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November 23, 2012

in Random crap

In the last week ten people have sent me this article because it “made them think of me” and they thought it might be helpful for my health. The article starts with “A dose of parasitic whipworms cured monkeys with chronic diarrhea.

So, yeah.

In their defense, the article does quickly move to the fact that the sick-monkey worms were also helpful for auto-immune diseases and I do have two of those, so fair enough.  In related news that is not quite as funny as diarrhea-monkey worms, my rheumatoid arthritis has gotten much better in the last year because I started taking a monthly “injectable tumor necrosis factor blocker“, which sounds like it would be awesome because it’s a “tumor blocker” but the side effect is that it can give you extra cancer, which is just rude.  Also, it can kill you and it makes your urine weird.  Surprisingly, I am not being paid for this endorsement.

In other not-funny-but-possibly-needed news, I have lost 30 pounds, but in my defense (because I don’t take compliments well) it’s mainly because depression makes me unhungry.  So, thank you for the sweet comments about the weight loss but it’s actually just because I’m too crazy to eat properly so I feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to benefit from those compliments.  And also I’m still technically overweight so I’m still allowed to make fat jokes.  I just wanted to clarify.

Also, I had something really funny to add here but I can’t write it because Victor said it felt vaguely racist and so I called my friend to ask her if she thought it was racist and then Victor was all “You’re calling your black friend to ask if something is racist?  THAT IS TOTALLY RACIST” but technically I was going to call all of my black friends and do a poll, but then I got distracted and now I can’t remember what the joke was.  Way to ruin it for everyone, Victor.

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My book comes out today!  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BUY IT.  For the next week and a half I’ll be on book tour so please, for the love of God, come see me so I’m not alone.  Click here for details on the tour.  Today I’m in New York.  I’ll be posting here when I have time but I’m also posting some of my favorite posts from the past 5 years.  This one was from 2009…

So  tonight I was walking my dog and  thinking about what I should blog about this week because most of the posts in my draft folder are kinda half-written and don’t really have an ending and I was thinking that maybe I should throw myself in front of a car because that would at least give me something to write about and then I thought “Wow.  There’s something really wrong with me.  Maybe I need more meds”, but then I didn’t even have to maim myself because

I FOUND A MUSHROOM SHAPED LIKE A BOOB.

Probably the sexiest mushroom ever.

Probably the sexiest mushroom ever.

Fucking for real, y’all. It’s like God was all “Damn, what’s with the deathwish, bitch?  I already gave you rheumatoid arthritis.  That’s not enough for you? So selfish.”  And then He’s all “You know what?  Fine. Just throw yourself in front of a car.  I’m out, dumbass.”  But then He remembered my granny who is awesome and God-fearing and prays for me all the time and He probably sighed all grudgingly, like “Damn it. I totally owe Granny.  Fine. I’ll give you this one.”  Then, BAM! Boobie mushroom.    And now I don’t even have to throw myself in front of a car.  In fact, I think I could probably never post again and this blog would still considered successful just on the merit of this one boob God left on my lawn.

It's like when you see the Virgin Mary in a tortilla except instead it's a boob on the ground.  Either way, I'm pretty sure God wanted me to profit from it.

It's like when you see the Virgin Mary in a tortilla, except instead it's a boob on the ground. Either way, I'm pretty sure God wanted me to profit from it. Please send me a dollar.

PS.  I took like 18 photos of the boobie mushroom and the whole time my neighbor was giving me this look like “The fuck?” and so I started also taking pictures of my kid and the mailbox and random shit to throw him off because I didn’t want him to notice the boobie mushroom because I was afraid he might have a blog too and post about it first.  So yeah…I do think there’s probably something wrong with me.  I mean, my neighbor doesn’t even speak English so even if he does have a blog we probably have a different audience.  There could be some cross-over with my bilingual readers though so I don’t think I’m completely overreacting.

PPS.   You know what?  Fuck him.  His granny didn’t go to church every Sunday for 70 years so her granddaughter could find this boobie mushroom.  I am totally going out to smash it right now so he can’t put it on his blog, which may or may not exist.

PPPS.  Okay, I didn’t do it.  Partially because it felt wrong to destroy a boobie mushroom that God made.  And also because when I was little I heard that if you squash mushrooms, fairies will attack you.  Mostly that second one.  I’ve probably revealed too much about myself here but you know what?  Doesn’t even matter:  Magical .boobie. mushroom. It’s kind of so awesome I could write anything here and no one would even notice.  It’s like peeing behind the Pope.  Most of the people there are too into the Pope to notice and if they do notice it’s probably because they weren’t paying enough attention to the Pope.  It’s like a Pope test.  If you’re distracted by a little urine you lose your turn with the Pope and have to go to the back of the line.  If I was the Pope I’d have someone peeing behind me all the time.  That would be awesome.

