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Category Archives: sick

Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!

I’m all out of words today. I have a headache and I think I’m coming down with something which seems unlikely as  I don’t often leave the house, so where would I catch it? From Dumbcat? Probably cat scratch fever, then? Thanks a lot, Dumbcat. ZOMG, I just looked up the symptoms of cat scratch fever and headache and fatigue are TOTALLY SYMPTOMS. As is MALAISE. I have all the malaise! All of it! Oh, this is bad news. Or, wait, no, it isn’t, it just goes away on its own and I’ll be FINE. Well, I bet I have the WORST case of cat scratch fever EVER. That will probably KILL me. That’s just like this cat scratch fever to be the most deadly thing ever. JUST LIKE IT.

Listen, I was GOING to put in a real picture of cat scratch fever but YOWZA those photos were gross. This one’s pretty gross, too. but at least not swollen and inflamed.

Well, I suppose I’d better write SOMETHING before I succumb to this very deadly cat scratch fever. I mean, who knows if this will be my last ever post before you all hear that I’ve died and you’ll be donating to one of my favorite charities or possibly to Victims of Cat Scratch Fever, which would be VCSF and not a very good or memorable acronym for a charity of people like ME who have died of CAT SCRATCH FEVER.

Dumbcat would like you all to know he does not think he has cat scratch fever, and he feels fine, but I’m pretty sure that’s what victims of cat scratch fever all say. Or those who are TRANSMITTING cat scratch fever to their supposedly beloved owners. But, FINE DUMBCAT, I will go on WebMD and put in my symptoms and see what it says is wrong with me. I bet WebMD says I have cancer.

WedMD said I had 99 possible diseases, and a bitch ain’t one (but one of which *was* TOTALLY cat scratch fever) but also I could have post-partum depression (I’m depressed just thinking about that, because if I have that, WHERE IS MY BABY?), brain aneurysm, typhoid fever, or cocaine withdrawal. As you can see, I’m most likely dying and have only days, NAY MOMENTS, left to live. (Also, I was doing cocaine? Man, did I enjoy myself? I can’t imagine I did. Cocaine always scared the beejeebers out of me. I think we can all agree I don’t need a drug that makes me speedier.)

Heh! That dastardly typhoid fever. Leave them kids alone.

Because I am dying, I should probably leave you with some cheerful things to remember me by, right? I mean, that’s important.

Here are Anzac and Peggy, and they are the best of interspecies friends.

Aw, you GUYS! Even though I am DYING I can appreciate the cuteness of this magnitude! Look look look! A joey and a wee wombat! They have been sharing a pouch because they are both ORPHANS. Aw! This is like the beginning of every Disney movie ever. This is like the Fox and the Hound! Only it’s the kangaroo and the wombat! Also, apparently they get along very well because they have similar personalities: Anzac the kangaroo is “very social” and Peggy the wombat is “boisterous and cheeky.” Aw! CHEEKY! Cheeky is my favorite!

Here is what Peggy will grow up into. ZOMG, why didn’t you people tell me how adorable wombats are? Australia has the BEST animals!

The article goes on to say that the zookeepers don’t know if Anzac and Peggy will stay friends when they grow up, because they will differ wildly in size, and wombats are all waddly like little furry piggies. Aw! Poor Anzac and Peggy! I hope you stay friends FOREVER, you two! DAMN THE MAN! Don’t let ’em tell you who you can be friends with, you two crazy kids. Make it work! AGAINST ALL ODDS! Just like Phil Collins says!

Take a look at me nowwww…..

And if you thought THAT was cute, here is Orbit the owl and HER BFF. They’re not interspecies friends. They’re…um…interobject friends? I guess?

Aw, Orbit!

Baby Orbit was also orphaned, so the lady raising him gave him a cuddle object and he TOTALLY took to it. ZOMG, you GUYS! Could this be any cuter? Also, baby barn owls are ADORABLE. All little puffs of fluff. I mean, I love owls anyway, but when they’re babies, I want to snorgle them. (Also, why so many orphaned babies? This is very sad.)

