Category Archives: Friday

Oh, just wear a turtleneck. You’ll be FINE.

Before we start, I need to take a poll and be all sciencey. I’ve never done one of these before, let’s see what happens. You all LOVED the post yesterday SO MUCH. Like, holy COW, you guys. Most hits I’ve ever had in one day EVER. WordPress was all “YOU BROKE A RECORD LUCYSFOOTBALL!!!” So…here is my question…even though it will PAIN ME SO SO MUCH YOU GUYS. I’ll give you like a week and report on your answers and do whatever you tell me because I AM YOUR PUPPET apparently.

On to the real postiness of the post today…

I was futzing around online today (what? shut up, you know you all do the same exact thing) and found this article, which tells us that hospitals are too loud and are preventing patients from sleeping. Well, DUH. Hospitals are the WORST. What, you don’t believe me? You think hospitals are a haven of happiness and hushed-tones and healing? Well! I have a STORY for you. This story is called:

THE TIME AMY HAD MAJOR SURGERY (BECAUSE SHE WAS GOING TO DIE OF DEATH) AND THE HOSPITAL WAS THE SUCK 

(Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t tell you this yet. I’ve told you pretty much everything else. I did a search, and I really didn’t tell this story yet. Parts of it, but not the whole thing. Huh. Well, aren’t YOU in for a treat.) 

A few years ago, I went for my annual checkup. The doctor was a new doctor. She was young and very blonde and very gung-ho and kept saying I needed to exercise more. Mostly I like my doctors to be all, “Yeah, you’re fine, here’s a year’s worth of prescriptions, have a nice day.” This one was very guilt-trippy. Just give me my migraine and sleep medication prescriptions, lady, I know I need to sweat to the oldies more, I’m not an idiot, I’m just lazy. There’s nothing flabby about my BRAIN. 

So she did all the poking and prodding and such (above the belt, I have a SPECIAL doctor for my lady-bits, because I’m all kinds of broken in my sensitive areas) and when she got to my throat, she was all, “Huh.” But not a GOOD huh, a very doubtful “huh.” Then she kept palpitating my throat and rubbing it and poking it and I was starting to get pretty sure she was a vampire or something. 

“Let’s run some tests,” she said. “You’ve got something going on in your thyroid I don’t like.” 

Oh! Well, that’s fantastic, most of my other glands and nodes and such have malfunctioned, so this was peachy and totally par for the course. 

So tests were run, and listen, I wasn’t expecting much to be wrong. At most, I was expecting her to forget all about me, like the gynecologist usually does after tests, and never call again. 

About a week later, she called me at work. Not her nurse, her. Well, THAT’S never good. 

“You need to get in to the endocrinologist immediately,” she said. She sounded very businesslike. So I did what anyone would do and made a joke. 

“Yeah, because I’m dying of cancer, right? Ha ha,” I said. “I’ll make an appointment in a couple of weeks, I have a lot going on at work right now.” 

She was silent. I got a really, really bad feeling. 

“You might not have a couple of weeks,” she said. “This can’t wait. You need to get in immediately. Call this number right now.”

“Um…I have cancer?” I said. “Are you saying I have cancer? DID YOU CALL ME AT WORK TO TELL ME I’M DYING OF CANCER?” 

“You won’t die if you get in to see the doctor immediately,” she said. “We might have caught it in time.” 

So as you can guess, I was totally productive for the rest of the day. I WAS TOTALLY DYING OF CANCER. I did research on thyroid cancer. It wasn’t good. Not at all good. It KILLED people. OK, not a lot of people, it wasn’t like breast cancer or lung cancer, statistic-wise, but people had DIED of this. I was totally dying. I probably needed to make a will and start saying my goodbyes and maybe skydive or something, isn’t that what people do when they’re dying young? Or maybe sleep with Julia Roberts, I think I saw that in a movie once. 

Listen, I don’t want to sleep with Julia Roberts, she freaks me out.

So I went to the specialist, who was a very official surgeon with many ALL CAPS ABBREVIATIONS after his name. I had a SURGEON. Oh, this was bad. This was totally bad. But I was still kind of in denial. Listen, LITTLE crappy things happen to me all the time, but not BIG crappy things. I’m lucky like that. 

I went in and thought, eh, he’ll probably tell me we’ll keep an eye on it or something. Nope. 

“So we need to take your thyroid out, it’s got nodules in it,” he said. (NODULES! That just SOUNDS terrible! Already!) “They may or may not be cancerous. It’s major surgery. You’ll be in the hospital overnight. How about a month from now?”

Gah! NODULES!

I was going on vacation a month from then. His next availability was in late September, which worked for me. (He apparently didn’t think the cancer was going to kill me immediately, as this was June. Stupid scare-tactician doctor at my primary care provider. I have never gone back to her again, by the way. You don’t call someone up at work and tell them they have cancer and may only have a couple of weeks to live when you have NO IDEA whether or not they have cancer. I hate her the most.) 

He went through what would happen – I would go to the hospital, be put under, they’d make an incision at the base of my throat, take out my thyroid, stitch me back up, and then I’d spend the night at the hospital to make sure I was ok. I’d be released the next day. If it was cancer, I’d have to have radioactive iodine therapy, which meant I’d have to spend time in the hospital again – you get radioactive iodine injected into you, which makes YOU radioactive, so you have to go into a safe room for a few days so you don’t contaminate other people or the ground water. I’m not even kidding. The nurses waiting on you wear Hazmat suits and have Geiger counters. TRUE STORY. Only I would have superhero cancer. Then when you go home, for like a week you have to swab the toilet down with special wipes after you pee so you don’t give anyone you’re living with radioactive asses when they pee after you. Again, you THINK I’m kidding, but I am not. 

“Hi, my name is Gary, and I’ll be your nurse today DON’T TOUCH ME!”

“Um…my throat? You’re going to cut open…” 

“Yeah. That’s where your thyroid is.” He poked the base of my throat, right where it joined my chest. “We cut from here to here” (he indicated from mid-clavicle to mid-clavicle) “and take it out. The scarring ranges from severe to minimal, depending on how well you heal.” 

“I’m going to have a scar? That people can see? On my throat?” 

He nodded. “You can wear turtlenecks or something.” 

Like this! I could be pretty like THIS! EVERY DAMN DAY!

So, from Doom & Gloom McGillicutty to All-Business Pete, we had ALL THE FRIENDLY DOCTORS. 

I went into the parking lot and made it to my car and WAILED. I had cancer! I was dying! Dying of cancer! All the cancer! I tried to call Dad but he was not home. I called Mom. Mom is not sympathetic to anything, from major paper cuts to broken arms (when I actually broke my arm, her response was, “Well, what the hell were you doing standing on a chair in the first place?”) so she was obviously not my first choice. However, she was a LITTLE sympathetic when I called her up in HYSTERICS all, “I AM DYING OF CANCERRRR and I need to have SURGERRYYYY” and there was weeping and snot was happening. Finally she managed to get out of me that I MIGHT not be dying of cancer, but that I did have to have surgery after all, so she was all, “Um, maybe stop crying in the parking lot, you have to get back to work now.” (SIDE NOTE: it is obvious I do not get my personality from my mom.) (Second SIDE NOTE: I might be a little melodramatic. But listen, you might be, too, if you were in your early 30s and dying of cancer that only a miniscule percentage of people get and were going to go through life wearing a collection of sad saggy turtleneck sweaters.) 

I love this so much I can’t even. Is one of us the FROG in this scenario? I AM THE FROG. I AM THE FROG.

So I spent the summer all cancered up and sure my thyroid was trying to kill me and all nervous. I went on two vacations. I was nervous the entire summer. The ENTIRE summer. In retrospect, I should have just had the damn thing out sooner, but, see, I was sure I was going to a., die on the operating table, or b., have to go through radioactive iodine therapy for all the cancer I no-doubt had, so my life would pretty much be over. 