PPPPS.  This may be my last post ever because where do you go from here?  I’m totally like Eva Peron right before she got cancer.

Comment of the day: You should totally throw a thin white t-shirt over it and water it. Oh, wait, I forgot.  I’m a lady. Don’t do that. That’s offensive. ~ harmzie

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I know I said I was going to give away five red ball gowns as part of the #travelingreddress project, but I am a tremendous liar who can’t be trusted. That’s why instead today I’ll be mailing out nine red ball dresses to women around the world. The tenth will be just as beautiful, but will be smaller and hopefully a bit more magical, as it will be going to Alice:

Amazing pictures already pouring in from women across the globe in their red dresses. In fact, some have improvised using just a few yards of material to make amazing portraits. Ball gowns are flying across the country and photographers are furiously offering free sessions, and honestly I may have cried a little.

A few minutes ago I got an email telling me that I’m a final nominee for a Health Activist Award. I’m not sure if it’s for my work with rheumatoid arthritis or with mental illness but it seemed to require some weekly chats or such and I immediately felt both proud and panicked and quickly emailed them:

I’m not sure if i was chosen because of my rheumatoid arthritis or my mental illness issues but the latter sort of keeps me from doing web chats or phone calls or any of that. My anxiety is just too strong right now for me to take on anything else. But I’m so honored. If you’d rather give it to someone less crazy than me though I totally understand. I just have to take care of myself a bit more and that means saying no when I want to say yes. I hope you understand.

After I sent that out I expected to feel bad, like a failure for not being the activist others might see me as, but instead I felt…comforted. Because I’m finally learning that I have to be my own activist as well and take care of myself.  And sometimes that means saying “no” when every fiber of your body says “yes”.

Sometimes a no is a yes.

Sometimes a battle is the triumph.

Sometimes a dress is a hope.

PS. Tomorrow I’ll be back in my usual old irreverent, biting satire as usual. The drugs should kick in any minute.  Promise.

UPDATED:  I won, in spite of myself.  Literally, and figuratively.  How perfectly bewildering.

 

Comment of the day: When you said “Ball gowns are flying across the country”, the first thing I thought of was looking up in the sky and seeing scores of victorian dresses flying through the air. And a small child, who is walking down the street with her mother would look up at the sky and ask: Mommy, what are those things? And the mother would smile, look down and say to her child: That’s hope. ~ Plaidfox

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This post is going to be crazy-ass hard to follow but it’s probably worth it, so buckle-up, buttercup.

Last year my lovely readers accidentally forced me to save Christmas by making me let them buy Christmas presents for children who might not have had any otherwise.  It’s hard to explain, so instead I’m going to send you to a link explaining how a giant, taxidermied boar’s head (named James Garfield) led to strangers donating over $40,000 to other strangers in what was probably the most baffling and profanity-filled Christmas miracle ever.  It was awesome.

This year I’ve had a lot of people ask if I’m doing the accidental-Christmas-miracle again this year and my first reaction was a resounding, “Oh, hell no.”

And that’s still my reaction.

But here’s the thing…almost all of the people asking if I’m doing the Christmas Miracle again this year are the people who were helped last year.  Except that this year they want to give back, because they were so moved by the way strangers reached out to help them last year that they want to pay it forward.

Holy crap, you people make it difficult to be all hard and grinchy.  And I suppose that’s why I love you. Grudgingly.  And completely.

But here’s the problem:  Last year I was so completely overwhelmed and exhausted that I found myself in a stress-induced rheumatoid arthritis flare-up that made me want to cut off all of my limbs.  And then I’d just be a torso.  No one wants that.

Tons of people have offered to help, but honestly the whole thing sounds suspiciously like a plot to make me lead some sort of annual charitable, good-will organization and I think I speak for all of us when I say that that is a terrible idea.  My skills are much used in buying giant metal chickens, and harassing Nathan Fillion It’s what I do.

So for the last month I’ve been thinking about what I could do to still help people while not actually having to do any work whatsoever.  And I think I have it.  Lightly organized good-deed doing.  Like, almost not organized at all.  Practically chaos, really.  Which is, I think, what you’ll all agree that I excel in.  So here’s how we’re doing The Second (and possibly last) Annual James Garfield Christmas (and Hanukkah) Miracle(s):

Miracle # 1:  Right now there are more more homeless children living in shelters in the U.S. since the Great Depression.  There’s an organization called Project Night Night that donates over 25,000 free Night Night Packages to homeless kids each year.  Each package contains a new security blanket, a children’s book and a stuffed animal, all nestled in a new canvas tote bag.  The organization needs at least 750 bags right now.  They’re $20 each, and you can sponsor a Night Night Package for a child by clicking here.

