Category Archives: mixing medications

This isn’t necessarily a real post

Yesterday I went to the doctor to check on the ovary that tried to kill me because it’s still being an asshole.  I asked the doctor (who was very sweet and quite awesome) if she thought it was cancer, and she smiled and calmly reassured me that “it’s not necessarily cancer.”  Which seemed very comforting until I was out the door and started analyzing exactly what the hell that meant.

For my own mental health, I’m telling myself that “It’s not necessarily cancer” is the same thing as “It’s not cancer,” but I don’t really believe me because I have anxiety disorder and I suspect I’m just lying to myself to protect me.  From myself.  I don’t know if that sentence even makes sense, but if it doesn’t I blame the cancer which I may or may not have.

Honestly, I’m not even sure why I paid for that diagnosis. I already knew that I didn’t necessarily have cancer. Who gets a necessary cancer?

“So you have cancer?” “Yes, but it was necessary.” “Oh, good. There’s nothing worse than a frivolous cancer.”

I have to go back this week for more scans.  Scans which probably cause cancer.  And then the doctor will be like, “Well, the bad news is that all of these x-rays caused you to get cancer, but the good news is that we found the cancer by doing all these x-rays.  Yay for us!  And it’s a darn good thing that we did all these scans because they were totally necessary to find the cancer that was caused by them.”  And I think I just accidentally defined necessary cancer.

Touche, medical science.

You win this round.

PS.  Don’t worry.  I don’t necessarily have cancer.

PPS.  This post is more depressing than I would like it to be so I’m ending it with a picture of myself photo-bombing a picture my friend Chookooloonks took.  For those of you who are new here, I’m the one inside the wolf.

Stop yelling at me. The wolf died naturally of old age and kidney failure. And probably necessary cancer. I hear there's a lot of that going around.

No one makes cards for this. But they should.

Conversation I just had with Victor:

Victor:  What the hell are you doing?

me:  I’m watching Scandinavian horror movies.

Victor:  I see that.  Don’t you have work to do?

me:  Um…this is awkward.  It’s National Mental Illness Week?  I’m guessing this means you forgot to get me a card.

Victor:  What the hell is wrong with you?

me:  Um…I have mental illness.  Remember?  And this is National Mental Illness Week, so I’m taking the week off since it’s a recognized holiday.   It’s like Rosh Hashana, but for crazy people.

Victor:   Mental Illness Week is no holiday.

me:  Well the other 51 weeks are no picnic either.  And that’s why you have to really force yourself to celebrate the one week when people give you gifts and cards for being kinda fucked-up.  Or, at least, they should.  But then everyone forgets, and that’s depressing, and then you have to watch Scandinavian horror films to distract yourself from the lack of “YOU ARE THE BEST KIND OF FUCKED UP” cards in your mailbox.

Victor:  Wow.  It’s like this holiday was made for you.

me:  IT IS MADE FOR ME.  THAT’S WHAT MAKES IT SO AWESOME.

Victor:  I was going to say “baffling.”

me:  It’s both.  Which is what makes it even more amazing.  Even the holiday is bipolar.

Victor:  I’m going to go hide in my office now.

me:  Don’t stay in there too long.  I got a pinata to hang from the ceiling fan.

Victor:  Is it filled with prozac?

me:  No.  Because that would be illegal.  Plus, we’d end up with drugs knocked under the couch and then all the cats would all from drug allergies and overdoses.  Also, you can’t really make those jokes.  Those are our jokes.  It’s in our charter.

Then Victor left.  Probably to buy me an apology cake.

PS.  Happy Mental Illness Awareness Week from me.  To celebrate, take the rest of the week off.  Also, you can take a free, online screening here.  I just did all of the tests and it told me I have depression and anxiety disorder.  Which I do.  It’s like a Magic 8 Ball that actually works.

PPS.  They don’t actually make cards that say “Happy Mental Illness Awareness Week!” but they should.  I just made one for my store, but you might not get it before the end of the week, so I’m putting it here if you want to print it out for free.  Because awareness is half the battle.  The other half of the battle is getting people to help you hang up pinatas for holidays that no one recognizes.

It’s been a very long two weeks. Get prepared.

I’ve been traveling a lot for the last two weeks and so I’m tempted to do what I usually do and just forget to post any of it, but instead I’m going to hit the major points of the last few weeks as copied directly from my journals, twitter and shit I wrote on the back of napkins.  It’s going to be confusing as hell and you can totally skip it.

