Thursday, November 19, 2009

Needle Neurosis and Other Issues

Remember back in March when I became a robot for a day? I mean, nothing is more fun than having several strangers slap electrodes on my bare boobies and smear slime all over my chest in order to tell me that NOTHING WAS WRONG. Except my body is all, fuck you, yes there is something wrong and you better figure it out or never sleep again, which is why I'm still trying to figure out what's wrong with me 8 months later.

Remarkably, most problems, minus the insomnia, lessened when I lost my job. This is probably because I was wandering around slack jawed in this state, which can only be described as a mixture of shock and holy-shit-put-this-chick-in-a-straight-jacket-and-commit-her-crazy-ass for several weeks making it hard to notice or do much of anything besides breathe, cry and throw shit against the wall during the occasional "why me?" temper tantrum. When I partially snapped out of it, I began to notice stabby pains on my right side and in my back.

The true "oh shit" moment came when I went to Denver in October and woke up one night to a some sort of demonic creature sitting on my ribcage jamming an ice pick into my chest repeatedly. I had to convince my 26-year-old self that it was nearly impossible that I was having a heart attack even though the pain had now spread into both of my shoulders. Three hours of pacing and worrying later, it subsided enough for me to sleep.

I never quite trusted a medical professional or the field of medicine until I saw a neurologist for my migraines this past summer. I've had them since high school, but the fact that, in the past year, regular drugs have stopped working and they've gotten so bad that I was sure I was going to die while contemplating army crawling to the hospital, since you know, my vision was too blurred and I was too busy vomiting to drive a car, made me decide to take drastic measures. Now, I take and keep this miraculous drug he prescribed me constantly at my side and it makes me want to kiss Dr. Neurologist's feet in gratitude. Anyway, Dr. Neuro wanted me to get a lipid profile blood test done to see if my lovely family history has passed it's heart diseasy and stroky gifts on to me.

Since they were going to jab me with needles anyway and I hadn't resolved my "chest is stabby" problem, I decided to get it all over with at once last Friday. My favorite part was how I was supposed to fast for 12 hours before the test, which I totally did...right after I ate a fat cheeseburger. I wanted my last meal to be memorable since 12 hours is an eternity you know. So, when the doctor is all, "your test results concern me and you're probably going to die tomorrow of multiple heart attacks," I'll coyly ask, "Does it matter that right before the fasting, I ate half a cow with cheese?"

I also enjoyed it when my doctor was chatting with me about how to remedy insomnia and she reminded me that my bed is not for reading or laptops, but strictly for "sleep and sex," then I said, "what sex?" Just because she's a professional doesn't mean she's safe from all that is me, plus she of all people knows just how severe my case of the crazies is.

When the doc suggested that perhaps it wasn't my heart being an asshole, but my gallbladder, this did not ease my mind since Kate had her gallbladder ripped out a few months ago and it has done some fairly hideous things to her body. Then it was off to the lab so the vampires , sadists techs could suck four vials out of me.

First of all, the techs pretty much know you're going to be a pain in the ass when you ask to lay down to have your blood drawn. I don't even mess with that damn chair anymore because it hurts like a bitch when I inevitably fall out of it - physically and mentally. I mean, really, I'm saving them the work of having to stitch up the giant crack the tile floor would leave in my head. One of the last times I braved the chair I didn't exactly completely pass out of it, but that might have been because I was so distracted by the fact that the doctor told me my boobs felt like bubble wrap.

Just having the lady poke my veins around with her finger made me all sorts of twitchy. Then she started in on lefty. I breathed deeply and I thought I was going to be OK until she said, "it stopped flowing."

WHHHHHHHHHHHY?????!!!

Oh, it's probably just because I now have zero blood pressure since I am, in fact, actually dead. I am the first woman that died from squem-ing out while having her blood drawn. Beads of sweat formed on my hairline and ran down my temples as I tried not to hyperventilate while she fucking MOVED THE NEEDLE AROUND IN MY ARM. Just as I was seeing gray spots on the ceiling and almost yelled, FOR GOD MOTHERFUCKING SAKES! GIVE UP! TAKE IT OUT BEFORE I DIE! (That's what she said) She stopped and I laid on the table in a state of comatose while she went to get other dude.

