Health Update for August 2012

:::sigh:::

I have been a very bad blogger. 

I apologize.

But I have good reason-when I am not at home holding my couch down in the event of a gravity-reversal, I have been out and about, enjoying life.

I have kicked the Ambien habit.  Woot, woot, as the hipsters might say.

I am staggering down on my Cymbalta.  Another high-five.  :::slap:::

I am working with my acupuncturist with some homeopathy that will compliment my traditional Lyme treatments.  Holla.

 I'm sleeping a TON, which means I am fighting hard. 

I'm even thinking about ramping up my meditation practice, from oh, none, to maybe a teensy little bit, so that I am less likely to get so stabby when things don't go my way.  Progress, right?

Even though not everything is going swimmingly, I am handling things pretty damn well if I do say so, myself.

I'm even getting to do things I thought I would have to shelve for a while.

I had the chance to go to lunch with Sky King, and some of my old trouble-making cohorts from my college days.  We all met downtown, with plans to eat fabulous food, and drink fabulous drinks, all the while telling baudy stories about our late teens and early 20s. 

Sky King's ears (and mental-image department) probably bled a bit.  Sorry, Honey.  I was young, and drunk.  And under the influence of bad bad people that challenged me to do inappropriate things like skinny-dip in the ocean, and the like.  I will try to not do these things too often in the future.

I do, however, want a pic of the skinny-dipping-I can't imagine I will ever look that good again.  20-year-old boobies? Sign me up!  :::longing sigh::: (T---I expect a high-res image soon-I will sned postage if need be!)

As you may remember, I was convinced to go on a rafting trip with my friends, in full frontal sun, despite my recent addition of Doxycycline to the meds mix.

This was an amazing day.  Not only because I did not wake up hungover the next day.  Not only because I got to do something amazing that I didn't think I could.  But because everyone was on board with keeping me covered, so that I could participate.

Later, when thinking of this day, it was that.  That inclusion that touched me so much.  The feeling that my friends were willing to accept a crazy-dressed covered-up nutjob on their raft, that they would remember to remind me to cover up and reapply sunscreen, that they were committed enough to me going they spent some time convincing me to go. 

It gave me a taste of my "old life", of getting to do things again. 

I no longer feel that I am watching life happen--I am participating.

And it feels freaking awesome!

Hunter S. Thompson and Me

Drugs.  I'm not a fan.  Especially when I HAVE TA.  I HATE having to do something.  But when you are saddled with a bunch of crazy shit that half the docs in the universe don't believe in, AND your sun rises and sets on this imaginary hell, you learn to compromise.

And so now I am a pill-popping fiend.

But still, my anarchist tendencies rear their little pointed heads.  Like when I realized I was addicted to Ambien.  While the ride was fun, it was like a roller coaster stuck in FF.  Eventually, the fun dies, and you want to barf in your best friend's lap. Ambien has been quite a ride---ups and downs, trials and tribulations, blah blah blah.  Sky King will not miss it, I assure you.

Now that I have become such a seasoned junky, I can't help but think back to my time reading Hunter S. Thompson.  It's like we are soul-siblings:

“We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream 

You may recall I have a hate-hate relationship with Ambien.  While I hate pharmaceuticals, I also hate not sleeping.  And I can't get well if I don't sleep.  Dr. Lyme was clear when he told me I would not get well if I could not sleep.  And I can't sleep without help.

But the Ambien?  It's not working as well as I'd like.  So the next step, in Dr. Lyme's opinion, was to ramp up to something stronger.  With the whole "get well" thing going on, I can certainly work with that.  But, I'm not feeling the whole "add more pharmaceuticals" thing, especially when the "ramp up" suggestion is typically used to have crazy love-monkey sex with a comatose chick who would normally give you the stink-eye, rather than to induce happy dreams of candy and rainbows.  Basically, roofies.  He wanted me to take roofies.  Ummm, no.

Part of my hesitation is that every time I add something, I go to the manufacturer's website.  I look at the side effects, paying close attention to the "common side effects" and the "holy shit! Call 911, stat!!!" list.  When the second list has side effects I ALREADY HAVE from some other drug, or some other ailment, I begin to feel a teensy bit angry.

Teensy, monumentally, potato, potahtoe. 

So I decided that, Ambien may not be the only way to get sleep.  I was done.  DONE.

Maybe part of my success was related to my resolve?