Where I’ve been the last few weeks, part 1:  THE NATHAN FILLION SAGA

Remember six months ago when I asked everyone on twitter to send me 11 cents and I ended up with $402, which I was going to use to buy a taxidermied pig dressed as Scarlett O’Hara?  Me either.  But it happened.  Then the pig deal went pear-shaped, so instead I decided to offer the money to Nathan Fillion for a picture of himself holding twine, because I thought it would go well with the picture Wil Wheaton sent me of himself collating paper.  Nathan Fillion ignored numerous requests, so instead I did the next logical thing and used the money to take a Cuban, amputee alligator named Jean-Pierre (who was dressed as a pirate) on a plane trip.

Still, the people demanded photos of Nathan Fillion holding twine and still, Nathan Fillion tossed his manly hair and ignored us in the most handsomely rugged way he possibly could.  Yes, it was disappointing for all of us, but the masses came to the rescue and sent me tens of pictures of Nathan Fillion holding twine.  They were all were photoshopped.  This one was my favorite.

trashtwine

This one was nice too:

fillion with twine
But even now, half a year later, people still ask me “Did Nathan Fillion ever send you a picture of himself holding twine?” and I answer (with a touch of melancholy and stoic braveness), “No.  But I still have hope.”

So that’s why (when I went to California two weeks ago to visit my sister) I decided to once again extend an olive branch to Nathan Fillion the only way I knew how…by annoyingly harrassing him on twitter.

A series of one-sided tweets I sent to Nathan Fillion over a 12 hour period:

@nathanfillion ~ I just realized that we’re BOTH in California today. How many other people can say that? It’s probably a sign we should meet.”

@nathanfillion – I can come to you. Or we can meet at Shakey’s. I’m totally craving pizza. I’ll bring the twine.”

@nathanfillion : I am totally not dangerous. Just ask half of my 140k followers. (The other half are liars.)”

@nathanfillion – I just realized that I wasn’t even following you. WTF, me? No wonder you haven’t dmed me. I look like an idiot.”

@nathanfillion – I cannot find any twine in Hollywood. It’s no wonder you’ve had such a hard time. I apologize. Let’s switch to dental floss.”

@nathanfillion – I’ll be at Shakey’s Pizza in about 30 mins. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume you’re on your way.”

@nathanfillion – Great! I’ll see you there. First round’s on me.”

“Surprising all nay-Sayers, @nathanfillion came to Shakeys. He was disguised as an elderly Asian woman & refused to break character.”

“Say what you want about @nathanfillion, but the man knows how to commit to a role.”

*****

PS. My sister and I tried to convince Shakey’s to change the sign outside to say “WELCOME, NATHAN FILLION” but it already said “Happy 6th birthday, Kevin” and they said they didn’t want to change it because they suspected that Nathan Fillion wasn’t really coming to meet me there.  Apparently Nathan Fillion has gained quite a reputation around town.

I’m happy to say though that that reputation was unfounded:

Me and Nathan Fillion in Hollywood.

PPS.  That’s not a real picture of me and Nathan Fillion in Hollywood.  I apologize.  It’s one of those pictures you get on Hollywood Boulevard where some guy in a street kiosk digitally makes you look like you’re standing next to someone famous for $15.  I asked for Nathan Fillion and the vender was like “Who?  I have no idea who that is.”  The girl behind me asked for “Little Weezy” and vender guy was all “Him again?  Everyone wants their picture taken with this Weezy!”  Then I was like, “Isn’t she dead?” and the girl screamed “LITTLE WAYNE DIED?” and I was like “Oh, no.  I thought you were talking about the lady from The Jeffersons.  Little Wayne is fine.”  It was an emotional day for everyone concerned.

PPS.  I still believe in you, Nathan Fillion.

 

Would you like to buy a monkey?

Last weekend at a thrift shop I found a small, stuffed monkey, which seemed to have some sort of snout leprosy and would probably murder us in our sleep.

I named him “Copernicus”.

Copernicus.

I immediately picked the monkey up and turned to Victor with wide eyes, as I struggled to keep my voice down to a whisper so that the shop-girl wouldn’t realize how much I was interested.

me:  Victor.  Oh.  Em.  Gee.

Victor:  Oh, holy shit.  Put that thing down.

me:  Are you fucking crazy?  HE NEEDS US.  Plus, he is made of awesome.  And nightmares.

Copernicus: MISTER, CAN YOU SPARE A HUG?

Victor:  Did you just make that monkey talk?

Copernicus:  A HUG IS LIKE A STRANGLE YOU HAVEN’T FINISHED YET.

Victor:  What is wrong with you?

me:  OH MY GOD, HE’S FANTASTIC.  Plus, he just used “strangle” as a noun.  Who does that?  Copernicus the homicidal monkey, that’s who.

Copernicus:  YOUR FACE LOOKS DELICIOUS.  I WILL CHEW ON IT WHILE YOU SLEEP.

me:  See.  He just gave you a compliment.