Then, of course, other dude comes obliviously charging over to an extremely pale righty with needle and tourniquet blazing and I have to stop him with the threat of my vomit all over his face. I didn't cause a scene, or cry, but I made them aware that I was not OK. Seriously, lights were dimmed and water was administered and several minutes of gathering myself ensued before I let him touch me.

More sweat poured, but at least the blood continued to come out this time. After he wrapped it up, I laid there some more so my blood pressure could go back up enough for me to drive home without passing out on the steering wheel. I sincerely apologized, like I always do, and asked for some tips on how to not freak the fuck out every time I have to get a blood test and do you know what they said?

"You just have to GROW OUT OF IT."

Really? Is that what you're going to tell my 63-year-old father when he reacts in much the same way? I'm fairly certain this is a legitimate inherited phobia and not a LEARNED phobia, since I never saw or heard my father talk about his needle neurosis when I was younger and my cousin Jake also has the same freak of nature problem. There has to be some methods to curing or lessening this besides "growing out of it." I realize it's ridiculous because it doesn't hurt, but I genuinely cannot help it. It is the worst, most helpless, most uncomfortable, most uncontrollable feeling I've ever experienced. Basically, I go into shock every time a needle hangs out in my arm. I hate the feeling, I hate the fact that I can't make it stop and I hate the damn people that tell me to just "grow out of it." Thanks for your understanding and compassion...dicks.

Anyway, it's over, I didn't vom nor pass out and I'll hopefully know which part of my body is being a crapass very soon.



However, I do have this other problem involving me being the perpetual third or fifth wheel. See, now, my friends aren't usually the type to make me feel as such, like Kate and Sam jokingly (and lovingly, I might add, dammit) call me their adopted daughter or second wife (I'm crazy-fuck Mormon compound Nicki, ahhhh!), but for some reason it just hit me tonight that I've been the token single chick for an uncomfortable amount of time. My last boyfriend worked weekends, so even then it was just me tagging along.

Granted, I am quite the entertaining third or fifth wheel in that I usually get drunk and cartwheel through the bar or say something inappropriate to some assbag using a cheesy pickup line, but it would be nice to have at least another single lady to play with or heaven forbid, a real live guy that could come along and be my date because that male mannequin I've been dragging around is kind of needy and isn't much for conversation.

Lacey's birthday celebration is this Saturday night and I need a date. Anybody free? No penis required, but it is appreciated.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

A Love Affair...With a Toilet?


After chatting with my friend Jeff the other day and watching a particular segment about home resale value on HGTV, a memory of my recent Vegas trip resurfaced about bidets. Don't ask me why I was having a conversation about a device that gives you a water enema with one of my guy friends. I've never claimed to be a normal person...

However, I am a practical person. Sometimes so practical that I annoy myself. So, when I walked into the bathroom of the MGM Grand hotel suite where Kate and Sam's reception took place and found myself face to face with my first bidet, I immediately began asking questions and thinking about it's purpose. Sure, I've seen them on TV before, but since these are not installed in the majority of bathrooms in the United States and seem to be reserved for Europeans and rich people, I've never actually seen one in person.

After much examination from afar without actually using the contraption, I learned that you are not actually supposed to "go" in the bidet, but rather in the toilet, then shimmy the three feet across the bathroom for a rinse. This allowed me to provide this valuable piece of information to the rest of the wedding guests: "Do NOT poop in the bidet!" I yelled it kind of a lot during the trip, which made me laugh every time and may or may not have prompted the bride and/or groom's family members to refer to me as "the bridesmaid with Tourette's." Ha! It reminded me of a scene out of "Dumb and Dumber" or something except in the movie Harry or Lloyd would have actually pooped in the bidet before realizing that you weren't supposed to.

Another guy friend of mine purchased one of those high tech Japanese toilets some time ago, so I've learned all about the different features of those. Apparently you can push a button to choose between a front spray or a back spray along with the temperature of the water. Some even have little dryers in them, which, in my opinion, would seem like blowing a hair dryer up your ass therefore making me quite terrified of this feature. There's also a deodorizer option on some models to remedy that not so fresh feeling I suppose.