I asked the doctor how I got this, and he said most people get this because they were exposed to radiation. “Were you exposed to radiation, or did you grow up around a toxic waste dump?” he said. Um. No. I told my brother this and his response was “Oh. Shit. I TOLD you not to pick up that glowing meteor we found in the woods and have it made into a locket.” And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how you know my brother and I are genetically related. 

Holy cow, glowing lockets are a THING. I found a crap-ton on Etsy. DON’T GET THEM YOU WILL NEED SURGERY YO!

I did all the research. Listen, don’t look up “thyroid removal scars.” OK, fine, here’s a sample of what I found. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I was pretty sure I was going to have this for the rest of my life; that is, if I survived. Which I was pretty sure I wouldn’t. 

Could be this…

…or this. Both super-pretty and not at all traumatic.

Also, I barely told anyone, because I was brought up that you don’t spread around your personal info. However, the people I told told EVERYONE, even when I told them not to, because apparently having medical gossip about people is like CASH MONEY BABY. So people I barely knew were coming up to me all, “Aw, how ARE you,” and I hate that shit so much. A theater person came up to me and said, “We need to talk” and pulled aside her big honking necklace and she had a huge scar and she was like, “I survived, so can you” and she had to have the crazy Hazmat suit therapy and she went on and on and ON about how the scar has affected her life and how she can never wear anything but turtlenecks or huge necklaces and then she said (which is still a joke between me and my friend K., who was there at the time) “I can’t believe you’re nervous about surgery. You have a STUD in your TONGUE and you’re being a baby about getting your THROAT SLIT?” Um. They’re not the same. At all, really. I was AWAKE for the tongue piercing, lady. Also, “throat slit?” No no no. Not the terminology to use, thanks. Now I’m imagining Dr. All-Business as Sweeney Todd and am MORE nervous. 

So the day of the surgery arrived. I was nervous. I made up a list of just-in-cases for my parents in case I died on the operating table because I watch a lot of medical dramas and that shit HAPPENS, yo. My parents came up because someone had to drive you to and from the hospital, and because they wanted to be there. I was fine with them NOT being there, because I was nervous enough, and seeing THEM be nervous was making it worse. I packed a bag of stuff for the hospital. I got my affairs in order. Away we went. 

Listen, this is known as one of the best hospitals in the area. You say the name of this hospital and people nod and are all, “Yep, that’s a good one.” So I was all prepared for good. 

We got there and because I was nervous and I hadn’t slept the night before and I was pretty sure I was going to die and this was pre-Twitter so I didn’t even have anyone to TALK to I started crying. Not all loud, just leaking? I don’t make sobby noises or anything. It’s what I do when I’m really nervous or upset. I leak. I can still talk and function, I’m just weeping while I do it. I couldn’t stop. This made the intake interview an adventure for the nurse asking the questions. 

Finally, they made me put on a hospital gown that was all open in the back (what’s the point of these things? My DAD was there. I don’t want my dad seeing my ass-side) and then wheeled me off. They totally gave my parents one of those Olive-Garden beepers for when I was done. So they’d know when there was a table ready, I guess. I WAS THE TABLE. 

Your table is ready. And by table, we mean we killed your daughter on the operating table. What, it’s KIND of a table. Same thing.

I got to the pre-op room which was a room full of equally nervous people (although I’m pretty sure I was the only one OPENLY WEEPING) and also there was a totally rude nurse who said “Why are you crying? You’re a grown-ass woman.” Um. That should have been a clue that this probably wasn’t going to go well. I wasn’t crying for EFFECT, lady. I couldn’t STOP crying. Also? “Grown-ass woman?” You’re a professional at work. This is how you talk at work? I mean, it’s how I talk at work (also, I use the f-word a lot, but that’s because I hate my job) but I’m not dealing with patients, now am I? 

When I Google Image Searched “grown-ass woman” this sultry photo of Ron Swanson came up. Who am I to argue with Google, I ask you? WHO?

So they put a needle in the back of my hand (SIDE NOTE: I bruise like a peach so that left bruises for weeks) and talked to me a little and said, “We’re going to give you something to calm you down” and I was like “ZOMG YES PLEASE AS YOU CAN SEE I CAN’T STOP CRYING ALL UP IN HERE” and then whatever they gave me was like a calming wave. Aah. Then the nurse was like, “I think you need a little more of that,” and I was all, “Yo, whatever, I’m cooooool” and then I woke up in a completely different room. TRICKERY! 

I was COUGHING AND COUGHING. No one warned me (I think someone was supposed to tell me that?) that they had to put a tube down my throat during surgery so I could breathe, and that when they remove it, it makes you cough and cough and COUGH and also it gives you a sore throat for like a week that hurts more than the healing does. I’ve talked to other people who’ve had surgery since and they all agree. Throat tube = the devil. 

The surgeon was standing there. King of bedside manner, this one. “Breathe,” he said, in a bored tone. 

I then said the two most intelligent things a person’s ever said when coming out of anesthesia: 

“Am I dead?” 

and

“Do I have all the cancer?” 

The doctor looked at me like maybe instead of a thyroidectomy he’d accidentally done a full frontal lobotomy and said, “Um, no, and we don’t know yet, we have to send your thyroid off for a biopsy, it’ll be a week or so.” 

“Can I see it?” I asked. (Listen, I love to see things. X-rays. Moles. Broken bones. Things that are not normally allowed to be seen? I totally dig that. How often does one get to see one’s own MUTINOUS THYROID?) 

“No,” he said. “No, you cannot.” 

(SIDE NOTE: because I love you, I’m not putting a photo I found online of a removed thyroid in here. It’s pretty icky. But also FASCINATING.)

That was disheartening. 

So then they wheeled me back to my room, and my parents rushed in with their Olive Garden table-is-ready flashy thing, which a nurse immediately took from them (probably because they needed it to tell someone else their table was ready) and I was still coughing and coughing and then the doctor left after hooking me up to the BIGGEST BAG OF IV FLUIDS EVER. Is “lactated ringer’s” (don’t even yell at me for that apostrophe, the internet says it belongs there) the funniest name for an IV drip solution ever? Yes. It’s also the name of my next band.  

See? There’s an apostrophe, I wasn’t making that shit up.

The point of lactated ringer’s is to replace whatever blood poured out of me during surgery with fluid, and also to make me pee like a racehorse. Every five minutes. For an hour. I have never had to pee so much in my life. Up and down and up and DOWN to the bathroom in my flappy hospital gown. So, Dad, hoped you liked seeing your grown-ass daughter’s panties REPEATEDLY. You might want to get a therapist for that. 

When the nurse came in I asked her if we could turn off the lactated ringer’s because it was obvious the doctor hadn’t removed my kidneys but she said no. Coldly. No sense of humor at all, these nurses. 

So the day passed, and my parents went and got me all the pudding (that’s a perk of the hospital – ALL THE PUDDING) and my incision didn’t even hurt but I kept touching the bandages and worrying what it would look like under there and there was a lot of dried blood all over and I was like, “well, turtlenecks for me. Also all the cancer.” 

ALL THE PUDDING. Listen, if you’re sick, you can tell your parents to bring you back all the pudding from the hospital cafeteria? AND THEY WILL. It’s like magic.

Then it was time for my parents to leave because it was night. A new patient was brought into my room. A girl in her early twenties. With about four other people. All of whom were on cell phones. Loudly. Well. Fun. There were SIGNS that said NO CELL PHONES but apparently I was in a room with a bunch of vocal illiterates. 

