I'd Like To Dedicate A Song To The Surgical Staff Who'll Be All Up In My Business Tomorrow

At first I considered a nice Weird Al spoof for the occasion. Perhaps "Like A Surgeon" would be apropos even though really Weird Al is so flippin timeless and classic no matter the reason or the season; but instead I'm going with my final selection: Diana Ross.

Diana sums up all the meaningful things I desire to articulate when she gustily sings "Touch me in the morning......then just walk away..."

I don't really want to be touched at all, mind you. I'm not one of those kinks with a surgical fetish nor do I have to rely on my HMO to hook me up with some good touchy/feely action.

Well, normal people wouldn't give a second thought to the minor procedure I'm undergoing in the morning, but I'm not normal; I'm freaked out.

When I relayed my fears of anesthesia to the registration nurse at the hospital during my pre-op visit she simply laughed and then proceeded to ask me if I had a Living Will and if I'm an Organ Donor.

Wow, so reassuring. Yeah, I don't mind entertaining paranoid delusions of croaking on the table while the doctor harvests my plump and ripe organs like it's dollar days in the Piggly Wiggly Produce Department. I don't mind at all. Thanks registration nurse! I'm guessing you failed Compassion And Caring 101.

The best part is that I'll be working all night in 30 degree weather. Wait, no, that's not the best part. The bestest part is that the nurse admonished me with a firm "No Drinking Or Eating After Midnight Prior To Surgery" command.

She didn't specify why. Is it an instruction from The Gremlins Handbook? Will I turn into a wickedly voracious monster if I dare stuff my face past the stroke of midnight? Or is the Hospital trying to avoid another unfortunate Code Brown incident in the Operating Room? Only my physician can say for sure and I won't be seeing her until a minute before they gas me.

I'm only spending the day with the fine folks at Our Lady of Holy Moly Hospital. I'm a little hurt that they didn't want to spend the night with me, but I guess I'll get over it.

In case you're curious, we'll just categorize tomorrow's proceedings in the "Personal And Feminine In Nature" file folder.

Whoever assumed that I was going in for a sex change operation, you're wrong. I don't feel like going to all the hassle it would involve to transform this blog into The Macho, Macho Man Infidel. I'm not suffering from the heartbreak of hemorrhoidal flare-up either and I'm not getting that superfluous vaginal plastic surgery(Vagiplasty?) that's become so trendy lately.

So, if I don't see you all before Thursday, Have A Very Merry Christmas!

They're Trying To Tell Us Something.....If Only We'd Listen!

Did you know that I'm a mover and a shaker? Yes, it's true. To be more specific, it's actually my tremendous derriere-resembling a hot air balloon with a giant seam running up the middle- that's attained the official mover and shaker status. The Cheek Family-residing somewhere on the Infidel Southside Backside- are proud to announce that they're not only mover/shakers but they're also esteemed gold members of the Wiggly-Jiggly Club, too.

Lately, though, I'm starting to think that my right butt cheek is desperately trying to send me a message through a fat tissue Morse Code system that goes like this:
Twitch-Sag-Twitch-Twitch-Spasm-Still-Pulsate-Twitch
Can anybody translate that for me?
My left butt cheek remains wholly silent. It very well could be mute but I don't know since I haven't had my butt cheeks tested for disabilities.

The oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum, confided in me this weekend that she too felt weird involuntary movements in her right butt cheek. Naturally this led to a lengthy discussion delving into the deeper meaning of it all:
Sunbum: "My right butt cheek feels weird whenever you play your loud cantina music.....almost like it has a pulse.....pulsating to the rhythm of the beat."

Me: "Ewww, a pulse? That's one place you don't want your heart located- just think of the nasty stuff it'll pump through your body."

Sunbum: "True dat!"

Me: " My right butt cheek feels a lot like when I was pregnant with all you mini-Infidels. It's almost as if something is on the inside kicking and pushing and trying to get out. That's all I need is for my butt cheek to suddenly birth yet another butt cheek. I don't want another mouth to feed or another butt crack to wipe."

Sunbum :(Laughing Irreverently At My Butt Cheek Pains And Concerns)

If I ever somehow decipher the mysterious Butt Cheek Morse Code I'll post the key here. Maybe all of our individual butt cheeks are working as a collective with bits and pieces of a bigger apocalyptic message and we must work together to solve the mystery before it's too late!

I am so sending this post to M. Night Shyamalan for screenplay consideration.

Infidel Conspiracy Theory Day

I've uncovered a frightening phenomenon that's spreading rapidly amongst the haute couture fashion world of elastic waist band garments....... the slow and deliberate disappearance of pockets.

Yes, sadly, pockets have started vanishing at an alarming rate, especially in plus size bottoms. How do I know this? Well, I happen to have a plus sized bottom and I've witnessed the heartbreak of disappearing pockets first hand. No, not Hot Pockets, but pockets where you store necessary items for your daily survival in. Well, I guess in a pinch you could store your stuff in a Hot Pocket along with its processed meat and runny sauce. Without pockets, where else can I put my nacho money? What about my life-saving Chapstick? What about the booger collection lovingly spread across a Kleenex by one of my mini-Infidels who wants me to store it in my pocket for safe keeping? I have six kids and for reasons of practicality, I don't want to lug a purse around all the time.

It's glaringly obvious that those heavy-handed thugs down at the Fanny Pack Factory have orchestrated this entire thing so that we're forced into buying their fashionista boycotted product and turning around the fanny pack stock market, long since in a state of decline. They want us all to look just like geeky Aunt Irma with her bright pink neon fanny pack strapped to her side, wandering around looking for the Andy Williams Theater in Branson. Well, I know their little game and I'm staging a revolt. No fanny pack will ever grace this Infidel fanny. Never!

I'm really taking a chance letting my speculations see the light of the day, and I hope it doesn't place me on a Fanny Pack assassin hit list. I'd host a fundraiser for the cause by soliciting loose pocket change, but nobody has pockets anymore. Cruel, cruel irony.