I know. I KNOW. I am so super-behind. It’s been a day. A TOTAL DAY. I am so sorry if I caused you WORRY OR STRIFE.
So first I got to work and there was SO SO SO MUCH WORK. And we got new carpet but it’s totally swirly and makes you feel like you’re walking in an optical illusion and you’re going to pass out or maybe fall in a black hole if you step wrong, I don’t know. It’s weird. Wait. I will find you an illustration.
No, this totally isn’t it but I found it on Google Images and it make me laugh. Apparently somewhere someone illustrated a book with a photo of a carpet that was “reported” to cause symptoms of motion sickness and self-motion. If I felt like doing more research I probably could do so but I’m totally the most sleepy, no joke. I wish our office carpet would self-motion me right out the damn door. Why doesn’t that shit happen ever?
So then I worked and worked and worked and WORKED and then I had a doctor’s appointment at Doctor Ernie’s office because my uterus is trying to kill me. No, I’m totally serious. I thought of this this weekend? And I decided. MY ENTIRE BODY IS IN REVOLT. Yes. My body is revolting. HA HA HA.
No, seriously, think about this. Like, your body is like a little TEAM, right, and it’s all supposed to work together, for the most part? I mean, sometimes you break a bone or get an infection or something, but overall, it’s supposed to be this little army, all marching in time, following orders and such. MINE IS IN REVOLT. I have the health problems of a 85-year-old woman.
My brain doesn’t work correctly and tends to run toward the depressive end of the spectrum. Oh, also all the migraines. Don’t forget all the migraines.
My thyroid pitched a friggin’ coup and we had to assassinate that little dictator and remove him from rule altogether.
My entire digestive tract seems to constantly hate me for some reason.
My tastebuds hate all but like, four things.
My balance is completely off, which I think is an inner-ear thing.
My eyes haven’t worked right since kindergarten.
I have flat feet. With weird crooked toes because I’ve broken most of them at one point or another.
I have allergies year-round, not just seasonally like normal people.
I can’t sleep without chemical enhancement and haven’t been able to since I was thirteen.
My blood is poison and I can’t even donate it because I have MAD COW DISEASE which I totally don’t have but the Red Cross thinks I do.
My pancreas kind of shit the bed a few years back, which has been a ton of fun.
My cholesterol levels are psychotic.
Also, whoever told you that your acne would clear up when you got out of puberty was a TOTAL LIAR. Ok, no, maybe it cleared up for SOME of you. Some of you lucky, happy, shiny people who have all the shiny happy clear skin the minute you graduated high school or something, I don’t know. SOME OF US ARE STILL WAITING FOR THAT DAY.
At one point I had kidney stones. Have you ever had kidney stones? I’d say I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy, but I totally would, so that would be a lie. THEY ARE A NIGHTMARE WRAPPED IN A CLOWN COSTUME OVERRUN WITH SPIDERS RIDING ON COCKROACHES.
BUT LISTEN. I totally still have my…um, I guess, liver? And…um…gallbladder? Those are handy things to have, surely.
And yeah. So anyway, my uterus has been trying to kill me since I was, I don’t know, thirteen? Fourteen? Something like that. So the last doctor (who you’ll remember was THE DEVIL) put me on the pills of insanity. The pills of insanity made me have the emotional intensity of a teenager for a week and a half every month. THIS IS NOT GOOD TIMES. Seriously. There was CRYING over NOT HAVING ICE CREAM SANDWICHES at one point. No one wants to go back to when they were fourteen with the mood swings. No one wants that.
So Doctor Ernie thinks he can fix it – and, best of all, I CAN GET RID OF THE PILLS ZOMG – so today I went in to have a wee little procedure done. Oh, also it’s the “I can now have all the sex” procedure. So that’s nice. LINE UP GENTLEMEN. However, when reading up on this wee little procedure, I immediately became PETRIFIED because some of the warnings were “take at least four Ibuprofen NO MORE THAN THIRTY MINUTES beforehand and may God have mercy on your soul” and “you’re going to want to take at least a day off, maybe more” and “OH HELP ME OH NO NO OH NO” and such.
I have a pretty high pain threshhold. But one time I thought “meh” when someone told me I was going to be in pain and I would want someone to drive me home and I ended up almost going off the road because I almost passed out.