The nurse had to check on me every hour for my vital signs, in case I kicked it, I guess. I asked her if I could have a sleeping pill, because I was told they kept the medication I use in stock. She said she’d bring one in a minute and left. 

The girl in the bed on the other side of the curtain started vomiting. The people with her started screaming, “NURSE!” Vomit and blood started oozing on the floor onto my side of the room. So, that was nice and not at all worrisome and zombie-flu-indicatory. 

The nurse never brought my sleeping pill. When she came back the next time for my vitals, I reminded her. She said she’d be right back with it. Nope. 

The girl in the bed next to me began projectile vomiting. “I didn’t know people had that much blood in them!” one of the people with her mused loudly. “Shh, I’m trying to watch Animal Planet,” another one hissed. 

The nurse came back for another vitals check. I reminded her about the sleeping pill. “Someone already brought you that,” she said. I said no one had. “Says here on your chart they did,” she said, and left. What the hell am I supposed to do about that, argue? They’d probably lock me down on the psyche floor. In case they didn’t provide my pills, I’d stuffed some in my bag, even though they said DO NOT BRING ANY PILLS OF YOUR OWN. I totally took one of my OWN pills (like the drug addict I am, addicted to sleep, that’s me.) (SIDE NOTE: when I got my itemized bill from the insurance company, the hospital charged me for the pill they didn’t give me. LYING LIARS WHO LIE!!! INSURANCE FRAUD!!!) It didn’t help. Because of the loud people on the other side of the curtain and the projectile vomiting and the loud television they were listening to and their cell phone conversations and the nurses and doctors running in and out dealing with the vomiting of the blood. 

Finally they took her away to another floor, I assume the morgue, and a man came in and mopped the floor for like a year. Then it was quiet. I could sleep. Except for them coming and checking my vitals every hour.  

Oh, wait, no, I couldn’t sleep. Because then it was GOSSIP HOUR.

So I was lying there in my bed, attempting to sleep (and also? SO HOT. Because under the sheet on my bed, there was a RUBBER sheet. I assume in case I peed the bed. Which I haven’t done since I was 2, and probably won’t do again until I’m 82. But the side effect of rubber sheets is that they reflect all of your heat back at you like a little Easybake oven. SO HOT. I had cranked up my air conditioning but it wasn’t helping) and these two nurses came in. It wasn’t vitals check time so I didn’t know what they wanted. I pretended to be asleep.  

Like this only less surgery-y and more gossip-y.

They sat on my air conditioner and loudly said, “Whoo! It’s hot in the hospital today. This is the coolest room on the floor!” Then they GOSSIPED LOUDLY FOR AN HOUR. I’m not even kidding. I wish I was. They were about six inches from my knees and talking as loudly as they could. At one point, one of them said, “I can’t believe she can sleep through this! We’re being really loud! HA HA HA!” Yes, I know I should have said something. But what the hell was the point, they weren’t giving me my meds, they’d put me in a room with Regan from The Exorcist and her unable-to-modulate-the-volume-of-their-voice family, and I couldn’t sleep anyway. 

Like this. You remember this skit, right? I LOVED THIS. But not so much when I’m trying to sleep.

When the vitals nurse came in, the other two were all, “Oh, well, time for us to take off, I guess” and left. I had about three hours to myself. I gave up on trying to sleep and instead watched middle-of-the-night television. The Loudersons next door were right about Animal Planet. It was just about the only channel on television that wasn’t showing infomercials. I watched a lot of Animal Planet until my parents showed back up. 

The minute my parents showed up I buzzed the nurse and was all, “I’m ready to go home now. NOW. Ready to go home AT THIS EXACT TIME.” She was all, “Did you poop?”  

Now listen, how often are you asked if you pooped when you are a GROWN-ASS WOMAN? Apparently, after surgery, if you don’t poo, that’s a problem, because sometimes going under anesthesia does something to your pooing abilities, I don’t know. Luckily, I had the correct answer to this. 

“YES I POOPED,” I said, all proud of something a child can do. “IN THE TOILET. LIKE A BIG GIRL. I can go home now, yes?” 

“We have to wait for the doctor to round, then you can go home,” she said, and rolled her eyes and left. 

I told my parents about the night from hell. I don’t know that they believed me. My dad said, “Well, no one comes to the hospital to sleep.” “HOW DO THEY GET BETTER?” I asked. “They don’t, they just die here,” he said, looking around all mistrustfully. My dad’s  family doesn’t have the best track record with hospitals.  

The doctor finally came, and then I had to wait AGAIN, for the nurse to come (ALL THE WAITING) and then I could finally go home. I was told I could shower, and all the stitches were internal, so I just had to go back to the doctor in a week to get the butterfly bandages off and have the incision checked and then I’d be ok. 

Oh, also, I’d be on thyroid medication for the rest of my life, so when the apocalypse comes and we run out of medication, I’ll be one of the first to die. Dammit. And, AND, some of the side effects of not having a thyroid are that I have weird heat/cold issues (if it’s hot, I’m BURNING UP, if it’s cold, I’m FREEZING) and also I have the metabolism of a dead sloth. So that’s nice, I am sleepy all the time (still can’t sleep, it did nothing with my insomnia) and also I can’t seem to lose weight. YAY NO THYROID THANKS GENETICS. Also, I can no longer metabolize calcium, so have to take a billion calcium supplements a day and probably will get osteoporosis and also break a lot of bones in my dotage. YIPPEE SOMETHING ELSE TO LOOK FORWARD TO. 

(Also, my roommate at the time took much glee in the fact that one of the medications I might be prescribed went by the name “Armour Thyroid.” “It’s like a SUPERHERO MEDICATION!” she said. I unfortunately did not get the superhero medication and just got the plain old generic medication instead. I could use some ARMOUR THYROID about now, I think.)

ARMOUR THYROID! For when you want a SUPER PROTECTED THROATAL AREA!

I took a couple days off work and when I got back, the office gossip had found out what was up and told everyone I probably wouldn’t be back because I was dying of cancer (so it was like a game of telephone gone bad) so I had to deal with a lot of “how ARE you”s and that was annoying. I was fine. 

And when I got to the doctor’s office a week later and he took off the bandages? Nothing. A slight red line that’s faded into this: 

I drew you a helpful arrow, because otherwise? YOU CAN’T SEE IT. My surgeon rocked, yo. (The other lines you can see are WRINKLES. I am OLD.) Also, no, I have no idea why the middle of my neck is yellow like that. It doesn’t look like that in real life. Pollen? Camera flash? Who the hell knows.

You can barely see it if at all. I can feel it if I run my fingers along it, but you have to be pretty close to see it. (No one gets that close to me without me screaming stranger danger, promise.) For all of his negative bedside manner, the doctor did good work in not making me look like Frankenstein’s monster. (The first time I saw my brother after surgery, he asked where the bolts in my neck were. I was so relieved not to be dead, I laughed like a moron.) 

Aren’t you so glad I didn’t end up looking like THIS? FIRE BAD.

And, no. It wasn’t cancer. I didn’t have to have Hazmat suit radioactive iodine therapy. It was pre-cancerous – the nodules apparently would have turned cancerous, left to their own devices – but we caught it early enough and removed the whole thing and all is well, lemon drops. Other than the fun side effects mentioned above, I suppose. 

So! Yes. It is IMPOSSIBLE to get a good night’s sleep in the hospital; I can attest to that. Also, doctors are kind of sucky; my body is trying to kill me (but I keep FOILING it); and nurses are even suckier than doctors. Also, a human can vomit up a LOT of blood and keep on ticking like a Timex, who knew? And lactated ringer’s makes you pee like a mofo. 

However, I’ll take a little more of whatever was in that IV the first time around. It made things super smoooothhhhh. It was like jazz in an injection. Aahhhhh.

