Category Archives: clumsy

“Truly, I am a marionette and he is a master puppeteer.”

Today we have to discuss something VERY SERIOUS. That affects ALL OF US. Are you ready? Are you ready for something very serious that affects all of us? 

What is it, Amy? What affects all of us? 

Bad porn, is what. 

Listen, I just finished reading Fifty Shades of Grey, and people who purchased this and are reading this and are all het up about this, we need to have a discussion about why this is a VERY BIG MISTAKE ON YOUR PART. 

I’m not giving you the Amazon link to this because I DO NOT THINK YOU SHOULD BUY OR READ THIS.

Now, I am not a porn connoisseur. I couldn’t honestly care less about porn. I know it exists. As long as it’s not being waggled in children’s faces or the cause of crime against women or whatever, porn, you keep on keeping on. Everything has its place. Even porn. I’m a firm (heh, firm) believer that everyone has their kink, as as long as no one gets hurt, you do your thing. 

However, there’s PORN, then there’s Fifty Shades of Grey. 

Oh, don’t even get all technical with me and say it’s erotica, or even literotica. What it is, my little cauliflower florets, is one of the worst books I’ve ever read in my entire life. And I have read a LOT of books. A LOT a lot. 

First, can I just explain, please, why I read this book. It was on the cover of Entertainment Weekly and I didn’t even read the article and I was like, huh, must be interesting or something, and I put it on reserve at the library. Then I heard it was getting banned all over and I thought, well, NOW we KNOW it must be interesting! If someone tells me I’m not ALLOWED to read something, then I REALLY want to read it. Then people started telling me what it was about, and I thought, huh. Well, who cares, I don’t mind erotica. I read all of those stupid Ann Rice Sleeping Beauty books. Those were pretty steamy. 

Oh, in case you live under a rock or maybe in the outback or something, Fifty Shades of Grey is about two people in a consensual BDSM relationship. Plus some other stuff. We’ll go more into that later. Also, do I have to tell you that a., there are going to be spoilers here, and b., WE’RE TALKING ABOUT SEX STUFF TODAY? So kids, go watch a Disney movie, or something, and people who want to remain unspoiled for the book (I think most anyone who wanted to read it have by now, though) you can go read my archives or something, I suppose. 

See? Nice. Go watch this, kiddos. Don’t keep reading, you’ll get a complex.

Moving on. I was not at all comfortable with the older women in my office who decided to have a conversation about it with me in the lunchroom before I’d even read it, though. I’m not friends with these people. I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT SEX WITH YOU.

OIder lady 1: Amy, you like to read. Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?
Me: Nope.
Older lady 1: You should. It’s about…(whispers) SEX.
Me: I’ve heard. I have it on reserve at the library. I’ll read it someday.
Older lady 1: All KINDS of sex. KINKY sex.
Me: Mmm-hmm. (Frantically reading book, eating sandwich, trying to look busy so the conversation would stop)
Older lady 1: SO MUCH SEX. I was wondering, where’s the plot? Because there was SO MUCH KINKY SEX. People were TYING PEOPLE UP!
Me: Oh? Huh. (Reading! Eating! READING!)
Older lady 2, walking in: Hey, ladies! What are we talking about?
Older lady 1: Fifty Shades of Grey! It’s a book about ALL THE SEX!
Older lady 2: Oh! Wow! (sits, settles in for a long discussion)
Me: I…um…have to get a thing from the place. (leaves in a hurry) 

(SIDE NOTE: I don’t MIND discussing sex, just not with women old enough to be my mom that I don’t know very well and don’t like all that much. And not in the work lunchroom. That seems unsanitary. That’s where the FOOD is.) 

OK. So. Fifty Shades of Grey. Why’s it so bad, Amy? Is it the sex? No. The sex is fine. Is it the subject matter? Nope, like I said, whatever, there’s a place for porn (or erotica, or literotica, whatever) and great, good, you go, book, you go. 

Here’s the problem. 

IT IS ONE OF THE MOST POORLY-WRITTEN THINGS I HAVE EVER READ. 

Here’s a quick rundown. Anastasia Steele, a very, very clumsy girl about to graduate college, is roped into interviewing Christian Grey, a very rich businessman. They dig each other. They get together. He’s into being a dominant! He wants her to be his submissive! He has ISSUES! In his own words, he is “fifty shades of fucked up!” Plus, his last name is GREY! HENCE THE TITLE YO! 