Aw, look at Orbit here! All baby raptory. I love him.

Look what baby Orbit will look like when he grows up! Listen, I totally missed my calling and should have been a raptor rehabilitator because I love birds of prey more than almost anything, I swear.

I like how poker-faced and wise barn owls look. Like they have SECRETS.

Oh, this isn’t so much “cheerful” as it is something I’ve seen a billion times over the past week or so and it makes me laugh every time.

OK, so since I don’t ever leave the house, I watch more television than is probably healthy? And this one commercial keeps coming on. And I can’t find it online. It’s apparently TOO SHOCKING FOR THE INTERWEBS. Nah, probably no one uploaded it because no one finds it as humorous as I do. Anyway, it’s a back-to-school commercial. It’s either for Kmart or Walmart, I’m not sure which. I thought Walmart but then I started second-guessing myself and now that I WANT to see it, of COURSE it’s not on. Anyway, it’s this hidden-camera thing, where this SECRETIVE VOICE-OVER GUY is all “we invited these families over so their children can try on these clothes for back-to-school” and it shows these women and girls all laughing and smiling and the girls modeling their new clothes. You know. Like you do with your friends and their girlfriends. Then SECRETIVE VOICE-OVER GUY is all “what these people DON’T KNOW is that these clothes are ALL FROM WALMART!” (Or, like I said, it might be Kmart, because I can’t find it anywhere. They’re both kind of the same place anyway.) Then the adults and kids are all, “What? Hee hee hee! I NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED! I will buy ALL of my clothes at Walmart (maybe Kmart, whatever) from now on!”

OH NO WALMART CLOTHES! They look just like ANY OTHER CLOTHES! TRICKERY!

Every single time this commercial is on, I give it my OWN voice-over. “What? These clothes are from WALMART? Get ’em off. GET ‘EM OFF! Walmart clothes don’t touch my children’s skin! BURN THEM WITH FIRE! KILL THE CAMERAMAN! HOW DARE YOU!” Then I get the giggles. Because I’m effing hilarious, yo. Is it really so tricky? Kids are refusing to wear clothes from these places? Shit, when I was little, if I refused some of my back-to-school clothes, my mom would have just said, “Fine, wear last year’s shit, see if I care?” And then I’d be wearing the same clothes two years in a row and everyone would start calling me names. So I took what I was given whether I liked it or not, because that’s what poor people do.

This is where we used to get all of our back to school clothes. We’d order ’em through the catalog, get ’em at home, try ’em on, and send back what didn’t fit. We were classy. CLASSY!

(Please note my sarcasm, because I have nothing against either Walmart or Kmart clothing, as a rule. If it fits, I’ll wear it. If you came up to me wearing clothes from either place, I would have no idea where you’d purchased your clothing. Well, unless, I suppose, it said somewhere ON your clothing – say, on your shirt, “PURCHASED AT WALMART” or something. I have no eye for fashion. The closest I come to caring is watching Project Runway on a regular basis. Well, I don’t care much for t-shirts with wolves silk-screened on them. But does anyone? Does anyone, really? Wait, people do? Oh, ok, I’m sure they’re lovely on YOU. Carry on, then.)

Oh, well, I take it back. This one’s ok. I’d TOTALLY wear this one.

I had something else to tell you but I’ve clean forgotten it. I’m going to assume that’s because of the cat scratch fever, or maybe the cocaine withdrawal. GIMME MAH BLOW YO.

Off to watch a billion more episodes of Grimm so I can get caught up by Monday. I’m totally getting sucked into this show. Oh, guess what I learned on it? Listen, you know how I love love love all the German, right? Well, it’s all about fairy tales, so there’s lots of German in it. And in the episode I watched last night, I learned that the German for poison is – ready? Well, Ken already knows and I can sense him rolling his eyes with barely-controlled “OH AMY”-ness right now – the German for poison is gift. So if someone says they’re going to give you gift you, but they’re German, it might be wacky wordplay and they’re totally going to serve you an iocane powder smackdown. Gift, you guys! Could that BE any more wonderful? No, it could NOT, I won’t hear a single argument against it.