Anywho, I switched to a natural herbal remedy that has no contraindications, does not trash my liver, and does not give me side effects.  I weaned off the Ambien, slowly substituting my herbal, and BAM!  I freaking sleep as well as when I'm on Ambien, if not better.  And my dreams?  Not nearly as vivid, or as creepy.  Bonus.

Next up?  I'm ditching my antidepressants.  I just have to make it through my next period without a murderous rage, and I think I will be ready.

Wish us ALL luck.  And a sincere lack of sharp objects.

The One Where I Cheat Mother Nature

I'm back on Doxy.  Dr. Lyme apparently does not care if my mouth becomes foul with discoloration.  Nor is he concerned with scaly itchy rashes that make people avoid my handshakes.  And, he really doesn't give a rat's ass that it is summer in Northern Cali, and I can't have any sun exposure while on Doxy.  None.  Nada.

NO SUN EXPOSURE.  This means, SPF 50 while driving.  Horrifying shawls over my hands (and fingers) lest they wither in the sun's evil rays.  Maxi dresses for my maxi ass. Sun hats that cover my beautifully RED hair.  Can you hear my sulking?

So, when one of my besties from college coerced me (Sky King was involved, of course) to join them on a river raft trip, their pretty little sober faces pinky-swore not a ray of sun would besmirch my beautiful milky white thighs. 

That's a mighty BIG order.

I promptly went to Wally World to find a swim shirt that would allow me to get wet, while still remain covered.  Remember, I'm as sweaty as a buzzard's crotch these days, due to my Lyme-induced Peri-Menopause.  So heat?  Not a big fan.

I found an epic shirt.  A prime-to-party shirt.  I did have to pose briefly in the sun to show off my amazing find, complete with epic red hair:

I should have let the hair flow. My apologies.

Yes, those are barrels of beer on my shirt, and a frosty mug of beer accepting golden liquid glory.  I have the most amazing drinking shirt EVAH. 

And nice jugs?  Pshaw.  I have nice BARRELS.  Sky King will attest.

Another pal from college also brought me a super cool, light and stretchy shirt, that would accept not only my ample bosom, but my criss-cross applesauce legs.  My sis-in-law donated a fab hat, and I was the Belle of the Ball.  Or at least, Riff Raff of the River?

No, I am not pregnant.  Nor am I smuggling a heaping bag of doorknobs.  I have somehow managed to hid almost every square inch of skin inside a FORGIVING white cover-up.  They were NOT joking when they named this beast. 

And the cooler? Filled with water.  Sky King did NOT partake of the water. 

That "borrowed from Monkey Boy" blue thermos-y jug?  Filled with Vodka.  And a splash of Squirt.  Which he drank, after he provided an assist on the 72 beers that were in the other raft.

Final Score----
My skin: SPF 5000
My liver:1
Sky King's liver: 0

Enjoying life's simple pleasures: Priceless.

:::cue "awwwww":::

And, I was not couch-ridden the next day!

I wish I could say the same for Sky King.

Of Mark Walberg and Teeth

The other night, Sky King and I were getting ready to watch a Rated-R movie.  The stars had aligned.  This means that Princess was sound asleep under the euphoric glow of her Unicorn Dream Light, Monkey Boy had gone upstairs to text all the middle-school girls with boobies in the tri-state area, and I had decided that I could manage to stay up past 8:15 for once.

Hell,  I can't sleep without Ambien, so if I just take it later, then have the next day to chill, what's the prob, right?

So we are fully engaged in the previews for other movies, and we are talking about talking animals, because I saw an ad for the show, "Wilfred", with a talking dog that smokes and swears---totally my kind of stuff. Wilfred reminds Sky King of a movie we had meant to see.

Sky King says, "Ted! We haven't seen 'Ted' yet!"  I agree, and remark, "I can always go for a lil Marky Mark.  He can funk my bunch any day."

Sky King says, "Mark Walberg?  Total pixie."  He then paused, leading me to believe he actually has that little voice on his shoulder that feeds him small amounts of logic, realizing Mark Walberg is a badass mofo, and could scissor-kick most people into next week, while still unwrapping a fresh new pair of nun-chuks.  So he adds, " Ha-what the hell am I saying!  He could kick my ass so bad if I said that to his face."

I laughed, because while Sky King is MY hero, he hasn't been giving Jason Statham a run for his money.  I mean, Sky King can open even the toughest pickle jars,but action hero?  Not so much.  Ass-kicking mofo?  Nah.