Will these two crazy kids make it work? Oh, will they? I CAN’T WAIT TO FIND OUT! Oh, wait, yes. Yes, I can. I can wait. I can SO WAIT. I can wait FOREVER. 

I assure you this single photo is a billion times sexier than the entire series. And I didn’t even read books two and three.

So I got the book from the library. I was a little worried it would be sticky. You don’t know what people do with library books that are NORMAL, I don’t want to know what they do with PORN. 

I read about thirty pages and was in tears of laughter about how badly it was written. I scared the cat. I was talking to the damn book. OUT LOUD. 

First, I was only a little way in before I said, “Huh. What’s going on here? Ana seems a lot like Bella from Twilight, with the self-doubt and the clumsiness. Is clumsiness the new black? If so, I am on the CUTTING EDGE OF COOL since I fall down ALL THE DAMN TIME. Where’s my knight in shining armor, I wonder?”

Oh my NOOO! Look at poor clumsy helpless BELLA! (Man, did I hope this truck was going to hit her. It didn’t. I had sadface.)

Then someone on Twitter pointed out that the book started as Twilight fan fiction, and the Twi-hards were all, “Um…naughty! But titillating!” so the author just changed the names and published it. 

Listen, had I known that, I would NOT have read this book. I hate Twilight. HATE. With the fire of a thousand suns HATE. 

Also, it says something that even Stephenie Meyer was all, “Um…yeah. No. No, this isn’t…good for her, but…no.” 

So even though it was the worst book ever, based on one of my least-favorite series ever, I kept reading. Why? To be honest, I wanted to blog about it. It’s the main reason I do anything hilariously awful lately. 

Here are some (and there are many) issues I have with this book. 

Argh 

One of the only times that “argh” is permissible. Plus, it’s Joss, he can do whatever he wants.

At least twice that I counted, in the middle of some very “hot” sex (the sarcastic quotes are because there’s nothing hot about the sex Ana and Christian had, ever, except, I suppose, the temperature when they were having it in a bathtub) Ana made the noise “argh.” Now, I’m pretty sure if you make the noise “argh,” you are a., a pirate, b., tripped over an ottoman, c., foiled again, curses, d. doing the Mutant Enemy Joss Whedon credits and saying “grr, argh.” You’re not in the throes of passion. (She also made the noise “Aaaaah!” and “Aaaaagh.”) An easy fix? “Ana moaned.” See? See how much more sexy that is? NO ONE WOULD SAY ARGH DURING SEX. If I was having sex with a guy and he broke out the “argh” I would laugh so hard one of us would roll off the bed, I’m not even kidding. Oh, you want an example? HAPPY TO OBLIGE. Let’s take this. The Bloggess had her laptop stolen. So she wrote a post entitled Aaaaaaargh. THIS IS AN APPROPRIATE USE OF ARGH. Not during SEX. Not during something you’re ENJOYING. (Well, I guess unless you have a charley horse. Not that this has ever happened to me. OK FINE ONCE IN COLLEGE. And it was the WORST. Talk about something that took me by surprise. GOOD GRAVY.) I don’t take a bite of cereal in the morning and go “ARGH!” unless  the milk’s gone bad. Who does this? The answer is no one. No one does this.

Euphemism 

Oh, I’m pretty sure this was utilized in the writing of this book.

I’m not saying I needed a clinical textbook or anything, but the only body part that was referred to by its proper name (I’m of course referring to our swimsuit area body parts, don’t be ridiculous, of course she said “arms and legs” or whatever) were breasts. Everything else was all “throbbing member” and “the juncture of my thighs” and “the place where he was both velvety and hard, what a titillating combo” and “my warm and wet place.” ZEE OH EMM GEE. Here, look what you can do in print without the world exploding, ready? Penis. Vagina. Clitoris. WHAT WILL HAPPEN WHAT WILL HAPPEN? Nothing, is what. I’m not saying porn would be hotter with “he then inserted his penis into my vagina” – that sounds a little too much like a sexual how-to pamphlet in hell – but it’s amazing to me that you can make it through an entire 514-page book riding on a boat made of euphemism. They’re just words. I mean, you had these people whipping and chaining and such, and you’re quailing at the use of “vagina?” Please. 

Britishisms 

Yep, this about sums it up.