He’s about to get a gift. The German kind.

Alright, off to swoon and also malaise. SIGH SIGH SIGH DYING.*

(*Probably not at all dying)

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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!


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.


I saw Sarah Good with the Devil! I saw Goody Osburn with the Devil! I saw Bridget Bishop with the Devil!

I worked more billable hours today than I actually was in the office. No, no, I guarantee you it’s not only true, it’s possible; no matter how few minutes we spend on a project, the minimum we can bill is fifteen minutes, and I had so many individual projects, some of which took only 7-10 minutes, that I had to bill the full fifteen for, that, at the end of the day (in which I worked eight and a half hours, with only a very unsatisfying half-hour lunch break in which everything I brought for lunch completely turned my stomach, thank you very much, I know, right? I totally deserve a medal or at least a nap or how about for this effing stomach flu to STOP IT ALREADY) I ended up with more billable hours than worked hours. So I kind of broke the space-time continuum today. Like a total spaceman. Or maybe Leo Spaceman.

Also, just a thing to know: so, I was out for a day and a half? And aw, my office SAVED ALL MY WORK FOR ME. I mean, they didn’t even give it to anyone else to do? Isn’t that SO SO NICE. I mean, seriously! I couldn’t even feel more loved right now if you bludgeoned me over the head with a whiffle bat.

Anyway, this is going to blow your minds with how brief it is, because I want to get it done and posted so I don’t have to think about it when I get home tonight and collapse on the couch like a comatose kitten.

Oh, first, I totally went to the theater last night, we picked our next season, and it is rockin’, I can’t wait to tell you all about it, but I can’t until February because until then it’s top-secret. BUT NEXT MONTH ZOMG. I will tell you ALL ABOUT IT. Very exciting! Something for everyone! Bring your whole family! Two of my favorite playwrights! THAT IS ALL I’M IN A CONE OF SILENCE MMPPH.

ANYWAY! 

So The Crucible is happening in New York! It’s totally witchhunting times, you guys!

OK, well, it’s The Crucible without the witchhunting. So, it’s really just the teens being insane. OR IS IT DUN DUN DUNNNN.

OK, first, you totally know about The Crucible, right? Well, if you don’t, you know about the Salem Witch Trials? The Crucible is an Arthur Miller play (married to Marilyn Monroe? no? HEATHENS) based on the Salem Witch Trials. Which was written during, and tied into, McCarthyism. Also, it’s awesome, and if you ever get a chance to see it, you should, because if done well, it’s extremely affecting. I’d advise against the movie version with Winona Ryder. She didn’t bring the correct gravitas to the table. Although Daniel Day-Lewis is always delectable. Sorry, Winona.

Anyway, in a nutshell – these teens all suffer from a crazy mass-hysteria, led by one teen who’s suffering from being a woman scorned, and they start Tourettesing all over the place, which is annoying enough, but then they start saying the devil made ‘em do it, and the devil was called down by their friends and neighbors, and oh, no one was savvy enough to notice that the friends and neighbors they were accusing were people that had done the lead teen or the people she cared about most wrong, hmmm, suspect at all? Nope nope nope.

And then people were put to death, because, you know, Salem Witch Trials. Anyway, you all know this. I don’t need to recap something from American history that’s actually interesting, right? I mean, you could totally Wikipedia it today, it’s no longer down for SOPA or anything.

So, SO! There are twelve girls in LeRoy, New York who are suffering “facial tics and verbal outbursts” that some are saying are a type of mass hysteria and some are saying are a group Tourettes and some are saying is something called “conversion disorder” and I totally find this FASCINATING because I love shit like this like you can’t even IMAGINE.