All of a sudden, my imagination kicked in.  The brains, they stated workin'.  The hamster was making the wheel its bitch.  My mind began to wander, as it does.  And then I wondered if Mark Walberg was on Twitter. I got to thinking,  I could tweet what Sky King just said, then hopefully Mark Walberg would come to my house personally to kick Sky King's ass-not that I want Sky King to bleed on my rug, but there ARE side benefits. For instance, while he was punching my husband in the face, I might be able to sneak a few ab peeks in.  And maybe an ass-grab. See?  Win.

 I then realized Mark Walberg was such a badass, he could do damage to my man merely through thoughts, which prompted this comment:

"Hell, he could TWEET you so hard, he could knock your front teeth out."

Which prompted, "Holy shit.  That's funny, write that down!"

As you wish, my sweet doughy husband.

Thrice-Crowned Reigning Mother of the Year

As many of you know, I am an AMAZING mom.  If you are unsure, just click in a few spots to revel in my splendiforous wonder here or even here.

But you also may remember that I don't have much of a filter. So, I got in trouble the other day at lunch.  It seems as though my clever wordplay is not acceptable any longer. It's almost as if Sky King doesn't appreciate all the amazing funny words we can call our teenage son.  And, he hates me and doesn't want me to be happy.

Case in point:
My son's nickname is Ash.  We have some friends that have an 8 year old (the best friend of Princess) and that 8-year-old once remarked to her dad, "Ash can sometimes be an Ash-hole". 
This started a whole new genre of names for Ash: Ash-hole, Jack-Ash, Dumb-Ash.
Now, all of a sudden, this isn't cute any more.  Some shit about crushing his spirit, or hurting his ego, or damaging his self esteem.  I can't recall.

See?  Sky King is a major buzz kill.

Also, Princess recently flipped her uncle The Bird.  She even did the sly "I'm just rubbing my middle finger up and down my face right near my eye because I have an itch" move.  Uncle was not amused, and snitched right away.  Princess got busted, and I got The Look-the one that says, "YOU are the reason I have to put up with this shit", from Sky King.  Ugh.

Then just the other day?  I think I may have said, "I can hit them, or I can swear and scream at them-pick one."  Sky King may have given me that part-frown, part-pursed lips look, that said, "You must be PMSing, or I'd argue the point".  Fuck him.

So now, my cute nicknames for my son? Inappropriate.  Funny as shit, but no longer okay.  And Princess?  My doing.  My influence.  My problem.  Double ugh.
I did, however, earn a little cred with the fam. 

I will set the stage: We are camping, and Princess and her bestie have been off doing whatever it is they do, for about 2 hours. (let's now focus on the part where I don't know where my kid is, while camping in Bear country, umkay?)  All of a sudden, I hear hollering.  Loud, screaming, pain-filled crying.  It's Princess-I know that cry.
I began to walk up the hill toward the sound, and I am sure I am going to need my handy-dandy over-the-top First Aid kit.

The crying gets louder; more insistent.  I break into a sprint.

My friend is right behind me, sure I will need an assist.

I get to the top of the hill and head towards the sound-it's a little girl being tortured by her father, learning to ride a bike without training wheels.  It's NOT Princess.

Phew.

I turn to head back down to my perch by the campfire, huffing and puffing all the way back.  And I hear this:

Friend: I didn't know you could run!
Me: Me neither.

Later, Princess overheard the story:  "Mommy, you can RUN?!?!?!?"

She can be an Ash-hole, too.

Poo-Tastrophe 2012's Thrilling Conclusion

Wow.  I have some really awesome readers.  Sky King and I went through the emotional wringer lately, over a verified HYPOTHETICAL Poo-Tastrophe, and we vehemently disagreed about some key issues (wanna catch up?  Go here.).  Our marriage could not continue with each party thinking they had the correct solution.  So a poll was created. 

Many that love us helped us.  A lot was at stake-massages, naked favors, the knowledge of being right.

For  the record, Sky King thought that flushing, then reaching into a public toilet that I just BLEW UP, and using that water to repeatedly wash my ladybits with was his solution.  Not only is that EEEEWWWW.  But can you imagine what my potential stallmates would think?  All they'd hear is:

"Oh. God." :::rumble, rumble, fart, gasp:::
"Ahhhh.....Wait, no paper?!?!?  Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!?"
:::digging through purse:::
:::garbled bad words:::
:::flush.......splash, splash:::
"Damn, that's cold!"
:::Flush, splash, splash:::

Seriously?  Then I walk out, saunter over to the sink, and proceed to sanitize my hands and arms.
No.