Miracle #2:  Toys for Tots.  Every year Victor and I donate a shitload of toys in my parent’s name. We take pictures of the donation and then give the pictures to my parents and thank them for teaching me the importance of giving to others.  End result:  Kids get presents and my parents feel awesome for raising me right (even though a horrible side-effect is that they haven’t gotten a proper Christmas present from us in a decade.)  But they’re cool with it because they’re not assholes.  My point is that you should consider doing this for your parents, because if they make you feel crappy about it they’re terrible people and don’t deserve proper presents anyway.  Moving on.

Miracle #3:  The Heifer Project.  Basically it’s about giving livestock and training to families around the world, because llamas are awesome.  Or something.  I don’t know.  I get confused after I see the llamas.  But I do know that they do amazing work and that you can buy a share of a goat for $10.  Which is great because you’re helping a family in need and you also get to tell your horrible aunt Frieda (who made you feel fat when you were 12 and won’t stop asking why you aren’t married yet) that for Christmas you bought a share of a goat in her honor.  The ass end.  Merry Christmas to everyone concerned.

Miracle #4:  This one is closest to last year’s bonanza, but I’m also shining a blinking “ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK” sign here because this one takes some trust.  There’s a website called Wish Upon a Hero.  The premise is that anyone can post a wish for something they need.  Sometimes people ask for encouragement, or for cards to cheer up a sick kid, or for clothes, toys, food, whatever.  If you’re someone currently in need of help, sign up and make a wish.  If you want to give help to someone in need then sign up and go here to find the kind of wish you want to grant.   It can be as simple as a word of encouragement or winter coats for children.  Your choice.

Miracle #5:  Just by reading this far you have already donated.  Tonight I’m donating $1,000 to the places above in the name of “You and everyone you know.”  And before you think this is totally selfless, please know that the $1,000 came from my online store, so technically  this money came from you anyway.  That’s why it is entirely ethical for you to tell friends and family that this year instead of giving out gifts you’re just giving to charity.  And that way you can use the money you would have spent on crap-for-people-who-don’t-need-more-crap on something more useful instead.  Like mortgages.  And pie.  And goat asses for bitter aunts who need to learn to mind their own damn business.

The fine print:   If you’re inspired to donate, please feel free to leave a comment telling us what you’re doing.  I loved seeing that stuff come in last year and I know it was inspiring to others as well.

If you leave a comment asking for help you can link to your Wish Upon a Hero post, but please don’t leave your email or contact info in your comment or it won’t get posted.

If you want to share a link of another charity that you love, or links to resources that people can use if they need help please do so.

And finally…thank you.  Thanks for listening, and for caring, and for reading this far.  

We’re all in this together, people.  

UPDATED:  I just bought a llama.  In a shopping cart.  Technology is weird.  And awesome.

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I’m at the final part of a severe rheumatoid arthritis flare-up.  I only get a few a year, but when they hit it’s simply a matter of surviving from day to day.  That sounds ridiculous and overblown, since I at least know that eventually the pain will fade and I’ll be able to get out of bed and not bite back screams.  The first few days seem like they should be the worst since they’re the most painful, and always end with a trip to the emergency room.  The next few days it hurts less, but you’re so brittle from a lack of sleep and unending pain that you still feel just as miserable.  Your family members and friends understand and care, but after half a week of seeing you hobble around the house and crying in the bathroom even they can get worn out by it all.  Then comes two days of fatigue so intense that you feel drugged.  You want to get up and work and clean and smile, but you find yourself falling asleep at your daughter’s first play, and you have to leave to get back to bed while everyone else celebrates.

Life passes.  Then comes the depression.  The feeling that you’ll never be right again.  The fear that these outbreaks will become more familiar, or worse, never go away.  You’re so tired from fighting that you start to listen to all the little lies your brain tells you.  The ones that say that you’re a drain on your family.  The ones that say that it’s all in your head.  The ones that say that if you were stronger or better this wouldn’t be happening to you.  The ones that say that there’s a reason why your body is trying to kill you, and that you should just stop all the injections and steroids and drugs and therapies.

Today, as Victor drove me home so I could rest, I told him that sometimes I felt like his life would be easier without me.  He paused and said, “It might be easier, but it wouldn’t be better.”

These days are the darkest.  But I know they will pass.  I know that tomorrow things will seem a little brighter.  I know that next week I’ll look back on this post and think, “I should stop listening to my brain when it’s trying to kill me.  Why did I even write that post?”   And that’s precisely why I’m writing this.  Because it’s so easy to forget that I’ve been here before and come out the other side, and perhaps if I have this to read I’ll remember it again next time and it will help me to keep on breathing until the medications take hold and I’m out of the hole again.

Because quitting might be easier, but it wouldn’t be better.

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