LeRoy, New York is on the other side of the state from me. Near Rochester. Interesting fact? BIRTHPLACE OF JELLO. More interesting fact? A friend posted on Facebook her mom was stuck in a Jello-related celebratory parade in LeRoy once. How pissy would that make you if you were in a hurry? “What the hell is this effing…JELLO? I’m stuck in a JELLO parade? I have SHIT to DO and you’re CELEBRATING frigging CHILLED FRUIT DESSERT?”

Also, they make rat poison there. Which I think would make a good local murder mystery, if you combine the two, right? SOMEONE GET ON THAT. I nominate Jim, he’s got these amazing ideas for fiction even if he refuses to write them.

So, “conversion disorder,” or “mass psychogenic illness.” Seriously, I’m reading up on this, it’s totally mass hysteria. It’s stress-related, it happens when people are in close quarters and affected by the people around them, and all the girls have been tested for environmental and medical factors. MASS HYSTERIA SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS. In 2012. THIS IS TOTALLY EXCITING.

Also, this article says these girls have been exhibiting the symptoms since LAST FALL. That’s like FOUR MONTHS or something. Holy HELL.

And this article says one girl fell asleep one day, then woke up all tic-y and shouty. There’s totally a video that might show me the tics but I can’t watch videos at work. Dammit. I’d like to see tics.

But the kids and the moms and dads are all NO NO NO the doctors are totally LETTING US DOWN it CAN’T be mass hysteria NOT OUR BABIES. What the hell?

LISTEN SIDE NOTE. I totally went to college with someone who had Tourettes? And maybe it was Tourettes but then it went away so I always wondered if he was making it up, it seemed totally suspect that once no one was paying attention to him shouting inane noises in the crowded dining hall because we were all “eh, whatever, THAT’S JUST TOURETTE’S BOB” anymore it just stopped.

The only thing that bugs me is that everything I read is saying this only seems to happen to WOMEN in close quarters, so way to make us all feel like crazy incipient psychopaths, DOCTORS. I’ll mass-hysteria YOU. With a CARVING KNIFE. Oh, sorry. Sorry. OR AM I. I’m pretty sure that men could experience mass hysteria, given the right circumstances. Right?

SIDE NOTE AGAIN. You know how I’m trying to get out of Dr. Lady-Business’s practice? It’s like getting out of the MOB over there. I found a new doctor? And today I called to get my records faxed over? And Dr. Lady-Business’s office was all “NO NO NO you need to send us…um…a SIGNED request! Yeah, that’s it! In…triplicate! And it costs…A GAJILLION DOLLARS! Plus a COUNSELOR will contact you to TALK about your DECISION to leave us! And it takes up to three WEEKS!” What the hell. I don’t want Dr. Handlebar Moustache all up in my bits anymore, because he LAUGHED at my TUMOR. Why is this so hard to understand? I made up the triplicate. The rest of that? Totally true. Well, I might have exaggerated the gajillion part.

OK, here’s the thing, to get back on track. I’m not a doctor. I have no idea what’s going on here. But it does seem to me that if they’ve ruled everything else out, and they are, after all, dealing with teenagers, probably something psychological’s at work. I did some wack-ass shit when I was a teenager. I bet ALL of you did. Those hormones are a bitch, right? I mean, weeping and manic and “I love you!” “I hate you!” WITHIN SECONDS and HEAVENS FORFEND if someone tried to tell you that you were acting like a crazy. Once my mom got so mad at me she kicked a hole in my DOOR. No, I’m totally not kidding. It was a hollow-core door, but it’s still there, I have the proof and everything. She’s not even embarrassed about it. “You were AWFUL,” she says. And I totally was. I was Hormone McGee for like, ever.

I know you don’t want to think your kids are being assholes. And maybe it didn’t start out as them being assholes. Here’s just a theory – maybe they started it as a joke and now can’t get out of it because you know how you get stuck in a huge lie and it would make a bigger mess to come clean than to keep lying? I mean, I don’t know, I don’t live their lives. The only experience I have with the Rochester area is that one time I spent New Year’s Eve there with my then-BFF and forgot my driver’s license so they wouldn’t let me into the club so I had to go ALONE back to the hotel room and get it and by the time I got back to the club everyone was totally drunk and I missed all the good times so screw you, ROCHESTER.

