The Itchy and Bitchy Show

As promised, the previous Whingery Post has disappeared, and now, on to new whingery!!

I am, for the moment, seeing the eminent Dr. Pinky and the Brain on a monthly basis. In fact I’m quite convinced that my Spazzery Upkeep is paying for her Jaguar. And her house. And a chateau in the south of France. Or Hoboken.

The point to said visits, well, we all know what the point is, don’t we??

Sort!! The!! Fucking!! Spazzery!! Already!!

Which seems to be a bit of a problem–not only for me, but for those around me who cannot grasp the concept of ‘Sometimes it cannot be sorted, apparently. This sucks, yea verily, but it is what it is. I am a special eppo!!–I like to be different. Dammit’

The other night Aunt Nutter and I were chit-chatting about said problemo. She offered up a theory–and mind you she WAS trying to be helpful and not meanspirited in the least–that perhaps I am spazzing because I fear spazzing whilst asleep. And maybe it’s psychosomatic to some extent. And maybe this is why the drugs aren’t working properly?? Or some such shite. It was along those lines, ok?? Next time I’ll tape the call–these drugs are making me stupider by the hour.

Any of you who’ve been reading here long enough know PRECISELY what I did once I got off the phone.

I spent an hour and a half cleaning up the kitchen and doubting my Spazmodic Powers, every EEG ever taken of my cranium, and convincing myself that I am a faux-eppo. Despite ALL evidence to the contrary.

I fucking hate that, ya know.

I had said it myself to Dr. Pinky and the Brain during my appointment.

Babs:You know, I keep trying to tell myself that the right-sided spazzery (has been happening a lot when I’m lying in bed) is nothing but a psychosomatic thing. Or that I’m doing it for attention–but I’m nearly always alone when it happens, so how is THATpossible?? I’m driving myself crazy trying to convince myself that it’s not real and that I’m somehow faking it. I’m going to go batshit quite soon.

Dr Pinky and the Brain:Tsk, Babs. I TOLD you it could happen on both sides–it was evident on your EEG. It’s all across your frontal lobe. There’s nothing fake about it–don’t do that to yourself by thinking that way.

Having heard her words of wisdom, I chose to invoke Babs Selective Hearing Act of 1985; I am still trying to convince myself that I am a Big Phat Phucking Phony–epileptically speaking.

Yes–I know. I’m a tard. What can I say?? At least I’m consistent, dammit.

The famed Let’s Bring Back That Auld Keppra Plan–first launched two months ago–was squashed. Sort of.

I’ve been dealing with side effects, especially so since last months Drug Uppage to 2000 mgs. Those side effects being: A) It’s not fucking working and I am spazzing like a motherfucker and B) Oh good LORD the nightmares*. My sleep is so fucking ridiculous now it isn’t funny. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking a full nights sleep (which is rare, given bizarre dreams/nightmare problem) or an afternoon nap; the moment I shut my eyes I am thrown into some Bizarro World and it’s fucking scary (although amusing sometimes: the other night Matt Damon was giving me a TV, but first told me to have a drink. A drink which was left for me in the basement, in its bottle, cooking on a hotplate. Don’t fucking ask me, people because I have not a fucking clue where any of that came from. I am not in the habit of going into the basements of celebrities for televisions and liquor, no matter HOW cute they are. Well, maybe Colin Firth–but he’s the ONLY exception).

*Anyone bored enough to troll through the archives might see that this was one of my major complaints the LAST time I took Ye Auld Kep.

So now?? New plan!! We shall downgrade to 1000mgs of Ye Auld Kep. The trusty old standby Tegretol is re-jigged: same dosage, but now I’ve got to take it four times a day in 200mg increments rather than 400mgs in the morning and 400 at night. Honestly–what is she thinking?? I can barely remember to clean my fridge. This is going to be whats commonly called A Challenge.

And the reason for the re-jigging?? I am now on a third, yes a THIRD pill!!

All Hail Lamictal, and it’s merry side effect: The Rash of Death!!

DEATH!!

No. I’m not kidding. A very rare, but quite possible side effect, is a fatal rash. Fatal!!

Oog lurvely.

Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll be standing in front of a full length mirror for the next two to eight weeks; ready to call 911 at the merest hint of a rough patch of skin. Or pimple. Or vaguely menacing-looking freckle.

As you do.

Eight Hundred Millies Agree

A post??

An actual NEW post?? Miracle of miracles!!

I had decided (as usual) that I was not into the whole New Years Resolution Malarkey, as it clashes with my Entire Reason For Being.

That being: forgetting everything I say I’ll do until approximately five million days after I say it.

{Plus, if I’m being really honest, I was always crap at them}

When I looked at the blog, though, I did make one teeny-tiny resolution–nay, a grouplet of resolutions, with regards to same:

1) Will stop being crap

2) Will stop posting mile-long posts what are crap

3) Will harken back to days of yore and post more frequently, no matter how crazy I’m being driven. As it’s a sign of my own laziness otherwise. Or, worse yet, inability to string a decent sentence together.