Happy Friday! Look at that, we made it to the weekend, how’d that happen? HUZZAH!


Show me that smile again; don’t waste another minute on your homophobia.

OK, we’re talking about celebrity shenanigans today, so buckle up, kiddos. I don’t want to get pulled over, seriously, cops get really mad about not having your children in carseats. Remember when Brit-Brit was all “That’s how we DO it! We’re COUNTRY!” when she was driving around with her kid on her lap and got pulled over? SO PUT ON YOUR SEATBELTS. I can’t afford a ticket right now.

Oh, I didn’t do my daily “how’s Amy’s sanity” check-in. Let’s do that. Amy’s sanity is…somewhat intact? Four more days of work. The end is in sight! Sort of! People are getting testy testy TESTY over there. Whoo! However, I have yet to bathroom-weep, even though they stole my Twitter. I’m kind of irrationally proud of that. Which means that probably tomorrow, there will be bathroom-weeping, but that’s the way it goes, I suppose.

So, yeah, it’s going. People who do such things, if you are so inclined, please continue to send me adorably supportive and/or sarcastically bitter emails, which make me laugh and feel like I’m in a warm bubble bath of love. Thanks ever so.

Anyway, so today, let’s talk about celebrities and the shenanigans they’re currently causing. What’s that? Do I think I’m TMZ? Who cares? Oh, no one, probably, and no, I don’t think I’m TMZ, at least not the last time I checked. But I’m currently incapable of thinking too deeply, and when I want to turn off my brain: CELEBRITY NEWS.

First: Oh, WTF, Courtney Love. DUBYA TEE EFF.

This is how I like to remember her. All adorable loud Riot Grrrl. This was my favorite iteration of Courtney.

OK, so I know, I KNOW, that Courtney Love is a hot mess. I know that. I KNOW. I am not unintelligent. However, here’s the scoop.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I love, and will always love, Courtney Love. Even when she’s being an utter looney and doing horrible things and being destructive and hateful and crazy heaped on top of crazy topped with a cherry of crazy.

In one of the darkest times of my life, Hole was the soundtrack. And Hole, say what you will, helped me keep it together. And, even though she’s got major issues, I feel a kinship to Courtney Love. I’m not saying I think we could be BFFs and hang out and yell at hairdressers together or whatever, but I just feel BAD for her. She’s SO MESSED UP. There’s drugs and a dead husband and her own daughter doesn’t seem to want anything to do with her and mental issues and she doesn’t ever seem to get any help, or if she does, it doesn’t seem to take, does it?

Anyway, her latest thing (ugh, SIGH, Courtney) is that she went on Twitter (AGAIN) and ranted and raved that Dave Grohl was hitting on Frances Bean, and she wanted to shoot him, and that he was in love with Kurt the whole time. And it was, as always, typo-ridden and just over-the-top-weird.

And Frances Bean responded with a very adult, “Um, that never happened, Twitter should ban my mom.” Only, she said, “While I’m generally silent on the affairs of my biological mother, her recent tirade has taken a gross turn.” Her BIOLOGICAL mother. Ugh. OUCH. Seriously, say what you want, but Courtney did seem to, to the best of her abilities, love her daughter. Who has completely cut her off, apparently. This is heartbreaking.

Also, have we SEEN Frances Bean lately? GORGEOUS, you guys. Utterly stunning.

Anyway. I don’t know what the solution here is, honestly. I mean, it’s not up to me to solve the world’s problems, so who cares if I have a solution. I’m not Dr. Phil. But this is just the saddest. And I’m pretty sure one of these days we’re going to hear that Courtney Love is dead, you know? It’s surprising it hasn’t happened yet. And it will make me really sad. Listen, I’m not saying my heart is intelligent? Quite the opposite. It’s very, very stupid. But I have a Courtney Love thing. You know how I’m relentlessly loyal to my people? Courtney Love is my people. Sorry if that is an embarrassment. But my heart hurts for her. She’s like that kooky cousin you kind of shake your head over, but you still love. And she helped get me through a bad time. So, yeah. I’ll always love her. And worry about her. A lot.

On to similarly upsetting topics.

KIRK EFFING CAMERON.

OK, so you know Kirk Cameron, right? Growing Pains. Mike Seaver. Best friend named Boner. Always getting into kooky jams and scrapes, but always learning important lessons. About LIFE.

SO SEXY, right? I mean, the muscle shirt, and the red pants, and the feathery hair? That jacket won't even STAY on those intensely muscled arms. TOO SEXY NO NO NO.

Well! Let’s play “where are they now,” shall we?

So the Kirk Cameron you see above, with the pants of redness and the jacket that is just TOO COOL to be worn, just all slung CASUALLY over his shoulder all sexy-like, has turned into this:

Also, that's a lot of forehead, Captain Homophobe.Guess there's no feathering that hair now, yeah?

Kirk Cameron became a born-again Christian. Now, I have nothing against born-again Christians, per se. As long as they aren’t loud. And hatey. But Cameron? He’s the loudest of the loud and the hatiest of the hatey.

On Piers Morgan in early March, Kirk Cameron “explained that he believes homosexuality is ‘unnatural… I think that it’s detrimental, and ultimately destructive to so many of the foundations of civilization.'”

Because, you know, there’s no one who knows the mind of God more than a born-again Christian self-righteous asshat. AND, the mind of God is apparently FILLED WITH HATRED AND JUDGERY.

Also, he has this website where you can learn about things like:

  • His super-good movies, where he refuses to kiss on-screen, because that’s breaking his marriage vows! Apparently, everything he does on screen is for REALSIES, you guys. Also, you can learn about his role in those Left Behind movies that my mom used to be obsessed with and that gave me the willies. Because if I end up left behind with judgey assholes like the Kirkster, I’m going to hitch a ride with one of the four horsemen right out of Dodge, no joke.
  • His ministry, where you can “break out of your comfort zone and share the everlasting gospel with atheists, agnostics, cult members, and family members – it is more of a thrill than bull-riding or sky-diving!”
  • How his words were TWISTED by the EVIL PIERS MORGAN! Who is probably AN INSTRUMENT OF THE DEVIL! And how he regrets NONE OF WHAT HE SAID! However, no one should mistreat the gays or the bisexuals. They should just say things like how unnatural they are. That’s not “mistreating” them. That’s just “professing his faith.” (I don’t know where he stands on transgender folk. HOW WILL I SLEEP TONIGHT KIRK.)
  • How he’s doing some sort of tent-revival about how to save your marriage! WON’T THAT BE A HOOT!
  • A video where Anderson Cooper interviews Kirk Cameron about what he thinks about that time all those birds died! (Spoiler alert: Kirk Cameron thinks the gays did it with their gay thought-beams of gayness. JUST KIDDING. He has no idea. Because he is NOT A SCIENTIST. Also, Anderson Cooper looked disgusted throughout this interview. Smart man, that Anderson Cooper.)
  • He has six kids. Has he mentioned? Six. Hey, he has six kids. Can he mention it again? SIX KIDS. (It’s because he doesn’t believe in birth control. You know. Because of JESUS.)

Alright, let’s just get this out of the way right now: Kirk Cameron, I never thought you were hot. I always thought you had an oddly-shaped head, and I’ve never been able to trust a man who uses that much product in his hair. I was all about Sean Astin when I was young. Sean Astin and Ralph Macchio. I know, looking back, these are also not the smartest choices, but at least they haven’t turned out to be hatemongering douchemonsters.