Anyway, I’m just waiting for these kids to start monster-shouting and being all “It’s Goody Proctor! She stuck pins in a poppet in the copse behind the barn!” and then BAM BABY we’re totally in for Crucible-times. Can’t you see that happening? I can. I think our political climate is ripe for another witch hunt right now, with the hatred between the liberals and conservatives. Eek.

ANYWAY. Mass hysteria! There’s totally MASS HYSTERIA happening! Like from GHOSTBUSTERS, you guys! Can dogs and cats living together be far behind? I THINK NOT MY FRIENDS. This is a banner day, a totally banner day!

OK, back to work. I know, are you so disappointed at the sad length of this? I put in a photo, what more do you want. I WARNED YOU TAX SEASON WAS GOING TO SUCK.


Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.

I’m totally still dying and it’s annoying the shit out of me.

No, seriously, this is like the second DAY of death, and also I was dying a little on Monday, so like the 2.5th day of death. THAT’S WAY TOO MUCH DEATH. I didn’t even go to work today. I got up with every intention of going to work? But then I walked around the apartment for approximately twenty minutes, realized I was probably going to throw up if I remained that far from the ground (or a couch or a bed, I’m not overly choosy, the bathroom floor will also do) and called in to work. Which will probably cause a tizzy but seriously, if I went in today, THERE WOULD BE VOMITING AT WORK. This is not something I am keen on. Things I don’t like to do at work where people might know I’m doing them: throw up or cry. Neither of these things are anyone’s business and there’s no way you can do either of these things and come out of them looking like a superstar. And I only like to do things where I look like a superstar, I mean, seriously, come on. Who doesn’t?

So I stayed home and went back to sleep. And here is a dream I had that I was convinced was true and when I woke up and it wasn’t, I was sad. I dreamed that Ewan McGregor started following me on Twitter and we became friends and were chatting and I told my friend Mer, because we both love him, and the two of us were super-excited about this very celebrity turn of events in my life, only then I woke up and I no longer had a hot Scottish actor BFF and also still had a stomach bug so that was a total letdown.

Anyway, so I planned on sleeping all day to make this effing stomach bug just run away or something because I have totally had enough already, I have NO PATIENCE OR TIME FOR SICKNESS, but apparently I also have no patience or time to be lady-of-the-manoring around in my bed at all hours because after about 10am I woke up and was NOT ABLE to fall back to sleep, no matter what. This is how I know I am old. Remember back in college, when you could seriously sleep all day? I remember some days, waking up at 4pm, eating a combination breakfast/lunch/dinner thing, then going out drinking. I don’t think that’s a possibility anymore, is it? When you’re old, your body’s all “Get up, lazyass, there’s SUN in the WINDOW. What the hell is WRONG with you. Do you think you’re FANCY?” And, no. No, I don’t think I’m fancy. Just sick.

Also, I have two meetings tonight at the theater that I am NOT missing. Even if I have to attend them, sit really far away from everyone, be super-careful not to breathe on anyone, and also sometimes run into the bathroom all “sorry sorry sorry CARRY ON” in the middle of them. So I THOUGHT if I slept all day I could make the evil stomach bug leave out of boredom or something but that’s a no-go.

OK, so ANYWAY, since I’m already in a bitch of a mood and also kind of feel like vomiting, let’s talk about two things that totally piss me off. Ready? OF COURSE YOU ARE SLAPPY.

Stop Effing with Cookies and Children, You Morons

OK, so it’s Girl Scout cookie time. You all know what that means, right? Overpriced cookies in teeny-tiny boxes that are TOTALLY EFFING DELICIOUS. Seriously, ZOMG. I mean, I can’t eat cookies anymore, due to health issues and such, but back in the day, I’m pretty sure I could have eaten an entire box in one sitting. Not that I would have. NO NOT ME.