I’m clearly off to a running start.

Or, rather not.

I am, for the moment, going to blame famed neuro Dr. Pinky and the Brain. Who has once again fucked around with my Pill Routine–not opting for Drug Uppage, but rather a Rearrangement of Pills. A rearrangement which has had me rather topsy-turvy.

And who also informed me that my last EEG was ‘Really lousy’ which has put me in a right mood for the past fucking week. I mean we’ve ALL known my brain has been buggered since god was a boy–but I didn’t know my EEG’s could get worse, did I now??

No. No I fucking didn’t.

Which clearly qualifies me as the stupidest spaz on the planet.

Otho Finito

‘You’re kidding me!!’ I shot back.

‘No, really!!’

Pinky and the Brain seemed positively GIDDY.

‘And why’ I inquired, ‘Has this never been mentioned to me before?? EVER?!?!’

‘You have to try enough routes with Kep and Topie etc first before you can try THIS. We don’t just try this on people straight away. And not everyone can do it’

‘And you’re serious?? This?? THIS?!?!’

‘Yes. If the Topie still doesn’t work once we get to 600 mgs I’d like you to seriously consider going this route’ *gets excited* ‘It’s good stuff!! You’re a good candidate’

‘I suppose I should say what it is soon because anyone reading this is getting really annoyed by now, Doc’

‘I think you’re right, Babs’

‘I don’t suppose you have a name for this thing that is any less, well, LESS. Because let me tell you, if I know my readers, they’re going to run with this ball’

‘It is what it is, Babs. Let them say what they will say. But you and I know it’s merely a device implanted in your neck to maybe, MAYBE, make you spaz a bit less’

‘Fine. But I’m not telling them it’s called a Vagus Nerve Stimulator. They’re a bunch of perverts, my readers’

And there you have it.

Pinky and the Brain wants me to consider, maybe, POSSIBLY (a ways down the road), becoming The Bionic Spaz. And, were I to do this I would be smart and not run my television career into the ground like Lindsay Wagner and end up selling Sleep Number beds in infomercials in twenty years time and doing crap Lifetime movies. Ahem. I would have pride!! And dignity!! And resurface on a really crappy celebrity reality show and lose a dancing competition to the twinkletoed duo of Gary Coleman and Carrot-top.

Now before you all go shouting ‘Hurrah!! Hurrah!!’ and throwing a party remember these key points:

Key Point 1: At this juncture this is merely a dwarfling idea of a POSSIBILITY, assuming Topie does not work once we get to 600. I am at 300 mgs. Time will tell. Or not tell. With my fucktarded brain?? Who knows.

Key Point 2: I am very, very, very, very, very fucking skeptical about this. So far. I am Dr. Googling. And researching. And will be getting second, third, and fourth opinions. Should we get to this. And don’t forget the Ouija board.

Key Point 3: Assuming Topie does not work, I have not yet decided whether or not this is an option for ME. This is not, after all, like taking a pill. We are talking about ATTACHING A THINGIE TO MY COLLARBONE BENEATH MY FUCKING SKIN AND WIRING ME UP LIKE A 1997 SAMSUNG STEREO!! WITH DOUBLE WOOFER SPEAKERS!! Sure, the pros are endless: less spazzing (possibly), can pick up K-Rock in middle of Bumblefuck, Idaho, endless hours of fun confounding guards at the metal detectors when bored. Also?? T-bass option, which, of course, is sweet.

But then there are the cons. YES!! CONS!! Such as: Um, remember the whole anesthesia-induced-cardiac-arrest business of a little over two years ago?? Yes!! Has put me off surgery in the smallest of ways. Crazy–I KNOW!! And they don’t pop this thing in there by magic, Chucklebuns.

Then you have the more realistic worries. Will it work, for a start. When you attach these wire things to the nerve how can you be SURE you’re not fucking with anything else that’s important?? Just because it didn’t fuck up with Jane Q Public doesn’t mean it won’t with me. Then you have stuff like infections and the fact that, Hello!! You’ll have a thingie shocking you electrically!! Which, granted, is essentially the same as a fit. That being said, I’m kind of OK with the self-made brain electricity shocking me (though, understand, not overly fond); and a little less ok with the being fucking electrocuted by a butter knife in a toaster sort of electricity. Savvy??

Honestly. Have we not met??

Then we have to think about maintenance and possible breakdowns.

I mean how is THAT done?? What do I do when the battery runs out??

Ring Triple Spaz??

Do they show up in a 1975 Chevy Nova and throw a set of jumper cables on my earrings??

Oog.

I wonder if I could get cable TV on it??

Yes Virginia, there IS a Robospaz.

Maybe.

Possibly.

We’ll see.

Ish.

Otho

There’s a little rant I’d really REALLY love to go off on, but it would involve Matters Familial. And then subsequent paranoia. And then deletion of posts. Thus I shan’t bother and will instead shake my head in bewilderment at the situation I am currently observing; and all of you will curse and say ‘Bitch!! What?!?! What is it?!?!’ And I will answer back gently ‘Alas, fair reader, you know I’d love to say, but I cannot. So put a cork in it, dearies, and let us carry on with the more interesting news at hand’

More interesting than Matters Familial what which you cannot reveal??