If you were a true Christian, you would not go around furthering an agenda of hate. You would love everyone. You say you’re just going by the Bible. Right? OK, I can play that game, too. I taught churchschool, Poindexter. I know my Bible. How about this: John 13:34-35, New International Version (NIV): 34 “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. 35 By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

Are we ignoring this one for the “NO GAYS NO GAYS” one? Because I think, were Jesus here standing in front of us right now, and were given the Sophie’s choice of “Hey, Jesus, you get to pick one of these edicts, but ONLY ONE, so choose wisely: a., ALL GAYS ARE EVIL BAD EVIL BAD FOREVER EW EW EW, or b., As I have loved you, so you must love one another. So, which’ll it be, Jesus old buddy old pal?” I’m pretty sure you and I BOTH know, Cameron, which one he’d choose. Right? And it wouldn’t be the one you’re spouting hate about all around the town. I think Jesus leaned a little more toward the love and a little less toward the judgey hate. Also, now, correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t there a “Let he who is without sin among you be the first to cast a stone?” in the Bible? I’m pretty sure there was. And I think we all know the outcome. NO ONE WAS WITHOUT SIN. Including you, Cameron. INCLUDING YOU. I mean, your crimes against fashion in the 80s ALONE are enough to condemn you to at LEAST a few eternities in one of the minor circles of Hell once you perish, I think we can all agree?

Anyway, I’ve decided there’s more than a little a “methinks the lady doth protest too much” going on here, especially once this study came out the other day: Study Finds Homophobes Often Have Repressed Homosexual Tendencies.

I mean, I kind of always KNEW this? But I love that science backed it up, finally. I’m not going to recap this. It’s totally worth the click. It’s not going to give you a virus. But here’s a teaser sentence: “the study shows homophobia as a defensive response to suppressed feelings.” So the next time you come across a violent homophobe and you think, hmm, why so homophobic? Yeah. There’s probably something more going on there. Like you always suspected. You can smile to yourself, a smile of knowing all the knowledge. Science backs you up.

In happier news, Cameron’s Growing Pains co-stars do NOT stand behind his rant. They were solidly “no no no” about it when it came out. So apparently he did not learn ANYTHING from the Seavers, and there needs to be a Very Special Reunion Episode of Growing Pains where they have an intervention and Mike comes out of the closet and all the Seavers nod knowingly and say, “Gah, FINALLY, Mike!”

Also, in related news, this happened today, and it made me insanely happy. But, since Funny or Die and WordPress apparently are mortal enemies, I can’t embed it, even though I’ve tried for like twenty minutes and I’m close to tears. So you have to click. It’s funny, I promise. Even though I’m so mad at it right now I could throw a ninja star at it.

OK. It’s late, I’m tired, I’m cranky as hell, and I want to try to get some sleep that’s not interrupted by panic attacks, what do you say?

Happy Friday, all. Love your faces. Four more days, four more days.


Not now, Panda. Try again in late spring. I SAID NO, PANDA!

OK, first, you know where I am right now?

In my living room. IN MY LIVING ROOM.

And what am I doing?

WRITING ON MY LAPTOP ON THE INTERWEBS.

My office sent me on a random errand this afternoon, and I thought, hey, I think there’s a Time Warner office over in that area. So I checked. And there WAS. About five minutes AWAY. So I  printed out directions and I ran my errand and went to the office and listen, that guy did NOT want to give me my router. HE DID NOT. Because apparently I was supposed to bring in my old router for swapsies. But I didn’t know that. But I used my most cajoling voice and I PREVAILED.

So I’m pretty sure this is what my life is going to be like from now on:

I AM LIVING IN THE FUTURE.

I’m pretty sure my flying car will be in the mail any day now.

Anyway, so I was thinking, you know what we need more of around these here parts?

Talk of animal sex.

And don’t you even WORRY! I’ve got you COVERED!

Today, I found this article, which is all ABOUT animal sex.

I know, it’s from the Christian Science Monitor, which even though it sounds like some sort of wizard magic publication, seems to be a real thing. Who knew?

Don’t worry, yahoos, I’ll recap it. I know you hate to be clicky.

So we all love pandas, right? They are the cutest. Here, I’ll show you one.

Look at the little wee TONGUE! Aw.

Now, zoos have pandas. And zoos want MORE pandas. So they want pandas to get it ON.

Pandas are not cooperating.

Also, pandas are endangered. There are only about 3,500 pandas in the whole WORLD, Wikipedia tells me. That makes me sad. (But not as sad as Sad Owl? WHICH ANDREAS TOLD ME YESTERDAY WAS A STUFFED ANIMAL. Listen, I knew it looked wonky, but I wanted to believe in the magic of Sad Owl. I was very Fox Mulder about Sad Owl. But Andreas – very nicely, of course, I’ve never known Andreas to do anything NOT nicely – told me it was not real.)

This tweet made me laugh so hard I snorted. Look how nice he’s being! The “it’s pink and furry” part was the best. I keep thinking of poor Andreas sitting in his home just shaking his head over me and laughing a little.

(Also, BFF texted me asking if I knew it was stuffed, and told me he, ALSO, thought it was real at first. So I don’t feel so bad. I’m in good company.)

Whoa, off-topic. OK. Pandas. So we have these endangered adorable pandas. And the zoos want them to have ALL THE SEX. But the pandas! They are NOT COOPERATING! Why is that?

“Panda breeding is a tricky business. Females are in the mood for only one to three days each year.”

ZOMG. OK, so ladies, the next time some guy is all, “YOU ARE NEVER IN THE MOOD,” please, PLEASE bring up the pandas. One to three days a YEAR. A YEAR! Good GRAVY, lady-pandas! That is VERY SELECTIVE! No WONDER pandas are endangered!

And, AND, they tend to breed between March 22 and April 15. WHAT? Not ONLY is it one to three days a year, but it’s RIGHT AT THE END OF TAX SEASON! No one’s in the mood then, pandas. NO ONE. I’m telling you right now, Robert Downey Jr. could come to my house and then call Jason Bateman AND Dr. Spencer Reid to come over and they could all say, “Amy, let’s have all the sex” and I’d say, “I’m so sorry, but my lady parts are very tired right now just like the rest of me and I could not pay you the attention you deserve, maybe come back in mid-May, that’d be awesome, thanks.” TAX SEASON IS NOT SEXY-TIME.

But don’t you worry, pandas. Scientist-types decided, hey, let’s look into MALE pandas, see what the deal is with THEM.

“The researchers found that several months before the female pandas enter estrus, the males are getting ready. It’s probable that sperm production increases for this extended period of time to accommodate the females’ brief and unpredictable window of sexual interest.”

WHOO! So male pandas are sperm-production MACHINES for MONTHS, waiting for their lady-friends to enter their 1-3 day window of sexytime. Also, how many blogs did you read today that had the word “estrus” in them? I bet not lots. Also, “brief and unpredictable window of sexual interest.” This is a perfect phrase for a lot of my past relationships. Only throw in “inexplicable.” That makes it a TRULY perfect phrase.

So there’s the story of the panda. I kind of like the panda more now. That lady panda, she’s a tough cookie! And that poor male panda. All cranking up the sperm production, waiting for the end of tax season.

So then we hear from the Lincoln Park Zoo. The Lincoln Park Zoo is trying to get the animals to mate, too. They are SO SERIOUS ABOUT IT that they are working with a special center. A center JUST FOR ANIMAL BONING. It is called the Population Management Center. This article calls it “an advanced animal match.com” which is totally the funniest mental image I’ve had ALL DAY and what if they blind date and they show up and they were NOT as they purported to be, just like on the real Match.com, and what were SUPPOSED to be two giraffes were really an orangutan and a flamingo? And would they meet for coffee? Would it be at Starbucks? I WANT TO WATCH THAT DATE.