Then I followed Victor around the store, speaking in a squeaky monkey voice and trying to convince him that Copernicus would save us money because I could use him to make home-made Valentines for our kid to hand out at school.  But he was $15 and that’s a lot of money to spend on a haunted monkey, so I set it on the counter and prepared to haggle with the girl running the shop.

me:  I realize you’re probably very attached to this monkey as you can see his potential, but I was wondering if $15 was really the best you could do.  Because he’s missing a lot of his face.

shop-girl: I just work here.  I’m not really allowed to made deals.

me:  He smells like what I would imagine syphilis smells like.

shop-girl:  What did you have in mind?

me:  Um…$10?

shop-girl:  How about $7?

me:  I think you don’t know how negotiations work.

shop-girl:  Honestly, I don’t want to have to touch it to put it back on the shelf.

me:  SOLD.  No bag necessary.  I’ll carry him out.

Victor:  LIKE HELL YOU WILL.  That thing is not touching my car.

me:  He doesn’t mean that, Copernicus.

Shop-girl: Paper?  Plastic?

Victor:  How about something burlap?  On fire.

me:  He can ride home on your shoulder!  You’ve always wanted a monkey!

Victor:  What?  I’ve never wanted a monkey.

me:  EVERYONE WANTS A MONKEY.

Victor:  Not me.

me:  Well…that’s what’s wrong with you.

Victor:  I CAN NOT BELIEVE YOU PAID $7 FOR THAT.

me:  I KNOW, RIGHT?!

(We were both yelling, but for two entirely different reasons.)

Copernicus:  WHERE DO YOU GUYS KEEP THE KNIVES?

Victor:  SHUT UP, COPERNICUS.

**********

UPDATED:  I’ve already made the first three valentines day cards and I’m pretty sure Hallmark will be calling me this week.

This one feels a little dark for first graders, so I'm going to save it until next year. Because I'm a caring parent.

PS.  Why, yes, actually you can buy Copernicus Cards.

Homicidal monkey cards for hopeless romantics: series 12 and 3

Psychiatrists are not to be trusted

Conversation with Victor after I came home from my appointment with my shrink.

Victor:  So what’d your doctor say?

me:  The usual.  Still crazy.

Victor:  Well, at least you’re stable.

me:  She gave me something to kill the insomnia.  Ro-something?  I can’t remember what it’s called but it’s supposed to just knock you out completely.

Victor:  Rohypnol? Your doctor gave you roofies?

me:  I’m pretty sure my doctor didn’t give me the date rape drug.  It just sounds like rohypnol.  Wait, hang on.   There’s an actual warning on this pamphlet that you have to be careful to not accidentally have sex in your sleep.

Victor:  Your doctor gave you roofies.  Generic roofies.

me:  Wow.  I probably should have tipped her.

PS.  I took the drug and it was not roofies.  Or I’m immune to roofies.  One of those.  But, in brighter news I’m getting a lot accomplished due to not sleeping.  Like, I’m really good at drawing dinosaurs now.  And at making water-beds for cats.  And at involuntary hallucinations and forgetting where I live.

PPS.  It occurrs to me that if you don’t have insomnia you probably missed the day when I live-tweeted my hour-long attempt at making water beds for cats, so I’m going to reprint it all here.  Because the cats and I shouldn’t be the only ones to suffer.

  • I’ve decided to use all this extra insomnia time to make a waterbed, using only ziploc bags & a cardboard box.

 

  • It’s going to be awesome. Also, Victor really should stop leaving me at home unsupervised.

 

  • The waterbed isn’t for me. It’s for the cats. These cats have never even SEEN a waterbed. They’re gonna be ecstatic.

 

  • I’m going to need some duct tape. And a mop. And some…cat mittens.

 

  • Hang on. I can totally *make* cat mittens out of duct tape. THESE PROBLEMS ARE SOLVING THEMSELVES.

 

  • I’m not going to wrap duct tape around the cat’s paws, y’all. That’s inhumane. I’m going to put condoms on them first. Calm down, PETA.

 

  • I meant that I’m putting condoms on the cats’ feet before I duct-tape them. Not that I’m making them wear condoms for birth control.

 

  • My cats never use birth control. I think they’re Catholic.

 

  • No, no, no. Cat mittens are mittens made FOR cats. Kitten mittens are mittens made OF cats. Cats who died of natural causes, probably.

 

 

  • My kid just wandered in to see me forcibly balancing a deeply unappreciative Ferris Mewler on a quart-sized ziploc bag.

 

  • I don’t even know how to explain this. I just told her to go back to bed. She may never sleep again.

 

  • This is exactly why we need to find a cure for insomnia. Because it hurts EVERYONE.

 

  • Also, I’m bleeding and the cat is pissed. Duct tape makes terrible shoes for cats.