So back in October in Colorado, a seven-year-old transgender boy named Bobby wanted to join the Girl Scouts. Bobby has identified as female since he was two. His parents, who sound totally savvy and I kind of love them, are accepting of this, and identify him as female (I would, also, identify him as female throughout this diatribe, but it would make for confusion, writing-wise. Please know that I totally accept his identification as female, and, in any other writing situation where it would not be confusing, identify him with his chosen pronoun.)

The local Girl Scout troop leader, some woman named Mary, was all “NO DICKS IN MY SCOUTS” and wouldn’t let him join. (Yeah, I made that quote up. I think she was all “he has boy parts.” Same thing. Mine was funnier. Also, Mary, you’re a dick.)

The Girl Scouts themselves, when informed of this situation, gave their official stance, which was “Girl Scouts is an inclusive organization and we accept all girls in Kindergarten through 12th grade as members. If a child identifies as a girl and the child’s family presents her as a girl, Girl Scouts of Colorado welcomes her as a Girl Scout.”

This totally rocks, Girl Scouts. Seriously. This is progressive, and this is kind, and this embodies the Girl Scouts, to me. Inclusiveness, and accepting each other, and working together.

However! Then we get this stellar example of youth in America. I refuse to put the actual video on my blog because this girl makes me want to punch her in the snobby little mouth.

First off, COULD SHE BE ANY MORE FULL OF HERSELF WITH THE TOTAL SNOBBINESS. She’s totally going to get her ass kicked at some point for the attitude. Also, I don’t think any transgender children would want anything to do with her. Because she’s a total little snot. Also, this isn’t all on her. How old is this child? I’m awful with ages. Like, 14? Something like that? Someone’s fed her all this shit and she, being 14 or whatever, has swallowed it down. Listen, when I was 14? I thought a LOT of things that my parents wanted me to think that I now know are not only incorrect, but downright full of moral turpitude.

The way she says “QUOTE” reminds me of the way Dwight Schrute says “QUESTION.” She’s got some hard times ahead of her, methinks.

Anyway, so this little snotty-snot is all “do not buy Girl Scout cookies to teach them a lesson because I don’t want to share a tent with a transgender child because I wouldn’t feel safe QUOTE.”

Here’s the scoop, sunshine. The transgendered kids in question here? ARE GIRLS. Do they have penises? Yep. Until they have surgery, if they indeed choose to have the surgery, sure they do. They don’t WANT to have sex with you. I mean, the minute you’d say “QUOTE” no one would, let’s be frank, but they don’t want to have sex with any of the Girl Scouts. Unless maybe they’re a lesbian, and then they might have a crush on one or another of the Girl Scouts. Again, probably not you, Dwight Schrute. But you’re just as safe with that girl in your tent as you are with any of the other Girl Scouts. And the fact that you think otherwise makes me sad for you, and sad for your parents for either feeding you that bullshit, or allowing you to continue to believe that bullshit.

I want you to think, baby Dwight Schrute, just for a second, about how hard it is for a transgendered child. Who is in the wrong body. Who identifies as female, but has a penis. Every day is a frigging struggle. What bathroom they can enter. What people they can be friends with. What toys they can play with. What clothes they can wear; how they can wear their hair, how people treat them, as if they are bad, wrong, an affront to nature itself – AND THEY ARE CHILDREN. If they want to join the ever-loving Girl Scouts – I mean, what are you DOING there, naked pillow fights, for the love of Pete? NO YOU ARE NOT, you are making crafts for county fairs and selling cookies and talking about your feelings and sewing patches onto your sashes and shit – WHO THE FUCK CARES. It’s a small thing you can do to make someone feel more included, to make their lives a little more bearable and a little less lonely. You’d deny them that? Really? According to a 2006 poll, 33.6% of transgendered teens have attempted suicide. THIRTY-THREE POINT SIX PERCENT. You can help, just a little bit with that, by giving them a place they feel accepted and safe and loved, but instead, you spew a hate video all over the internet. Stellar work, young lady. Just stellar.