Also, we learn that at the Lincoln Park Zoo, they have an armadillo named Meatball. I don’t know if that’s really the best name for an armadillo. I think all armadillos names should be Leprosy. Ever since I found out about the leprous armadillos I’ve been a little skeeved out, to tell you the truth.

This article is full of unintentional hilarity. For example, this: “It’s still a big mystery to us,” Bernier said. “For armadillos you can pick up and move them [if the match is unsuccessful]. Tigers get aggressive. You need to know the background.”

HEE! OK, so moving nonsexy armadillos (watch out for the leprosy!) = FUNNY. Moving nonsexy tigers =SO FUNNY. They would TOTALLY eat your face.

STOP TOUCHING ME WHEN I AM NOT IN THE MOOD.

THEN, THEN, we have THIS. Now, this is VERY exciting.

Florida zoos may soon be allowed to breed herds of animals on state lands.

“What kinds of animals, Amy?” I can hear you asking.

Ready?

“Zebras, donkeys, cattle/bison, rhinoceroses, camels, hippos, tapirs, goats, pigs, sheep, giraffes, okapis, moose, elk, deer, antelopes, and gazelles.”

ZOMG HOW EXCITING IS THIS.

There are going to be CRAZY WILD ANIMALS running ALL AROUND IN FLORIDA.

Giraffes, you guys! GIRAFFES! Random GIRAFFES!

"Hi, Martha, I'm just a little lost on my way to Disney and HOLY SHIT ARE THOSE GIRAFFES?!?!?"

Now, in sad news, SOME people don’t WANT random giraffes. WHAT? I KNOW.

“But to former Southwest Florida Water Management District director E.W. ‘Sonny’ Vergara, the thinking behind CS/HB 1117 and its Senate companion, SB 1456, can be summed up by two words: ‘truly boneheaded.’

“Laurie MacDonald of Defenders of Wildlife calls the proposal ‘the Jurassic Park bill’ because of what could happen if some of the zoo animals get loose. ‘It’s possible these nonnative wildlife species could cause damage that would be economically and environmentally costly,’ she said.”

ZOMG IT’S JURASSIC PARK! The giraffes are going to eat the scientists and Jeff Goldblum’s going to look so quirky and hot and…and…VELOCIRAPTORS!

Upon further reading of this article, this zoo is shadytown, you guys. Like, remember that guy who let all the animals go, and then killed himself, in Ohio that time? This zoo sounds like it’s run by THAT guy.

Here are some things they’re saying the zoo did:

“Five years ago a zookeeper forgot to lock a tiger’s cage. The tiger escaped and lunged at the zoo’s veterinarian. The zoo’s then-CEO gunned the animal down before it could harm anyone.

“Then it turned out the CEO, Lex Salisbury, had transferred more than 200 of the zoo’s animals to a private wildlife farm he owned in Polk County. A loss of accreditation ensued for the zoo and for Killmar, who had approved some of the transfers. Ultimately both were reinstated after Salisbury’s forced resignation.”

Um. I don’t know if I want Lex Luthor running my wild giraffe Jurassic-Park zoo.

SO! What have we learned about animal sex today, ladies and gentlemen and Ding Dong Joe?

  • Pandas are awesome, and picky, and only have sex during tax season
  • Don’t name armadillos Meatball, name them Leprosy
  • Don’t go into a sexually-frustrated tiger’s cage
  • GIRAFFES GIRAFFES EVERYWHERE GIRAFFESSSSS
  • Remember to lock your tiger cages or they will eat your zookeeper’s face right off

Hey, it’s Friday! Happy Friday, all my little cool cats and kittens! Enjoy your weekends! I’m thinking I’m going to be PLAYING with my LAPTOP. YAHOO!


Oh, don’t deceive me; oh never leave me. How could you use a poor maiden so?

Two things! Does that make this Random Crap Friday? I don’t think two things is so much “random crap” as it is “neither of these is long enough for an Amy-length blog post on its own.” So…DOUBLE CRAP FRIDAY! Ew, gross.

So first, apparently, I’m dying.

What? What’s this “hypochondria” of which you speak? Surely you can’t mean ME.

Remember I had to have the procedure so my stupid uterus would maybe stop killing me which will, indubitably, lead to ALL THE SEX? Well, apparently what they fail to tell you is that it also leads to ALL THE EXCRUCIATING PAIN. They said I’d be twingey for a couple of days, so fine, whatever, I was all stiff-upper-lippy for a couple of days, close your eyes, think of England, whatever. But then a couple of days turned into a couple of WEEKS and I finally the other day was all “ENOUGH WITH THIS NONSENSE” because I’m pretty sure if you take too many ibuprofen your liver falls out of your nose. What? That might be a thing, you don’t know.

So I called the doctor’s office, and after a session of phone tag SO RIDICULOUS it could have been a sitcom episode ALL ON ITS OWN, I finally got through to the nurse.

Me: So, I’m kind of in the most pain.
Nurse: When did you have the procedure done? Pain is normal.
Me: Pain is…normal? I don’t think that’s…ever…the case…whatever. Over two weeks ago.
Nurse: OVER TWO WEEKS AGO GOOD GRIEF THAT SHOULD NOT STILL BE HAPPENING! I mean, um. Ha ha. Maybe come in, like, IMMEDIATELY, we’ll check you out.

THAT inspired confidence, let me tell you.

So I went in. An actual quote from one of the people checking me out: “Your ovaries are in the right place.” WHAT? Was there a possibility they WEREN’T GOING TO BE? Where might they be? My LUNGS? Good gracious now I’m worried about ovary migration.

Then I got put in a waiting room and seriously, doctor’s office, WHAT IS HAPPENING. You put me in a room, you tell me to take off my pants, and then you DON’T SHOW UP FOR HALF AN HOUR. This is the worst. It’s like a fraternity initiation prank. This time there were magazines, so I read this weird magazine that I think the local college produces. Some of the articles: how to analyze the people you kiss (I wish I could tell you what the answer to the analysis was, but it wanted you to buy some book for further information, I was not impressed at this bait-and-switchery); how to make these totally impossible-looking chocolate cakes with like two pages of instructions (no, thanks, that’s what cake mix is for, I’m not embarrassed) and an interview with someone that supposedly “made it big in Hollywood” but really she had tiny roles in three indie films, and I know about seventeen people LOCALLY who’ve done better than that, so really, if that’s making it big, I know a lot of BIG STAAAHHHHS. Then I finished that magazine so I read a really old People magazine. People magazine makes me sad for the state of the world. It really does. It’s like a step above a tabloid, and not even a big step. A step-let. A baby step. Who reads this, except people forced to in waiting rooms? Also, there were a lot of photos of Bieber with his shirt off frolicking in the water with some underaged chick I didn’t recognize. So I was sitting there semi-nude looking at semi-nude photos of the Biebs and this was all very disturbing on a lot, lot, LOT of levels.

Then the next person who very much wanted to see my cooch came in and I explained the situation and her exact words were, “In very, very, VERY few cases, the pain can last a very long time. There’s no way to tell how long it will last. It really just depends on how long you can stand it before we do something about it.”

WHAT THE HELL. Also, don’t you totally think it’s awesome I won the one in a million pain lottery and am one of the ONLY PEOPLE who has PERSISTENT PAIN from this? I mean, look at those odds I just beat! Ka-pow! I’m like a pain SUPERHERO.

She also made these fakey-fake sad faces. I could have made better sad faces. Yes, I know, I have theater training, but seriously, lady, practice in front of a mirror, or something. Those look like you just bit a lemon. Or you’re reacting how you THINK someone who just bit a lemon would react if you grew up in a closet and never had human interaction.

So then she’s all, “I can’t do anything, I’m just a NP, you’ll have to come back next week and see a doctor.”

This is totally a scam to get my co-pays and you people are all going out dancing with my co-pay money, don’t you even deny it.