Ana made a big deal about being country mouse and never having left the continental United States. Christian was well-traveled, but grew up and lived (as did Ana) in Seattle. However, for some reason, the two of them said things – constantly – like “have a tidy-up” and “well-remembered, you” and “well played.” Hmm. Why would Seattle denizens speak thus? OH. BECAUSE THE AUTHOR IS BRITISH. I really got the feeling the closest she’d ever been to MERKA was to watch a couple episodes of Dallas one time. If that. Maybe.

GIGANTIC THESAURUS WORDS 

No one thought: they pondered. No one was interested: they were titillated. No one was wordy: they were verbose. No one was moody: they were sullen. This woman never met a three-dollar word she didn’t just love, she rode until it was all up in a lather and then she, for good measure, beat it into the ground while cackling like a crazy. Oh, sorry, like a banshee. Or an utter lunatic. Or an institutionalized harpy. I KNOW BIG WORDS TOO. And I know there’s a time to use them. It’s not always in your bad porn. We still know it’s bad porn, lady. 

“inner goddess”/inner monologue 

Mine likes to wear pajamas and loaf. A lot of loafing.

Listen, Ana was annoying. The MOST annoying. The whole book, unfortunately, was from her point of view. We constantly had to listen to her inner monologue. And at least once on a page, you had to hear what her “inner goddess” was thinking. “My inner goddess was doing cartwheels.” “My inner goddess was hiding behind the couch.” “My inner goddess was doing a sultry samba.” WHO TALKS LIKE THIS. I don’t have an inner goddess. If I did, you’d get “Amy’s inner goddess is eating Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food out of the container on a couch covered in cat hair while watching Celebrity Rehab.” 

I think everyone was schizophrenic 

Yes, I realize Jack wasn’t a schizophrenic in this movie, but I love this picture so much. Let me have it. I just read a really awful book for you. Thanks.

I know. People are unpredictable and wild! That’s nice. It is. Thing is? People aren’t. Not really. Sure, people do things that are out of character. But these things usually point toward something being wrong with them. How many times has a friend of yours done something weird, and you’ve said to a mutual friend, “That’s unlike Frank/Francine. I hope everything’s ok with him/her.” Probably you have. I know I have. People are, for the most part, a predictable species. NOT IN THIS BOOK BUCKAROO. People say one thing and do another! People say they want to be beaten with a belt, then get mad at their boyfriend for actually going through with it! People say they don’t want a relationship and then two pages later say, “All I can think about is being in a relationship with you because I love you now!” I can’t take anything seriously when it’s this all over the board, I really can’t. 

Stilted writing of unnecessary scenes 

Pretty sure we’d find this in the author’s house. Only with glitter stickers on it. Of hearts and shit.

There were page-long descriptions of “I decided I might be hungry. But what might I be hungry for? Maybe an omelette. I don’t know. Was I in the mood for an omelette? My inner goddess wanted some fruit. I decided to make some pancakes. I didn’t know where the bowls were. I looked in the cabinets. I found the bowls. I put the bowls on the counter.” ZOMG IF I WANTED A BLOW-BY-BLOW I’D VIDEOTAPE ME MAKING DINNER. I don’t care. I don’t CARE! There’s an old rule of thumb – if it doesn’t further the story, you don’t need it. Apparently, E. L. James was too busy masturbating to thoughts of Edward Cullen to read any “how to write something that doesn’t suck” manuals. Sorry. Was that totally the grossest and all the TMI? Wait until I get to my next section. 

The sex isn’t at all sexy 

I’m fairly sure this isn’t the face I was supposed to be making when reading the sex scenes. Yet it was pretty much my reaction.

There’s a lot of sex. Don’t get me wrong. A LOT OF IT. Like, every few pages, someone’s getting a throbbing member thrust into a wet and warm place. But it’s not sexy. From the time Ana loses her virginity (the pain of which? “a slight pinch” – um, ok, good for you, darling, not how I remember it, but fine) to the most DISTURBING TAMPON SCENE YOU CAN EVEN IMAGINE (I’m not even going to go into it, but watch this totally amusing fake YouTube book trailer if you want a hint, a gross, gross hint) to the BDSM scenes, which I suppose would be sexy, if I didn’t hate both Ana and Christian so much I wanted him to accidentally choke her out, have to bury her in the backyard, and then get caught and locked up for life, you get all the non-sexy sex you could desire. With a lot of “my inner goddess swooned” interspersed. Oh, and she never has an orgasm. Instead, she “shatters into a million pieces and slowly puts herself back together.” EVERY DAMN TIME. That’s another word the author is afraid of. Orgasm. ORGASM IS A DIRTY WORD YOU GUYS. Nipple clamps and fisting are on the table (heh, on the table) but not orgasm. (I just checked, and yes, she does say it once and a while. I apologize. Not OFTEN, but apparently it’s not the naughty word that penis is. My fault. So sorry.) 