The guy on the HGTV home resale show was absolutely RAVING about his high tech toilet claiming that he would never trade it for anything, that he hadn't used a square of toilet paper since he purchased it and the time he spent on the toilet was the "best 10 minutes" of his day, every day. Really dude? Does anyone else find that disturbing and kind of sad? His wife sitting next to him rolled her eyes at the comment and dismissed his beloved toilet. I guess I would probably be pretty annoyed too if the best 10 minutes of my husband's day was spent having naked time with a squirting, hot air shooting toilet rather than with me. That guy must really enjoy a perpetually clean and deodorized asshole...but, come to think of it, who doesn't?

While I sort of "get" the whole concept of a built in bidet on a toilet, I certainly don't understand the freestanding bidet. It just seems so impractical. Like I said, you go in the toilet, then toddle over to the bidet with your pants around your ankles? Or, is it proper to remove your pants completely? Then, you hover over this thing, twist around to reach the faucets, water flows out like a drinking fountain and then...what? So, it's a essentially an ass sink, except what do you do when you're done? You can't just shake the excess water off your ass like you do your hands then go about your day and there were no towels, nor TP nearby for drying purposes. What is proper bidet etiquette? Inquiring minds must know.

This article and this article are quite helpful in answering some of those burning questions, but not all of them to my liking. The shimmying from one porcelain receptacle to another and drying parts are what get me and my opinion of impracticality still stands on this one. Apparently you must prepare for the drying step before making your jaunt to the bidet in my particular case. Eh, I'm sure you'd get used to it although I think it's safe to say that I'm hopelessly American and I'm OK with that.

...But, you can't knock something until you try it, plus, hey, it's Vegas...so, of course I tried it... and the outcome?

A hopeless American with an impractically wet ass. Just as I suspected.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Boys Are Mean, Throw Rocks At Them

I woke up Sunday morning in a complete daze, then I looked in the mirror at my crackhead hair, telltale puffy, red eyes and smeary mascara and I unfortunately remembered what happened the night before. I finally broke down, became a hooker for some extra cash and my pimp slapped my drunk, ho ass? Nope, just another date that crashed and burned in a fiery fiasco of bullshit.

This, like all of my dating disasters, left me baffled at the complete lack of consideration for another person and downright meanness of the actions displayed by my male counterpart. Fortunately not all of my experiences with men and dating have been completely and explosively awful. A lot of times it's me because I'm the first to admit that I'm extremely fickle about men, or I'm fucked up at the time about something and would rather not bring another person into my shitstorm, or it just "fades away" as in there's just not enough interest from either party to keep the relationship going. All of these anticlimactic endings seem to fare far better since I'd like to think that I would never ruin somebody's fucking night by acting like a total dick. *SIGH*

Anyway, my latest dating FAIL got me thinking about all the mean things boys have done to me in my life and no, not in a pity party, feel sorry for me type of way. Some of this shit is so appalling it's hilarious and it makes you want to throw out the, "I'm calling your mother and telling her what you did" threat. Here's a selection of fond memories:



- My encounters with mean boys started at a young age, which is probably why after more than 20 years of this crap I'm completely exhausted and frustrated yet surprisingly not made of stone. I had my first crush on a boy when I was 5-years-old and when one of my friends asked him if he liked me, he replied with, "NO! She's a buuuuutt wipe!"

"Excuse me, you little bastard, did you just call me a butt wipe?" Then I gave him the most ball crushing wedgie of all time. See, that is what I would have said and done if all of my years of cynicism were rolled into my 5-year-old self, but the feisty bitch of a woman you know and love today took years to develop, so my soft and impressionable kindergarten heart was crushed. While I haven't had the pleasure of coming face to face with this guy in many years, the word on the street provides truth to the saying, "once a wiener, always a wiener." Go figure.




- If anybody were to come up to me and tell me that their junior high experience was a happy and joyous one, I'd immediately call bullshit, then question them about the type of drugs they were obviously taking between the ages of 12 and 15. My favorite of the mean boy memories from junior high had to be when I asked a boy from another school to the Valentine's Day dance and he just didn't show up or when a boy who was actually younger than me told me just out of the blue one day that I had bushy man eyebrows. Apparently I missed my waxing appointment at the salon because naturally that's what you should be concerned about when you're a 13-year-old girl. Man, that kid was a bitter troll of a little boy. Let's hope he became an esthetician, which might help explain his unnatural obsession with eyebrows at such a young age.