So I went into this SO SO SO SCARED. You know, of death. And also of passing out. And pain. Things like that. Just little things.
So I showed up and first they sat me down in a room and took vitals and were all, “why’s your blood pressure so high” OH I DON’T KNOW SCARED OF THE PAIN I GUESS and then they wanted me to pee in a cup. I HATE PEEING INTO A CUP SO MUCH. Also, I had totally just peed. No one told me I had to come in prepared for peeing. So I said, “I am not prepared to pee. Why do I need to pee?” and the nurse said, “we need to verify that you’re not pregnant.” So after I laughed so hard I almost knocked over the blood pressure machine, I assured them that nothing, even an Angel of the Lord, had been a knockin’ at heaven’s door lately, thank you very much, so we were good. They looked skeptical. I was touched that they thought I was already getting all the sex. I tried to explain that NO, I was THERE to be PREPARED to have all the sex, and I think they just told me they would do without the urine sample to stop me from talking. I WON THE URINE SAMPLE BATTLE YO.
Then I was ushered into a waiting room and assured that the Nurse Practitioner would be RIGHT WITH ME so just take off my pants. I wanted to make a fun joke like “Yeah, that’s what they all say” but mostly I just wanted this over with because ALL THE PAIN TIME WAS COMING. So I’m all pantless and shit and waiting and waiting and WAITING and no one showed up FOR OVER TWENTY MINUTES, what am I, made of PATIENCE? so I totally nefariously got my phone out of my bag and Twitter kept me entertained. There were only so many times I could read the “you need to be tested for HPV” sign on the wall. It didn’t even have any photos. Listen, LISTEN, if you don’t have the best Twitter friends ever I feel sorry for you. Ken sent me photos of both his dogs AND his socks that looked like cows, for example. These things kept me from freaking right the hell out.
OH WAIT! Holy hell! I have new Twitter! I HAVE NEW TWITTER! Can I show you the sock tweet now? MAYBE I CAN!
Ken Macbeth (@lahikmajoe) February 20, 2012
(SIDE NOTE: I, of course, did not TELL anyone I was going in to possibly experience all the pain because I don’t like telling people my business before it happens, only after. Because it seems like fishing for sympathy. Jim says probably I can just say, “I’m weird, very weird” and people will understand. I don’t know. I don’t think that’s the MOST weird. I just don’t tell people my personal shit beforehand because then they’re all, “hope you’re ok” and stuff and then you feel like a sad sack. I don’t want to feel like a sad sack. I want it to be over so I can make fun of it so then I’m in CONTROL of it. Or, as Jim so succinctly put it, “Just tell people you’re weird. Very weird.”)
Ooh, I’m totally EMBEDDING JIM’S TWEET NOW. I’m high on this new-Twitter power, you guys, I can’t even.
Jim W (@blogginglily) February 20, 2012
OK. Anyway, the Nurse Practitioner came in and was all, “oh! Sorry for the delay. TECHNICAL PROBLEMS.” You know. Because nothing makes you feel more comfortable about getting your bits prodded than knowing something’s going terribly wrong, am I right?
I’m going to leave out the icky gory bits. You know. Because sometimes LESS IS MORE. Ha! Ha ha. Like I’ve ever ever ever gone by THAT philosophy. WHOO. No, but seriously, I’m leaving out the ick.
I’ll sum it up with:
- It hurt. A LOT. But probably not as much as other things I’ve had happen to me or have had done to me so I guess it’s all relative.
When it was done, the NP came up and said, “So, on a scale of 1-10, how high is your pain?” and I totally snort-laughed because it made me feel like I was on Grey’s Anatomy. No one ever asked me anything like that before. So I was all, “Um…more than the time I dropped the hammer on my foot but less than the time I fell and bruised my tailbone? I’m really bad with numbers,” and she was all, “DON’T SIT UP I’LL BE BACK IN FIVE MINUTES.” Well! That was troubling. Of course me and my huge gigantic mouth wanted to know why I couldn’t sit up. Like, were parts of me going to fall off?
NO. Listen to THIS.
“Touching your cervix can cause a vasal reaction that can cause some patients to pass out in a delayed way, so you need to stay prone for at least five minutes.”