She also asked how much ibuprofen I was taking, and when I told her, she said if I wanted, instead of taking 2 every 4 hours, I could take 4 every 8 hours. You know, shake things up a little. Variety is the spice of life. All that jazz. Jazz hands.

So next week I have to go BACK and see Dr. Ernie and explain all OVER again how I’m in total pain and I’m pretty much buying all the ibuprofen the Rite Aid has to offer and I think they think I’m a junkie over there. An IBROPROFEN junkie. How much fun is THAT? The most. THIS IS TOTALLY THE MOST FUN.

AND, quick update, right before I was all, “THIS POST IS WRITTEN AND READY TO POST,” I got home and had a message from the doctor’s office (even though they KNOW to call me at work during business hours) saying to call them urgently at the office. So this is it, folks, my test results came back and my ovaries are really in my lungs after all. It’s been nice knowing you all.

UPDATE THE SECOND. This is even BETTER, no joke. So I called them this morning from work. Left a message. Prepared for kooky phone tag hijinks. They actually called me right back. The test results came back, and I might or might not have some sort of infection. Might or might not? you ask. YES. Because the test results said “there was neither enough nor too little bacteria present to indicate the lack or presence of an infection.” WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN. Was my test slide like this barren wasteland, with a tumbleweed whirling by every once in a while? Did they take the test wrong? IS MY OVARY IN MY LUNG OR NOT? The nurse said I could either come back in today for a re-test (I think because they want to try out that new jazzy dance club that just opened and need my co-pay) or I can wait until Tuesday when I see Dr. Ernie. “Well, am I going to die, or not die, in the next five days, due to bacteria that may, or may not, be present?” I asked her. “No, it’s not the kind of infection that kills you, if you have it,” she said. “Also, don’t be worried. It’s not an STD.” OH THANKS LADY FOR IMPLYING I WAS WORRIED ABOUT THAT. “I wasn’t worried,” I said. “Because if that’s an STD, that’s one wait-and-bide-your-time STD, whoo!” She was silent. This confused her. “I’ll just wait til Tuesday,” I said. She agreed that was a good move and we parted ways.

WHAT WILL HAPPEN. Tune in NEXT WEEK for the next installed of “My ovary might be in my lung (subtitled: Bacteria? Bacteria? Where are you, bacteria?)”

SECOND!

You all know my Science Fellow, right? Right. Andreas! My Science Fellow!

(Are you totally all blown away with the new graphic? Yeah, I can’t take even the slightest bit of credit for this. Andreas made it himself. The last one was the suck.)

Listen, did you all SEE in the COMMENTS the other day that Andreas TOTALLY GOT TO NAME NEW SPECIES?

No, I’m totally serious. THERE IS A BOOK. With his NAME on it. I know! You people thought I was screwing around when I set out to get a science fellow. NO SIRREE BOB! I have a VERY SERIOUS SCIENCE FELLOW!

Here’s his comment when I geeked out when he randomly mentioned that he got to name a new species:

“I did too get to name new species! It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, though. Quite laborious, actually. And no, you don’t name them after yourself – that’s frowned upon.

This was during my time as an evolutionary biologist in Sweden, and I was studying a genus of dark-winged fungus gnats called Pseudozygoneura. That’s ‘Fake bended vein’ in English, referring to the genus Zygoneura with its distorted wing-vein (i.e. Pseudozygoneura looks like Zygoneura but is not, in fact, Zygoneura).

There were only a couple of species of Pseudozygoneura known to science when I started, but we discovered 40-50 new ones from all around the tropics during the next few years. And they all had to be described, illustrated and named (By the way: illustrating 1-2mm long dark-winged fungus gnats is HARD!). So, you try to come up with descriptive names if possible, or perhaps a name referring to the location the species was discovered. Or even a name describing what you felt when discovering it.

So it involves a coming up with a phrase that could be translated to Latin or latinised Greek, and didn’t sound like crap. Ideally, they should be easily understood by other scientists, and not make you look like an ignorant fool. A couple of names I still remember is Pseudozygoneura facilis, Pseudozygoneura consilia and Pseudozygoneura flagelloparva. The work was later published and can be found referred to by Googling ‘Hippa, Vilkamaa & Heinakroon’, although I’ve never actually read the finished article.”

No, seriously, this is just the coolest thing ever, right? How many people do YOU know that got to name new species? He’s totally being all downplayey about it now but that’s because he’s cool like that. This is just about the most exciting thing.

If I got to name a new species, I would be spectacularly bad at it, because I would not be able to stay on task. Like, at all. And I’d SO want my name to be part of it. And I’d want something like “shiny” to be in there. Because if I discovered a new species, no matter what it was, it would totally be shiny to me. Even if it was a new species of leech or bacteria or mosquito or something. Oh, crap, you KNOW I’d name that species “something something ZOMG” right? I think they’d revoke my science license. Also, you DID notice that it says “how you felt when discovering it,” right? That’s the best. “I kind of have to pee”-fly. “The scientist at the desk next to me is just about the cutest I mean just LOOK at his GLASSES”-worm.

Anyway, I’m fairly sure other blogs are going to attempt to woo Andreas from me. I’ve really got to step up my game, here. Twizzlers just aren’t going to cut it. I’ve got to think of a better payment for his services rendered. Andreas? What do you want to assure your continued duties as the coolest science fellow to ever exist? Please bear in mind I’m very poor. But I’m crafty! No, not like a pickpocket. Like, I can make CRAFTS. I mean, they might be out of popsicle sticks, though. I can crochet! I can totally cut shit out of magazines and glue it places! I AM CRAFTY ANDREAS DON’T LEAVE ME!

Seriously, how lost and bereft in a sea of science info would we all be without Andreas? I’d be putting up that fish were mammals or something, you know I would. WE NEED ANDREAS. Without Andreas, this blog is just a BLOG where I am FOOLISH. WITH Andreas, it kind of, if you squint, can maybe be taken seriously on alternate Wednesdays when the moon is full.

So YAY ANDREAS for being TOTALLY THE MOST IMPRESSIVELY SCIENCY!

Happy weekend, everyone! What am I doing? Oh, nothing much, no big, just SEEING THE NEPHEW, that’s all. I KNOW, I KNOW! I got an email late in the day saying The Nephew and his mom were taking a last-minute trip down to visit this weekend and did I have any free time this weekend? DO I HAVE ANY FREE TIME??? Well, no, not really, but hell, I’ll create some out of stardust and unicorn rainbows if it means I get to see my best little guy. I AM SO EXCITED.

Also, I’m going to watch Team America and live-tweet it for Ken and Jim because they said I had to. I’m pretty sure they want to see how embarrassed I’ll get about puppet sex. SPOILER ALERT I’m a total prude. The answer is, probably the most embarrassed. And probably a little grossed out. OH! And also I’m going to the movies with friend C. and also maybe to dinner. We have many choices – I think it’s down to Hugo, Wanderlust, The Artist, or The Descendants. I’ll keep you posted. FUN AWAITS! THE NEPHEWWWWWWWW!


The Nephew: well on his way to becoming the best ultimate fighter that’s ever been.

Friday! I am seeing a play tonight, which is totally exciting. Also, we got ALL THE SNOW over the past two days. ALL the snow. Like, a FOOT. This makes some people happy and some people insane. It just makes me tired because who wants to clean off their car? Not this lady, that’s who. Blergh. Also, everyone, everyone, EVERYONE has forgotten how to drive in it – understandable, we’ve only had a couple days of snow this winter – so they’re either right on my bumper (HELLO! WHY SO CLOSE?) or they’re putter-assing along like they have ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD. Either way, it makes me want to stab someone in the eyehole.