- Dancing was my saving grace for most temptations that high school brought - drugs, drinking and mean boys. I was so busy with practice, competitions and teaching that I had little time to care about much else. However, I still managed to snag my first love and it's too bad I couldn't have chosen a mentally stable one. This guy stalked me and I'm talking calling-me-every-two-minutes-and-lurking-in-the-bushes-waiting-for-me-to-get-home-with-dad-threatening-to-call-the-police caliber of stalking. Then, he called my dad the fucking Unabomber (WTF?), which in turn made my head explode because you don't mess with my people unless you'd like to die, THEN he decided to stick around long after I tried to get him out of my life with a short-lived attempt to turn my friends against me. Oh, high school...Much later, I found out he cheated on me with some skank in Padre Island during Spring Break, which most likely wasn't the only time, but at least I got a beer bong out of it. I'm pretty sure he's married now, which is so hilarious since he's obviously a keeper. *wink*




- In college, the boys became more creative and thus the dickheaded art of ditching came into play. Greek life introduced me to some interesting rituals such as the themed date party, which is why I now have a trunk of random costumes in my parent's basement like some traveling circus side show. Digging through that thing would garner some interesting question and answer sessions:

"Why do you have this black leather whip?"
"Oh, that's from my french whore costume."
"And this sparkly red tube top?"
"That's when I was a pimp and my date was a ho."

Barn party was a popular one - we'd dress up like cowboys and party in a barn - fairly self explanatory, and I was feeling pretty ballsy for asking this particular guy that I hardly knew to this date party. However, I was ditched the minute the school bus rolled into the party and I would unknowingly be ditched after the party was over as I literally watched this guy fling himself out of a still moving vehicle and run into his fraternity house, never to be seen the rest of the night because I apparently have leprosy.

I was reunited with him for the short school bus ride back to the sorority house where he grabbed my boob, tried to make out with me and then explained to me how he told his fraternity brothers what he was doing that night by telling them, "You know, I'm going to a date party with that girl with the hot body," he said. When I reminded him that I also have a face, he said, "Yeah, but the body sort of overshadows the face." It might have been the vodka, but I'm pretty sure it was that comment that made me fall out of bus seat. Did he just more or less refer to me as a "but-her-face?" Oh man, I reveled in that nickname, "The Body." It stuck for probably a year - on the back of shirts, in joking conversation, as my signature on my e-mails to friends... I suppose there are worse things to be called...like bushy eyebrow girl...and the guy eventually did stick his foot in his mouth and apologize on numerous occasions claiming that the comment came out wrong.

Another case of the ditch-your-date-at-barn-party happened just a few months after the first one when I agreed to go with a different guy to his party. After a long bus ride full of many shots of vodka, I found myself on a farm full of drunk, singing strangers in 10 gallon hats and furry pig suits in the middle of nowhere Kansas barfing behind a tractor...ALONE. My date didn't even look up from his conversation with Tits McBigboobs when I finally found him hours later teetering on the edge of a hay bale in a dark corner. Then, when it was time to go, the THREE of us boarded the bus-o-fun where my date leaned in for a long, seductive kiss with Tits McBigboobs about two inches from my face, but their moment of passion was interrupted by my 19-year-old self screaming, "WHAT. THE. FUCK. ARE YOU DOING?!" through a raspberry vodka haze.

I once again witnessed a guy flinging himself from a moving vehicle when we arrived back at the fraternity house and I eventually found his dumbass passed out in his bed. Since my phone oh so conveniently died in the middle of this trainwreck, I used his phone to call a bunch of wrong numbers at two in the morning in an attempt to call one of my friends to pick me up. When I couldn't remember anybody's number, a lightbulb went on and I began to hoof it towards Kate's boyfriend's frat house a few blocks away in heels, at two in the morning, ALONE. I was a giant blubbery mess when I finally got there, but nothing my best pal Kate and a mini fridge full of Natty Light couldn't cure.




- In modern times, guys and their crap have evolved into much craftier forms of mean - being verbally abused via text at work by Stage Five Clinger, the running away from party hat boobs, the usage of the word 'cunt,' among other things, to describe me by live in boyfriend (who, by the way, I've made amends with after a few years and lot of growing up on both of our parts) the "void of a caring bone in his body boy" and the dumping over an extremely flirty glass of water by Robocop.