So, my thought was to remove my panties, using the outer fabric to wipe, ditching the panties in the feminine hygiene receptacle.   Then, go commando the rest of the short trip to the mall.  Easy-peasy.  And, there was PLENTY of fabric. Its cottony softness would be lovely, I thought. But Sky King is worried about, apparently, our skyrocketing panty budget. 

Fortunately, there was an ample supply of butt gaskets.  Scratchy and not as absorbent as I would have liked, but I was not using the mall crapper as my personal birdbath.  And, I got to keep panties on. 

When I realized we were at a moral impasse, Sky King and I decided to rely on the amazing minds of the internet to help guide us.

The comments were better than the original post--I got them from text, from Facebook, from the original post, and from the updated post (note: I accidentally lost the first batch of comments from the original post, because I may have broken Disqus. Or Blogger.). 

But, through the wonders of the internets, I was able to recreate and compile the entire batch of fabulousness, complete with my snarky additions.  You're welcome.

Comments (with my replies in green):

•         Toss the panties. Damn straight.
•         Ditch the panties! I fell ya.
•         Okay. You know I have much love for you. But I have to side with Sky King on this one. I think the idea of washing your ass with toilet water (even clean) and your hand is just a bridge too far for me. What can I say? I'm fecal phobic. On the plus side, if you're good enough at whatever he decides to claim as your prize, you could always sneak a professional massage onto the credit card! J- I am so glad I wrote the original post objectively enough that you thought I was not the panty ditcher.  But now, I am alarmed that you would think I would wash my ass in toilet water.  I'm conflicted. Shit.
•          You sure have a way of saying the unspeakable! Thank you, I aim to please.  I will be adding that to my resume'.
•          I think I go with B. But I am not opposed to the butt gaskets as a first choice!!! You, my dear, are wrong.
•         Jeesh! It is dinner time here in the east, just lost my appetite. P.S. My vote is to sacrifice the panties (socks too if you had them) C-Believe me, I would have sacrificed half my wardrobe to avoid a toilet ass-bath. Sorry about your dinner...
•          I don't understand. One of those is a viable option and the other in completely disgusting!  I agree!
•          I don't care how clean it looks, I'm not sticking my hand in a toilet. Amen, sister.
•          I'd have to say #1....#2 seems messier. Clearly, you are highly intelligent.
•          I vote for option 2. but I have used butt gaskets in a pinch. Umm, no, Mom.  Not okay.  Now, I can't hug you anymore.
•          ‎$7 panties? Obviously you didn't have Joe and I buy them! That said, Option 1 is it. Even the men agree, J.  And no, I buy my own panties.  But I will certainly keep you in mind for the next 12-pack I need....
•          Option 2, there is no guarantee you will get as clean as you want with the panties and may be forced to splash. While not an option, you could wait until the coast is clean and do the squat shuffle to the next stall for paper. Once again, no.  NO.  You and my mom seem to be in cahoots. 
•          Oh. My. God. I can't even... Ima go find my brain bleach. At least you don't LIVE my life, you only have to read about it.  I toned it WAY down for general consumption.
•          Ugh, no compassionate stall mates to plead a case to? Nope. Not a one.  I almost screamed for Monkey Boy to come to my rescue.  But there's no telling whether he would have helped-a 13-year-old boy, assisting his Mommy in the Ladies' room?  Not likely.
•          I think you need to be more comfortable in your nakedness and that Sky King needs to get better at Massages so I am technically going with neither, or is it both...Either way, I feel the need to use mouthwash...not sure why. Chicken.
•          If I hypothetically was in such a situation, I would have to base my decision on what pants I was wearing. If I had on yoga pants, then yes, ditch the undies, and go commando. If I had on Jeans, or something more 'harsh', then there's no way I'm ditching the undies and I would go with option 2, and I might even try and sneak outside the stall and grab some paper towels and continue on. I was in a flowy, non-transparent maxi-dress. Perfect for panty-ditching.
• Panties are gone, just like college ;).....NO way I'd ever stick my hand in that water, let alone potentially catch some STD from that water by splashing it on my cooter! T-you speak of this like we know each other from 20+ years ago, when I was in college.  That's not possible, I was a model student, and spent all my free time working hard and studying.  Not skinny-dipping, drinking Quarter beers at McBurley's on Thirsty Thursdays, and doing the 7 AM walk of shame. Who are you????  