So yeah. Buy Girl Scout cookies, if they’re your thing. Because the Girl Scouts, kind of quietly, without a lot of fuss, are completely cool with allowing transgendered children into their group, and transgendered children are at risk, and you know what? THEY’RE STILL CHILDREN. Even if they have “boy parts” ew ew ew. Children. CHILDREN, you guys. Come the hell on. We’re going to let children down? Really? Also, Girl Scout cookies are like effing crack, seriously. Those Thin Mints are AMAZING.

Blah blah blah YOU ALL ALREADY KNOW THIS blah blah blah

So it’s SOPA/PIPA blackout day. And, as you can see, I didn’t do it. Here’s the thing: I probably SHOULD. And I know there are people who are totally disappointed in me that I didn’t.

I stand BESIDE the people who blacked out for SOPA and PIPA but didn’t black out for SOPA and PIPA because, honestly, I don’t do shit I should when I should do it. Like recycle. Or watch well-reviewed foreign films in a timely fashion. Because I feel like someone’s telling me “You’re a bad person if you don’t do this.” And that makes me dig in my heels like a donkey. Which is counterproductive. I get that. It’s a constant internal struggle, what can I say.

So anyway. In case you live under a rock: SOPA (Stop Internet Piracy Act) and PIPA (Protect IP Act) are bad news. They want to censor the web; they would be time-consuming for businesses, and could stifle innovation; and, best of all, they actually WOULDN’T STOP PIRACY. Pretty much, here’s the thing. You know how we all hate Big Brother? (OK, I mean, I assume you all hate Big Brother. Unless you ARE Big Brother. In which case, you’re reading my blog in in order to write info down about me for my file, aren’t you? Dammit. Cut that out, you.) They’re Big Brother, you guys. And if you piss Him off, you’re gone. And your blog would be gone. And your internet provider could, hypothetically, stop providing you with internet access. FOR DOING WHAT YOU’VE BEEN DOING ALL ALONG. Just piss off one wrong person, and you’re done. Listen, I love my country. I know that makes me an optimistic weirdo and I’m like one of the seven people left within the borders who is just crazy in love with MERKA but I totally do. I don’t want it to become a police state of insanity and people watching everything that comes out of my mouth. They’re comparing these acts to the way the internet is monitored in China, you guys. Seriously. I’m currently reading a book about what it’s like to live in China. You are MONITORED when you’re on the internet. By the GOVERNMENT. And if they don’t like what you do? Sometimes? You disappear.

So, for those of you who are assholes like me and become stubborn mules about blacking things out and can’t imagine staying off Twitter or Facebook for 24 hours or maybe your head would explode: read a little more about them here, sign a petition here, see a list of the websites that are against the acts here so you know it’s not just a big old fakey-fake, and contact your congresspeople and senators and tell them you’re not interested in living in 1984 since it’s 2012 (see what I did there? FANCY. Also, there’s a good chance, were these to pass, I’d probably get put in thumbscrews for that comment. I’m being sarcastic. OR AM I.)

I’m going to drink some beverages and eat some popsicles and watch some daytime TV now. Is Judge Judy on? I think you have to watch that when you’re sick, don’t you? Does she still tell people not to piss on her leg and tell her it’s raining? If she doesn’t, I’m so lodging a complaint or something. ZOMG SIDE NOTE. My dad’s cable company changed his on-screen channel guide so it’s smaller and has a different font and color and he HATES it? So he was all, “AMY. I EMAILED them. I told them I WOULD NOT HAVE THIS. How DARE they change my channel guide. I can barely SEE it. That taught THEM a lesson.” And I said, “Um…and what happened?” And he said “They RESPONDED and used my NAME so you know it was a real letter and said they would take my response VERY SERIOUSLY” and I said, “You know that was a form letter, right, Dad?” and he said, “No, they used my NAME, it couldn’t have been.” So I stopped arguing, because how cute is it he thinks he made a little rabble-rousey difference? Aw.


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