’s nice to meet you. What’s that? I owe thousands of dollars? GREAT. I can totally afford that. Thank god for my insurance. Oh, wait, my deductible is high. Goodbye, income tax refund (and new digital camera).

There’s an interesting twist in all of this: my sister-in-law, Joy, was also admitted to the hospital in Great Falls and operated on, to have her gall bladder removed, on the same day. She did not get an infection and end up back in the hospital. Some ladies have all the luck.