 So.  For the first few hours, things seemed evenly split between option 1, option 2, and people that were thoroughly disgusted with the entire convo.  But, there was a clear winner at the end of the day.

Clear Votes:

Option 1 (ME!!!!!):  8 votes
Option 2(Sky King): 3 votes

I won't even address the fact that some of you didn't want to commit either way.  Pansies.

Sky King and I exchanged texts over the results:

 
 

Still a win, in my book.
 

UPDATED: Help Me Settle a Bet

I have some serious stakes on the line with Sky King.  There's a week's worth of massages at risk.  And I'm sure I will have to do something that involves naked me if I lose.  IF.  But I won't lose.  That's how secure I am that he is wrong.  And, more importantly, I am right. So please, read on, my friends.  Help us settle this bet (because me?  I could use those massages.)

Okay.  This is a PURELY HYPOTHETICAL situation.

Let's say, that you eat some pizza while driving to pick up a kid at football.  Then, you drive home to drop the pizza off for the rest of the fam, then schlep over to the mall to pick up some godforsaken last minute school supply that cannot wait until Tuesday.

As you arrive in the parking lot, you HYPOTHETICALLY realize that you need a bathroom.  Hopefully not before you make it to a public toilet.  You rush in, telling your kid, "IwillmeetyouinTilly'sI gottapee" but what you really wanted to say is "OMFG!  I'm about to have massive runny shit down my leg if you don't open that door RIGHT NOW!".  But, you don't want to humiliate your son (anymore, today....) so you don't say all that.  But you walk.  Quickly. Still hypothetically.

When you get in the stall, you barely make it to the throne before a massive explosion erupts.  The good news?  You made it.  The bad news?  Out of paper.  No TP for the bunghole.  Nada.  Not a square to spare.

In this particular hypothetical case, there was an ample supply of butt gaskets.  Not the most aesthetically pleasing of wiping items, but will work in a pinch.

Later, when I was relaying this PURELY HYPOTHETICAL situation, I also included Plan B.  He thought Plan B was awful, and he offered his own solution.  We disagreed.  Vehemently.  All hypothetically, of course.

I will present both sides, with Sky King assisting with the editing to ensure that each idea is presented in its entirety, as objectively as possible.

*Sky King note* The foundation has been laid and it's clearly in favor of a "cough" certain side. 

*FFW note* Editing my post so that you emphasize certain aspects doesn't make you right.

Option 1:
Remove panties, wipe with panties, ditch seven dollar panties.

Option 2:
Flush, make sure water is clean. Use clean water to clean hiney. Flush. Repeat until clean. It's free AND you wash your hands afterwards.

Well?  Option 1, or Option 2?  There's a clear winner here, folks.

How to vote?  In the comments.  But first, go to Disqus, make a very quick painless free account, and then everyone can see your amazing epiphany.  But, you can make up a fun name, so that no one will know you read my posts about bowel movements.  And, I will get my week's worth of massages.  See? Win-win. 

Ready? Set? GO!

***UPDATE****

Okay, from the comments here, and in my phone via text and via Facebook, I can see that, well, let's face it, hardly any of you are comfortable with feces.  Especially descriptive stories regarding mine.  But really, is it so difficult?  I need straight answers, people-a week's worth of massages are riding on this.  It's easy:  Throw away a pair of panties, or wash your hindquarters in a public toilet?  C'mon, I'm begging you----I NEED those massages.  Or I need an answer. One of those.  Bleach your brains later....

Lesbian Dolphin Marshmallows. With Ketchup.

Being an aged hipster, I text.  I'm even one of those people that would just rather have quick text convos, rather than actually engage people in some sort of lame-ass reciprocal talking session, where I have to be fully engaged.  I'm kind of an asshole like that.

Also, I need to pay better attention to whom I send things.

Luckily, I did not commit some sort of "reply all" shenanigans.  But, I confused a friend.  Hilarity?  It ensued.  In fact, we ensued the shit out of some hilarity....

My friend Jen?  She is my amaze-balls partner in most of my crimes.  If we had gone to college together, YouTube would have been invented earlier, just for our benefit...or demise.  It boggles the mind.