However, my date Saturday wasn't a newfangled kind of mean, but kind of a throwback form of mean and unfortunately it wasn't of the "butt wipe" variety.

I found myself in a world that I've long since grown out of and as much fun as it is to try to carry on a conversation with a trio of fresh 21-year-olds that are so fucked up on pot and Xanax that their necks can't even support their heads, I still tried because I genuinely liked this guy and saw no red flags when I had been out with him a few times before. However, I still questioned why a man who is nearly 30-years-old would voluntarily subject himself and a woman he barely knows to such things. While I'm hardly pretentious and adapt to most situations, like I said, you naturally grow out of things and therefore your tolerance for such situations tends to have a limit.

He received some ill-timed bad news when we were out and while I completely understood his situation with this chronic unemployment and scrambling to find income in the form of pennies and dimes and temp jobs hanging over my head, he decided to handle it by drinking himself into oblivion and pretending that I didn't exist.

I think the height of my night was when he disappeared for almost an hour with one of his friends and by the time he reappeared, I had given up on talking to the remaining faded friends and took a seat at the bar by myself. Apparently an hour in his world translates to 20 minutes (which, by the way, is also an unacceptable amount of time to leave your date alone in grown up date land) even though I have a nearly hour long text message conversation on my phone that I had with Kate while I was passing the time...at the bar...drinking water...BY MY FUCKING SELF...FOR AN HOUR.

When I pointed out that I didn't appreciate such jackassery, he turned the situation around on me, said I was attacking him and demanded his keys. I refrained from quoting the famous Dan Connor of "Roseanne," "Women tend to get upset when you treat them like crap," handed him his keys and he disappeared into the bar crowd never to be seen again.

The band we went to see was actually pretty damn good and thankfully I didn't have to listen to it alone for long since I ran into my old friend Sean. A while later, Sean walked me over to my usual watering hole, and since I have a soul and don't like to be an asshole, I sent the infamous disappearing date a courtesy text telling him where I was and inviting him to join me. Much to my surprise, he actually responded, but of course he didn't actually show up leaving me to either jump in a cab to get home or call my friends to come pick my dejected ass up from the bar. I chose the latter. The few times I've been upset in a bar I do everything I possibly can to hide it since nobody is going to believe that the chick squirting tears in a bar at 2 in the morning is not a drunk ass, but the victim of a mean boy. It's one of the few times I actually care what strangers think of me.

While I love to have fun, perhaps more fun than most women my age, I'm also a grown woman and demand to be treated like one, which frankly, isn't asking too much. I'm always going to value myself enough to stick up for myself and I'm never, ever going to compromise how I feel I should be treated. Sometimes I wish I could wear a sign that stated this so men would be warned that if they can't handle that, they should probably just stay the fuck away. Here are some simple pieces of advice to follow as well: a.) Women, like most human beings, don't appreciate being ignored, so don't invite me out if you think this is acceptable behavior and b.) learn to handle your shit and if you can't possibly do that, then please don't make me a victim of your path of destruction. I certainly don't expect any guy to be perfect, but I can expect them to treat me with respect.

While disappearing date sent me a half-hearted apology the next day via text, it's sort of too little, too late...although it was more than I've gotten from most and dammit, I really thought I had run into a cool one this time. Sometimes I wonder if my forehead secretly has "Welcome" or "Wipe Your Paws" imprinted on it signaling men that it's OK to walk all over me without any objections. Perhaps I'm acting in such a way that doesn't warrant respect from the opposite sex, but that's not true either because I'm not any of the following things: Mean, slutty, needy or overly possessive.

Really, I think there are just that many mean men out there. They're always going to be lurking around and there's not much I can do about it besides defend myself, which is why I'll never waste my energy on being a man hater, nor will I give up on dating. Eventually and certainly I'll run into somebody with the right mix of chemistry and kindness. Until then, I say, bring it on. Go ahead and pummel me with your bullshit and consider yourself lucky if you behave in such a way towards me and then make it out of the situation without severe injury to your testicles. Shit, with the number of mean boy encounters I have under my belt, I'd be pretty stupid not to find the humor in it all at this point.

Now, I'm curious. Sorry to leave you out non-mean, straight men, but I sort of have a theme going here. What is the meanest thing a boy has ever done to you and how did you react to it? I'd like to know just how many of you can top my mean boy stories.
 

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