WHAT? That is NOT A MEDICAL THING I HAVE EVER EVEN HEARD OF. A DELAYED passing-out reaction? From poking around in my bits? This should probably be documented and people should be notified because it is FASCINATING. Also, it seems like it could have some sort of practical application, like you could use this and then leave and people would PASS OUT and no one could blame you or something. I’m sure the military is already working on this.
So I waited around all ouch ouch OUCH and then she came back and wanted ANOTHER number and I was all, “I don’t know, 3?” and she said I had to stay there for ANOTHER five minutes but Twitter kept me entertained so whatever. Then A DIFFERENT nurse came in and asked about my pain number and this time I was all, “ONE!” because I wanted to go home, I had blogging to do. But! This nurse said I could sit up, but then I had to stay SITTING for FIVE MORE MINUTES. ZOMG. I think I am more familiar with the landscape of this exam room than I am with my own bedroom at this point. So I was SO BORED and tweeting and then after about three minutes I totally got dressed and left and only KIND OF got dizzy one time but that was totally my fault.
SO. Now I have to go back in three weeks and get checked out again and then I am GOOD TO GO and also to have all the sex, probably with my newfound PUA skills from yesterday.
ALSO! So, in “the world is full of assholes” news, there are a lot of people who don’t want women to have access to birth control. Because it’s totally like killing babies, I guess? Or because it encourages sex outside of marriage for whore women (which begs the question, are these women having sex ALONE? Aren’t the men they’re having sex WITH just as to blame?) And one of my FAVORITE HUMAN BEING EVER Rick Santorum’s biggest financial backers said something the other day about how he didn’t understand why birth control was a big deal because back in his day (he’s like 102 years old) “gals” (ugh, I hate the word “gal”, it sounds phlegmy and it’s so demeaning) used to use “an aspirin between their knees” for birth control. I can only assume this means it kept their whore, whore knees together so they weren’t getting pregnant. ASIDE FROM THE FACT THAT IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO YOU MISOGYNISTIC PIECE OF SHIT, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I can think of three positions just off the top of my head where I could SAFELY keep that aspirin ensconced and still make me a baby. Use your imagination, Mr. Burns.
ANYWAY. Here’s the issue I have. BIRTH CONTROL IS NOT JUST ABOUT BIRTH CONTROL. There are people – I AM ONE – who use it because WE HAVE BROKEN UTERUSES. Without getting too graphic? Birth control makes us work on a regular cycle again. If we don’t, we run a very high risk of uterine cancer. So, Santorum and Co., are you telling me that I shouldn’t have access to something that would prevent me from getting cancer? Just on the off chance I might ALSO use it to have all the sex?
Keep your religious nose out of my cooch. No pun intended. Ew.
OH! OK, SIDE NOTE if you got this far. Also, yay for getting this far. Remember, back in January, I warned you all that it’s tax season and I might not post in a timely fashion, and some days not at all? IT’S HAPPENING. THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE FOG. (Sorry, that slips in there sometimes.) I’m swamped, I’m trying to run a show at my theater, and I can’t always come home and have a post ready for you the next day. PLEASE DO NOT FREAK OUT. I love you to pieces but sometimes life has to happen for me, too. And these take about two hours to write. Like, last night, when I got home from the theater, I COULD have written one? But I wanted to sit on my couch with Dumbcat and watch zombies eating people’s faces. SOMETIMES I WANT TO VEG.
I thank you so much for reading and I love your faces and I promise promise promise, like I said back in January, you are always on my miiiiiind, but it’s tax season. I’m sometimes shower-weeping with exhaustion. So no freaking out, tiger-lilies. Sometimes I won’t be here between now and the end of April. Sometimes I have to look after my own mental health. Find me a way to make this thing pay as much as my full-time job and you’ve got me posting every day on a schedule, but until then, I’m at the mercy of THE MAN. Also of MY OWN EXHAUSTION.
Also! Follow me on Twitter, if you’re on there. Link’s to your right, over there. If I’m not posting that day or I’m going to be late late late or whatever, I’ll try to let you know.
SMOOCHES AND LOVE. ALL the smooches and love. NO NOT YOU DING DONG JOE.