 

I think I just became a professional scientist. A dangerously unqualified one.

Yesterday I got an email from Scientific American magazine asking if I would be interested in submitting some ideas for science experiments for children.  And I was all, OF COURSE I WOULD.  After all, this is the same prestigious magazine that Einstein once contributed to.

My actual response:

Have you considered experiments regarding the proper combination of liquids?  Specifically, teaching children how to mix mojitos properly.

Technically, it’s basic chemistry (with a touch of biology if you grow the mint yourself) which ends in awesomeness. Plus, the parents would have to test the final product, so you have automatic parental involvement.  Personally, I would be very interested in becoming involved in that experiment.  Or anything involving Zombie Apocalypse preparations.  Maybe something with battle-axes.

Also, have you heard about these nuclear wolves?  Because they sound scary as shit.  Personally, I think we need to be concerned.  We may have over-planned for zombies, and under-planned for nuclear wolves.

Hugs,

Jenny

PS.  My spellcheck says “mojito” isn’t even a real word. I think this points out exactly why this sort of education is critical in America.

 

To be honest, I wasn’t actually expecting a response, but I got one:

If you really want to create an experiment on the proper combination of liquids (mojitos or otherwise), can you provide some more details like the objective of the experiment, the controls and variables that you think should be present, etc.? If our edit team features it as part of the next round of BSH experiments, we’ll credit you and link to your Twitter/blog. Suggestions from your blog readers and social followers are also welcomed.

And I completely agree about making serious moves to prepare for the Zombie Apocalypse. I don’t want to scare you, but zombie fungus ants might be the real thing we need to be worried about… At least for now.

Thanks again for the response. We look forward to discussing this and other end of the world conspiracies with you further.

Which?  Kind of a bad-ass response from a magazine that’s been around since the the 1850’s. Unfortunately, all I know about science is that if you flush a lit M-80 down the toilet it will fuck. up. your plumbing.  Really, I can’t stress that enough.  Also, you should not use roman candles to “burn away” the evidence.  It totally does not work at all and just makes things worse.  Plus, did you know that shower curtains are highly flammable?  Because I didn’t.

PS.  I have no clue how to write a proper scientific proposal and most of you are way smarter than me, so if any of you have any suggestions please feel free to leave them in the comments and I’ll have the Scientific American team come and check them out.  And then we all get knighted as Professional Scientists and then we can wear white lab coats with impunity and pretend to be very important doctors who can’t be bothered to pay their bar tabs because I HAVE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY TO ATTEND TO AND THIS COAT HAS NO POCKETS FOR MY WALLET.  I’m pretty sure that’s how science works.

I just paid to have someone beat me up

I just had my first ever Swedish massage and it was awesome, except for the parts when I thought I was going to be murdered.

Halfway through the guy told me to “smell” I was all “What?” and I opened my eyes and his hands were over my face like he was just about to smother me and I yelled “WHAT?” and he said, “I said ‘smell‘” and so I did and it was eucalyptus. I assume that’s some kind of aromatherapy but I have to think that the relaxation gained from smelling eucalyptus is not worth the stress you get from thinking you were going to be smothered.  Maybe it’s just me.  Then he rubbed the eucalyptus into my body.  Except by “rubbed” I mean “punched.”  I smell like I got beaten up by a koala bear.

Then he started pulling on my limbs and pushing them back in and it was kind of like if a class of kindergartners were told to kill you using only their hands and feet.  Then he tried to dislocate my arm.  Not on purpose, but he kept doing this thing and my arm was getting crunchy(?) and so he pushed harder and then I realized that he was trying to align my shoulder-blade except that I’m double-jointed and so he was trying to fix something unfixable and so I’m all, “Oh, it’s supposed to be like that.  You can move on”

Then he asked, “Um, have you ever had an allergic reaction to lotions or essential oils?” and I was all “No, why?” and he told me that my arm was really red and I was all, “Oh, that’s because YOU JUST TRIED TO DISLOCATE MY SHOULDERBLADE” but I didn’t say that out loud because at this point I was a little afraid that he was going to murder me, because who enjoys inflicting that much pressure on someone?  Sadists, that’s who.  But then it turns out that I am allergic to the oils, or that maybe I’m just breaking out in hives from the stress of my stress-relieving massage.

The only good part was when it was over and the guy was all “Make sure you drink a lot so you can flush your body of the toxins” and so I was all “Hell yeah” but when I got home and poured myself my second booze-slushie Victor said, “Water.  You’re supposed to drink water” and I was all “He was not specific“.

And that’s why there are so many typos in this post.  Because I’m therapeutically drunk and sort of bruised and dislocated.  That was not relaxing at all.  Next time I’m just skipping straight to the drunk part.