Also, there was a lot of “he pulled at my nipples until they elongated.” As in, more than once. In multiple sex scenes. Um. OUCH OUCH OUCH. THAT’S NOT WHAT THEY’RE FOR. They are not Silly Putty. You cannot transfer the comics onto them. THERE ARE NERVE ENDINGS IN THERE. 

I wanted to punch every single character in the neck three times a page 

Ana was a useless waste of space who went into the relationship expecting this guy to change even though he told her exactly what he was looking for (granted, he acted like a schizophrenic with the changing of his mind, so maybe that’s why she was fooled.) She also fell down a lot and ran into things and almost got hit by a bike. Christian was a control freak who was sexually abused as a teenager and most likely abused as a child (that was hinted at but not explained. YET.) Ana’s mom talked like a pre-teen. Ana’s friends were either controlling bitches or would-be rapists. And that’s pretty much everyone in the entire book. There’s no one to root for. NO ONE. 

No one talks like this, NO ONE 

…and here’s another reference book she used. Used WRONG.

People say things like “WHOO all this UST in the room!” and then I have to look up what “UST” is and it’s unresolved sexual tension. WHO THE HELL TALKS LIKE THIS NO ONE NO ONE. Or, how about Christian’s brother’s term of endearment and goodbye to his girlfriend, which Ana and Christian adopt as their own: “Laters, baby.” LATERS, BABY? Oh, no. Oh, my, no. Also, there’s a lot of “I bit my lip” and then Christian goes BATSHIT CRAZY all “Don’t DO that, you KNOW how that affects me, I WANT TO BE THE ONE BITING YOUR LIP.” What the actual hell? And the title? The title of this post? Direct quote from the book. THAT IS SOMETHING ANA SAYS TO HERSELF DURING SEX. You know, because when you’re in the middle of all the sex, you think of a sentence as clunky as that. Or, OR, when Ana and her overbearing roommate and BFF (why? who knows, Ana’s a douchenozzle) were talking about how Ana lost her flower to Christian: “Kate looks wistful. ‘Yeah, took almost a year to have my first orgasm through penetrative sex, and here you are…first time?’”If my BFF said “penetrative sex” to me, I think I would throw something at him, possibly the television remote, and then laugh until I had a choking fit. Who says “penetrative sex” in a casual conversation? That’s the kind of thing someone says in a safe-sex talk at the local Planned Parenthood, or something. Not two BFFs sitting around shooting the shit. I feel like this author was raised by wolves. Wolves with nothing to read but thesauruses. 

THERE ARE TWO MORE OF THESE 

Why. Why. WHY.

The book ended on a CLIFFHANGER ZOMG (let’s be honest, I didn’t give a shit) and there are TWO MORE OF THEM. Fifty Shades of Greyer and Fifty Shades of Suck My Soul Out Through my Nose if I Have To Read Any More of This Shit. NO THOSE AREN’T THE REAL TITLES. Am I going to read them? No. No I’m not. Life’s too short. I assume, with no prior knowledge, that most likely Ana and Christian end up happily ever after, with her accepting his lifestyle as her own, with some modifications, or something like that. It’s not like this woman can write or come up with anything original. OOH! Maybe someone has a magic sparkle baby like in Twilight! That’d make me want to read more!* (*no it wouldn’t) 

Now, listen. I’m not completely against this book, for two reasons. Two. And only two. And to show you that I can be UNBIASED, I will share them with you. 

The power of viral marketing 

This woman published these with a tiny e-pub house in Australia, and with the power of viral marketing and word-of-mouth, they’re topping the bestseller lists. That makes me want to vomit until I’m sore, but that’s not the point. The point is, whoever’s marketing her books is doing one hell of a job. Or just people talking did this, I don’t know. Whoever it is, or a combination of both? Kudos. These terribly written pieces of trash are the it thing. Undeservedly so, but they are. And that’s impressive. Now let’s use our powers for good and get some GOOD books on the bestseller list, what do you say? 