Anyway---I REALLY want her to go to BlogHer with me next year.  We both missed out this year.  It's all very dramatic and sad, and I am getting sick of reading everyone's posts about how amazing it was. :::sad face:::

Also, she is the one that inspired me, and helped me, to get started with my own blog.  See?  You have her to blame thank.

So I'm planning ahead.  And if I get her on board now, I can guilt her into recycling cans and selling crap on craigslist, and she can't flake on me.  So I shot her a quick message before I forgot:

Umm, yeah.  Confusion. For both of us. 

So I respond:

So now we are on the same page.  Although at this point, I'm getting concerned that Sky King does not know how dangerously low our marshmallow and ketchup stores have gotten, but that will have to wait...

Way down at the bottom?  Jen says, (and if I knew how to recreate texts for screenshots like a REAL hipster, you could see it...) "It's your version of lesbian dolphins".

See, this one time, at band camp Girl Scouts, the moms were chatting about various mom things, and Jen made some remark about Dolphins, and one of the moms who happens to be a lesbian busted up laughing. We all laughed with her, then asked what was so funny.  Apparently, there's some symbolism with lesbians and dolphins, and Jen had said something witty without knowing it. I was clearly having a lesbian dolphin moment of my own. 

Then things got weird. Er. Now, we are talking lesbian marshmallows.  Which to be fair, have to be way more curvy and delicate than penis marshmallows.  But neither would be appropriate for the S'Mores our Girl Scouts are roasting on Saturday. 

What to do?  Keep texting, obviously.

ifaketext.  Brilliant.  When I first found out about it, I was saddened,  I really thought all those hilarious texts online that were going around were real.  They're not.  I know, shocking.  But I got over that, when I realized I could make myself sound less bad-spelly with this handy program.  But I could not do a really long thread.  Grr. So I had to make several screenshots.  Honestly, it's fucking tiring being this awesome. EXHAUSTING.

And you know what else?  Jen and I? Full-on BAMFs. 



Dream a Skinny Dream

Here I sit, waiting for my BRAND-SPANKING NEW thyroid pills to miraculously turn me into the svelte young perky-boobed thing I was in my early 20's.  VERY early 20's. Like 20.  And possibly 21, before I dated Sky King and got all, "damn, is that cake--hook a sistah up!"

Because that bag of doorknobs?  My ass.

That sack of feral cats fighting? My belly, hanging over my stretchy-yet-cotton-y panties (Man, I LOVE Lyca!).

Those (as Monkey Boy refers to them) saggy flapjacks?  The same saggy flapjacks that fed two children for apparently WAY too long.  When I'm trying to look sexy for Sky King, I tuck most of the mass into my shaved-within-the-past-week pits. That way, I have cleavage, instead of CLEAVAGE. 

On a related note, did you know that boob sweat can void the warranty on your cell phone? Ladies, keep those iPhones away from the twins.

So, as I said, I'm waiting for the weight to drop off-, sloughing off into the ether, leaving me tan, hot, and about 5 inches taller.  Or at least able to wear my least-stretchy jeans.  When I can actually tolerate clothing that restricts air flow.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Is "Taco Punch" Hyphenated? Or, The One Where I'm a Bad Example

In addition to the usual Lyme issues-fatigue, memory loss, visual dysfunction (read: blurry as fuck), excessive sweating, and general fucked-up-ness-I seem to have also begun losing my ability to write as well as before.

I still have the ability to navigate the they’re/their/there issue, although I will admit I have to think about it more than usual.  But simple words are becoming difficult for me-I have a hard time with choose/chose now.  I may forget how to spell a simple word. I am becoming confused by the affect/effect conundrum.  And, I don’t even want to look this shit up, because my comprehension is going, as well.  So, no big trips to IKEA soon, for fear I will create a primitive torture device, rather than the 471-EZ-step EXCANDUT bookcase with deep espresso-mayo-taco finish. 

All this, and the minuscule filter I used to have seems to be disappearing faster than a keg of Coors at a Midwest family reunion. To top it off, it seems the screening for running a group of Girl Scouts doesn’t quite scratch the surface of personality flaws.  Not only do they encourage me to lead these girls, but these same government officials allow me to volunteer at my kids’ school, AND run a successful child care center.  The Department of Justice must not look into these matters very seriously. 

Speaking of tacos, I fear that my inability to provide a wholesome environment for children is also slipping through my fingers, much like dollar-store lube.