I got some Nephew news the other day. Which is always happifying, seriously. First, THE NEPHEW might be coming to visit this VERY MONTH! No, not alone, his mom is bringing him. He’s still too little to travel alone, don’t be crazy, someone would kidnap him right off the Greyhound. But before the month is out, I MIGHT SEE THE NEPHEW. Not that I’m at all excited about that or anything, no no, not ME. Not that when I call my parents and he’s visiting and I hear him in the background my whole heart just leaps in my chest because he’s my favorite person in the whole of persondom. I mean, if you wanted just an EXAMPLE. Of my excitement. That’s all.

His mom emailed me to tell me that I might see him this month (NOT THAT I AM AT ALL EXCITED ABOUT THAT SQUEE) and this was in her email (sorry, K., totally stealing you verbatim from your email, couldn’t help it, too damn cute):

Have you heard what he wants to be when he grows up?
“Mommy, I want to be a fire station when I grow up and fight people”.
“Do you mean you want to be a firefighter and help fight fires”?
“No mommy I don’t want to fight fires I want to fight PEOPLE “!!!!

So apparently, The Nephew is going to be a building when he grows up, and also maybe an ultimate fighter. I like that a lot. Those are lofty goals, my little buddy. LOFTY. Although I don’t know if I’m on board with the ultimate fighter thing, because if anyone hit him in the ring I’d be getting in the ring all crazy-eyed and, “WTF??? Did you just smack THE NEPHEW? Who the hell do you think you ARE? That is NOT ALLOWED MISTER.” Then the referee would have to remove me. And probably his opponent would be crying shame-tears. So probably The Nephew’s career would not be getting off to a stellar start, you know?

Also, my parents took him to Ash Wednesday mass last week, and that’s the mass (in case some of you are not Catholic babies like I am, or just not aware of the fun of Ash Wednesday, where you totally get DOOR PRIZES) where you go up at one point in the service and get ashes on your forehead as a sign of mourning and repentance and to mark the first day of Lent. So the priest put ashes on my dad’s forehead, and my dad was holding The Nephew, and the priest put ashes on The Nephew’s little wee forehead, and The Nephew looked at my dad’s forehead, and realized that he, too, had black smut on HIS head, and said, right out loud, “I don’t want DIRT on my FACE!” Seriously, I don’t know how people dealing with him on a regular basis aren’t constantly cracking up in inappropriate places, like church. I’d be cracking up regularly. He’s just about the funniest to me. Plus, you have to be aware he doesn’t even KNOW he’s funny. He says these things with a little serious-face. It’s the best. Also, apparently he’s very stubborn and “I do it MYSELF!”-y, so when I told my mom it’s obvious that he has some of my DNA in there, she sighed and said, “Yes, apparently so, poor kid.” POOR KID? That is LUCKY. That is the BEST. He’s like a PIONEER with his self-reliance. Yes, yes, it will also totally get him in trouble with THE MAN, no doubt, sorry about that, Nephew, but keep in mind your aunt will always be the most proud! And will always have bail money, if necessary! And band-aids! And just remember – you can still be valedictorian, even if you chuck your calculator at your physics teacher’s head and make him bleed because he locked you outside in an ice storm and watched you get soaked through the window by the door, laughing, because he wanted to “see what you looked like in a wet t-shirt.” THIS REALLY HAPPENED I AM NOT EVEN JOKING AND I WAS TOTAL SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD JAILBAIT. Also, if your physics teacher ever says this to you, Nephew, please come talk to me. I know some places we can bury the body. NO ONE HAS TO KNOW. JUST BETWEEN US KIDDO.

So, there’s the haps on The Nephew front. In short, he really is just the best thing.

Let’s see, what else is shaking. Oh, in case you’re NOT obsessed with my comments like I am, Andreas has chosen an official moniker, and will henceforth be known as the official Lucy’s Football Science Fellow. Which I like very much. Doesn’t it sound mega-classy? I think there should be a badge or something that goes with that. How do all of you people make those fancy badges, anyway? I think you’re all magic, I don’t know how you do that shit.

OH SNAP. I totally FIGURED THAT SHIT OUT. Also? I totally know how to make LOLcats now. LOOK OUT INTERWEBS. (PS, I am not in love with that graphic. I WILL TRY HARDER NEXT TIME ANDREAS.)

Oh, also, Andreas does not know what Twizzlers are! You GUYS! Don’t you think it’s totally a travesty? Andreas, these are Twizzlers: 

(They aren’t even CALLING them licorice anymore, have you all noticed this? Candy twists. This is just sad. Maybe they never called them licorice, I don’t know. I always call them licorice. Don’t you all call them licorice?)

They’re LIKE licorice, like, they’re the CONSISTENCY of licorice, but really they’re sugar and taste like fake strawberry. DELICIOUS fake strawberry. They also come in black licorice flavor but I hate that so I haven’t tried those. And I think weird other flavors. Like at one point I’m pretty sure I saw “super sour Twizzlers” and that made me disgusted. But I don’t believe in anything except regular red Twizzlers. They’re excellent road trip food. But I think if you’re used to regular licorice that tastes like licorice, you’d hate Twizzlers and curse America for being weird, Andreas.

I noticed on my nasal spray today that it says, in HUGE letters, that it’s only for internasal use. ONLY FOR INTERNASAL USE. In huuuuuge letters. Shit, because I was totally douching with it, and wondering why it wasn’t working, you know? But then I thought, no, no, they NEED to put that shit on there, because one time at the answering service someone called and said they’d been…um…inserting? Their birth control pills? In their…lady bits? And just, a few days later, realized what oral meant? And wanted to know if they were going to get pregnant. NO I AM NOT KIDDING. I know. I KNOW.

Oh! Oh, and, I meant to put this here but totally got distracted by something shiny, I don’t know, leftover Christmas tinsel, could have been anything, really. Here is a STORY I told the INTERWEBS that is like a mini-blog post. It is because my lovely Twitter friends Cara and Jim admired my Audioboo poetry I put up earlier in the week, but wanted to hear my REAL voice, not my calm intellectual poetry-ready voice. And listen, I’m happy to oblige. I think you all should hear what a normal conversation with me sounds like, right? I mean, it’s only fair.

So here is an almost-three-minute story of a ghost dog, only there really are no ghosts in it. That’s a misleading description. It is an aural representation of a blog post. AURAL, I said, get your minds out of the gutter, that’s AU-aural, not the OTHER kind, Ding Dong Joe.  YES. This is me in real life. I mean, when I’m happy. Obviously, when I’m pissed off, I don’t run around telling happy funny stories about ghost-dogs or the lack thereof. Rich mentioned on his blog that he used to date someone who went off on tangents a lot in high school. Rich, I think this will give you pleasant high-school flashbacks. If I do nothing else today, I gave Rich a nice high-school flashback. That’s nice, right? Sure it is. Sure thing.

(Also, YES, sometimes when I am telling a story, people say, “Amy, AMY, please, get to your point,” or they sigh and hold their head like they’re getting a migraine, or they look at their watch pointedly. But seriously, THINK HOW BORING LIFE WOULD BE IF WE ALL STUCK TO THE POINT ALL THE TIME. I don’t want to live in that world. Do you? Think of how bored you would be. The MOST, is how, don’t even try to deny it.)

OK. This has been EXHAUSTING and ALL OVER THE BOARD so I’m just going to wind it all up in a little ball and call it a day. Happy weekend! I’m seeing TWO PLAYS this weekend, no joke, this is just going to be the best. AND I will still have blog posts, don’t EVEN worry your pretty little heads! (Autocorrect just turned that into pretty little beads. Pretty little beads? What the hell, autocorrect, that’s not even a THING.)

Happy weekend happy weeeeekend!


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