Getting women to talk about sex more openly 

I know I was all ew ew ew earlier about the ladies in my lunchroom (and I’m still ew ew ew, that hasn’t changed) but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with women feeling like they can openly discuss sex. If this terrible book makes them feel like they can do that? Well, fine, then it has served one purpose, and now we can use it to prop up the short leg on the coffee table. Seriously, sex isn’t dirty. There’s a time and a place for it (and if you’re a stranger and you think we’re going to talk about it on Twitter, hit the road, I’M TALKING TO YOU DING DONG JOE) but sure, it’s not something women should be ashamed of talking about. Men talk about it all the time. Women should feel free to do so, as well. So, yeah. Just – there are better books, sexier books, that you can read. You know that, right? OK, good. Just checking. Go read those. Because I don’t know about you, but I find it hard to slip into a sexy frame of mind when the writing is so bad in a book it makes me laugh until I’m crying, you know? 

Goodreads really needs an option for .00001 stars, because giving this one star really didn’t give me the satisfaction I wanted. 

For additional awesome, please to visit this Tumblr, which has provided me with hours of entertainment.  

My inner goddess is hungry now and I think I need a sandwich or maybe some wasabi peas. Laters, baby.


Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

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!

(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.

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:

  1. 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.


Doctors don’t really make out all the time. THANKS, Grey’s Anatomy.

I’ve mentioned my clumsiness, right? I know I have. It’s legendary. I can’t even impress upon you how clumsy I am. In high school, I fell down some stairs at my boyfriend’s house and lost the ring he’d just given me (and banged myself up pretty severely in the process.) I once fell on my ass so badly I bruised my tailbone and had trouble sitting for two weeks. I think I needed one of those doughnut pillows but I was way too embarrassed to even go to the doctor and explain that I’d fallen so badly I had a sore rear, let alone get a prescription for an ass doughnut.
The best example of this clumsiness leading to injury was my senior year of college. I was moving out of my apartment and into a new one (transitioning between undergrad and grad school, and my current roommates were moving away) and was in the new apartment, puttering around and decorating a little. We weren’t officially moving in for another week, but we’d gotten the keys early so we could have the space in advance. My summer roommate was in her room, I was in mine, and we had planned a trip to the mattress store later in the afternoon to get a new bed for her. I decided a good use of my time would be to hang glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. (I know. That’s not a good use of anyone’s time. I was obsessed with glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling for years. I don’t know why, exactly. I thought it would be like camping without the mosquitoes or bears or cold-water showers? Still not sure on that one.)

We were in the midst of moving in, so we didn’t have much in the way of furniture there yet. I poked around, found an old kitchen chair on the back porch, and stood on it to put the stars on my ceiling. I didn’t look at it too closely. It was a chair. There were four legs. It was made of wood. What more do you want?

Well, rungs. Rungs are what you want. Because I stood on it, and it was already missing two rungs, and the third rung was just popped into one of the holes in the leg, and one of the legs just broke clean off. I was reaching up to the ceiling at the time, and went down. Hard. I landed on my hipbone and my elbow, mostly.

My roommate came running in to see what the noise was, and I just sat there laughing, because seriously, who but me stands on a chair missing rungs that she pulled from a random back porch because she could not wait to put up glow-in-the-dark stars before she even had a bed to enjoy them from? We tossed the chair in the garbage and went to run errands.

That’s when I started to realize that something might be seriously wrong.

I’d banged my elbow pretty badly, but I fall a lot, so it wasn’t a new thing. I mean, who hasn’t banged their elbow? Elbows hurt like a son of a bitch. They even have an ironic nickname. “Funnybone.” Because they’re not! Funny to injure, I mean! Ha!

My roommate drove, and I realized I’d started cradling my arm. I told myself to stop being a baby. It would stop hurting soon. I’d just banged the damn thing. It was nothing. I’d fallen worse than this before. 

We got to the mattress store and she asked if I wanted to stay in the car, but I told her no, I was fine to come in. She walked around, talking to the salesperson, and I sat on the edge of a mattress, gingerly, holding my arm very, very steadily to my chest with the other. The next thing I knew, she and the salesperson were standing over me. “Are you ok? You’re really pale,” she said.  But her voice sounded like it was coming from a million miles away. My ears were ringing. There were huge black spots in front of my eyes. I couldn’t talk. 

“Um, yeah, we’re going to the ER. You broke your arm, dummy,” she said, and bustled me off to the car and brought me to the ER as quick as she could, me weakly protesting I’d be fine, I just banged my arm, I fell all the time. “Do you pass out in mattress stores all the time, too? We’re going,” she said. She was very practical in a crisis. 