Da-wha-ha? You might say. 

Well, I *might* have given a frightened future Middle Schooler some less-than-stellar advice.  I know, right?  Hard to believe.

Here’s the setting:

A bunch of us bad influences were camping with a bunch of people who should have known better.  The people that should have known better brought their kids (including me, allegedly).  One of these kids may have talked about being slightly nervous about starting Middle School with a whole new group of friends.  We all tried our very best to help offering keen tidbits of advice.  We are awesome like that.  For instance:

Someone with bad judgment: Act crazy.  Talk to yourself, so no one will fuck with you.

Some other moron in the group: Stick to yourself.  Find a friend, hide in lockers if you need to.

(Possibly) me: Find the biggest ugliest bitch there, walk right up to her, and give her a giant taco punch. That way, they will know you are not to be fucked with.

She might have asked what that meant. Or, the school system in her state is better than the one in California, and she knew what a taco punch was.  Incidentally, should taco punch be hyphenated? Taco-punch.  I don’t know what the hyphenation rules are. 

Later when I got home from the trip, I had a family member call me.  This was our conversation:

Her: You are sooo bad.

Me: Yeah.

Her: Umm, my kid wants to know what a cock ring is.  Are you sure you should have her on your Facebook?

Me: No, not really.  I may need to address that, I had a similar conversation with another relative just last week. Do you want me to un-friend her?

Her: No, it’s fine; as long as the cock ring stuff is over.

Me: I can’t promise that. 

Her: …………

See?  Unfit. 

The week prior I had another relative remind me that her oldest was my friend.  I think it’s time to un-friend these fine upstanding (for now) citizens before they choose to follow in my horrifically inappropriate footsteps.

What do you think? Should I limit membership to the Awesome Aimee Fan Club to those that are already tainted by societal perversion? Or should these fine young women and men get to benefit from all my amazing years of experience.  And warnings.  And horrifyingly inappropriate stories….

Sorry. It's Been Too Long. Too Too Long. My Bad.

I was recently told by one of my most loyal readers that I only posted 6 times in July.  6.  SIX!

I feel horrible.  So to make it up to you, I am going to do my very very best to inundate you with a ton of amazing new posts. 

They are guaranteed to be filled with bad words, incredibly graphic descriptions that will curl your toes, and/or disgusting health information.

You're welcome.

Here's a teaser:

I just cycled my meds (that's a technical term I totally just made up, which means that I changed out some of the shit I gulp each day.  Typically, this involves getting used to the new drugs, and the side effects are pretty EPIC.).

I was put on Rifampin.  This drug is usually used for TB and Meningitis. And, it's only $85 per month! Awesome. The pills are bright red.  Why?  So that when you pee, you are horrifyingly alarmed. 

Child Development Peeps:
Yellow and red make = Orange!

Orange pee.  Like Tang, but no astronauts.

HA!  I just said "ass". 

More on my ass, later.

In the meantime, send me all your granny shawls, full coverage skirts, and dowdy hats----it's Doxy Time! (Didn't Hammer do a song about Doxycycline?  Doxy Time......My-my-my-my Lyme hits me so hard.....Hammer, don't go in the sun......)

Is there a way to make cute musical notes appear here-------->  ?

Anywhoooo.

:::keeping day job:::

I just got back from back-to-back camping excursions. And I survived.  Despite the acclimation to new drug effects  (affects?) (Sorry, my Lyme brain is extra broken lately) ( I could look it up, but I'm feeling NOT-ish right now).  And the less-than-warm reception my snoring earned.  Incidentally, no one likes people that show off by staying up past 9 pm, alright?

And?  When people asked why I wasn't drinking, I had a FAB time telling them:

*I'm more of a pill-popper
*Alcohol fucks with my anti-psychotics
*Dude.  It'll chill my heroin buzz

Most people stopped talking to me.  Which is why I went to bed early.  And because I'm a pussy.

But, I saw Dr. Lyme recently, and he had some good-ish news for me.  Except that I'm starting menopause early, and I should stock up on extra-absorbant pants. (for the sweating, you pervs.) Why don't pants get ratings based on absorbancy?

I'm getting ahead of myself, and I have shit to do.  Like, chill.  And maybe watch some TV.  I missed TV. Or, I at least missed the couch near the TV.  Same thing, right?

More on all this, later.

Kisses,
Aimee