We got to the ER and waited. And waited. And waited. As long as I didn’t move, I was fine. If I moved, I was either going to pass out or throw up again, one or the other. When we were signing in, I’d asked the nurse if I could take a painkiller. She looked at me like I’d just mentioned, offhandedly, I liked to murder puppies and feed their corpses to toddlers on my time off.  “No, because we don’t know what’s wrong yet,” she said. “That could be very dangerous, until we know your condition.”

I’m fairly sure downing a couple of store-brand ibuprofen wouldn’t have killed me if falling off of a chair onto a hardwood floor didn’t, but I figured since she worked in the medical profession, she knew better than I did.

They finally got me in and told me they needed to take an x-ray to see if I’d actually broken a bone. I was alright with that until I realized they’d need to straighten out my arm to do so. I actually got up to leave, until I almost passed out from the movement. The nurse tried to hold me down and straighten out my arm. I actually struggled with her.

Her actual words to me? “Don’t be a baby.”

Don’t be a BABY? Um, this is hurting me to the point of PASSING OUT? So “don’t be a baby” really isn’t the most constructive thing you could say to me right now?

Then – THEN! – she brought in two “orderlies” who I think were actually “professional wrestlers” because one held me down and the other straightened out my arm. I passed out on the table. I only know this because when I came to, the nurse (I like to call her Nurse Ratched) told me, “Well, that was a lot easier when you weren’t struggling.”

Um, thanks? I – I aim to please?

She sent me back out into the waiting room to wait for the results. At this point, I was really angry. Wrestlers had been called in to straighten out my broken arm; a sadistic evil nurse had called me a baby; and no one would allow me to take linty ibuprofen from the bottom of my purse. And my arm hurt. Seriously HURT.

About an hour later (what were they DOING back there? Playing strip POKER? There was no one else even in the waiting room for them to see!) a doctor came out and said, very condescendingly, “There’s nothing wrong. No break. You just bumped it in your fall. Go home and put an ice pack on it. You’ll be fine.”

I got up, livid (and almost passed out, so my roommate had to hold me up) and said, “I am LEAVING. There is OBVIOUSLY something wrong, but you can’t FIND IT.” Then I stomped out (only, I didn’t as much “stomp” as “tried not to throw up on my roommate’s shoes”) and we got three-fourths of the way to her car (this took a very, very long time) when ANOTHER doctor ran out of the side door of the hospital, panting.

“Stop! STOP! YOUR ELBOW IS BROKEN!” he yelled across the parking lot.

This did not inspire confidence.

There was a hairline fracture in my elbow, which apparently a number of people didn’t see, but this guy did. Do you know what they do for broken elbows? Me, either, but for this one, nothing. They gave me a sling made of muslin (seriously, theatrical muslin, I recognized it from school) and a prescription for codeine and told me it should be better in 6-8 weeks.

This seemed a little Keystone Cops to me.

I walked around with a sling that looked like I cobbled it together myself in scene shop at the theater for 6-8 weeks. Classy! That didn’t get dirty at all! My reaction to codeine – well, let’s just say we don’t play well together. I pass out about half an hour after taking it. Even codeine cough syrup does this to me. Over the next week, friends found me passed out on the floor of my closet (I’d gone in to clean it in preparation for the move – easy, with only one arm you could use) and on an acquaintance’s shoulder, drooling down her top (she’d come over to watch a movie; I’d popped a pill, and off to dreamland I went – her shoulder was apparently the nearest pillow my unconscious head found. Embarrassing. I didn’t even know her that well.) My parents came up to help me move and we went to dinner and my father had to help me cut up my food. He was struck by how adorable this was; I was distressed by how I felt like a weirdo cripple. I half-expected people to start calling me Blue Roses and comparing me to a glass figurine.

The follow-up doctor told me I’d probably feel the weather in my elbow for the rest of my life (um, thank you, now I am a barometer?) but I don’t, so mixed blessing, I guess? That’d kind of be a nice superpower, so not even getting a superpower out of the whole thing seems like a raw deal. However, he also predicted I would never be able to straighten out my arm again, and I can. Um, now that I look back on it, this doctor sort of sucked? Hmm. Probably not a good idea when your followup is in the back of a van. Yeah, I’m here all week, tip your waiters. Just keep your feet and hands to yourself, otherwise I could trip, and you know I’ll bring your ass down with me.

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