You bet your sweet bippie it is, Cupcake.

The week before last I was spazzing so MASSIVELY ridiculously and so much that I rang Pinky and the Brain’s office and said ‘Oi!! I am not going to take this anymore!! Give me an appointment or give me death!!’

They very sensibly said ‘Ok, Babs, whatever you like. Come pick up a script for the needle-wielding platelet marauder (read: phlebotomist), get your levels done that day, so’s we have them for the appointment which we are moving from a clearly-too-far-away next month to a much more managable day-before-yesterday’

And it would be good. I thought. For I had ideas. I knew PRECISELY what I was going to discuss and demand of Pinky and the Brain once ensconced in the white room with all the lovely pictures of brains, cross-sections of brains, and Faux Monet Prints.

1) Demand fucking fits get sorted sometime this millennium because really REALLY cannot live like this any more

2) Demand some other pill other than Topie (though we do love its beloved side effect of weight loss *sigh* and will miss it greatly) as clearly the last hike has not fucking worked

3) General Inquiries about other crap which need not be wittered on about at the moment (read: cannot make it amusing currently, but look for it soon in a theater near you)

Demand #1, of course, was rather pie-in-the-sky-ish, I will grant you. Pinky and the Brain simply cannot wave a neurological wand and say ‘Spaz!! Heal thyself!!’ in the manner of Benny Hinn. Nor can Benny Hinn for that matter.

Demand #2, as it turned out, would go unheeded. For the stupid levels show that Topie is, as of yet, still FAR too low in your fearless heroine’s system. So it’s more Drug Uppage this week. Hurrah!! And maybe we can counter the six fucking pounds we suspect we gained because we quit smoking nineteen days ago; not that we’re counting the days OR the pounds, no sir, not at ALL. Ahem.

Oog!! I’ve just realized!! Part of the General Inquiries we can actually witter on about. Thrilling, yes?!?!

Now, I swear to you people, something must happen to me when I talk to Pinky and the Brain, because I am POSITIVE I ask her things or that I’ve told her things only to find out on my next visit that HELLO!! what?? Did not know that!!

Par Exampluh: For a good long while I had assumed that Pinky had absolutely no idea WHATSOEVER as to where the highly annoying mini-spazzes originate from. But she does!! In a general sense. She just cannot find their EXACT location. Nor can any other fucking neuro. But I can happily glide my right hand along the right top side of my skull, a la Vanna White (albeit without the vowels or the wheel), content in the knowledge that I am in fact showing those interested where my lovely focal seizures are coming from. Ish. Around. Probably. Most very likely.

And, as always, my Grand Mals are living happily in downtown Frontal Lobe. A Frontal Lobe that is prepared to turn into Parsnip Central at a moments notice should any surgeon dare fuck with it in its epileptic glory. Which would never happen.

Now all of this was all well and good. Drug Uppage. Inquiries made. Yelled and told Pinky and the Brain I was Very Frustrated because I’d been spazzing really badly for two weeks straight and it was wrecking my knee. And my hip. And my ankle. And my toes. From all the twist-y, turn-y, joint-y, contortion-y, business. And she decided that, just in case, I’m to get a pinched nerve test, too. Owing to all this weird moving around spazzy business.

And this is all nothing. Really easy peasy. Then she said something that shocked me.

ME. You know, the unflappable and not at all shockable (except by own traitorous brain, obviously) Babs Geller, Adorable Spinster and Spaz Extraordinaire??

‘Babs’ she said, ‘If the Topie doesn’t work out by the time we reach its maximum dosage, I’d really like you to consider the fact that you’re now a good candidate for….’

{to be continued}

Bee Keeper

Ok, God. Look. I like a good joke as much as the next person, but, really, are you fucking KIDDING me??

I could have sworn that AGES ago we made a deal. And that deal was: I wouldn’t end up some Doctor Reliant Fuckwit because I fucking HATE THEM. I loathe them NEARLY as much as I loathe Martha Stewart and Barry Manilow. And only slightly more than Rachel Ray and that guy from the cooking show on channel thirteen whose name I can’t remember but made that really neat seafood risotto the other day. Either way, you can consider all of the above the Minions of Satan. And I hate them. Ok??

You’re god, you know. Smite them. Or give them piles and chronic diarrhea. Better yet, lock them in a closet with Jimmy Carr and K-Fed. While all of them are afflicted with piles and chronic diarrhea.

Now I will grant you that I rely on the neuro, but ONLY because they are the only thing that stand between me and waking up in a puddle of piss with my tongue gnashed to ribbons. So, hey, point for you. Way to go!! I need pills, so I see them. YOU WIN!! But only on THAT count. Dammit. And it’s only because I hate washing sheets every day. Nor can I afford a twice a week mattress habit. Sealy’s are bloody expensive, you know. And no way am I going the way of the rubber sheet. Fucker.

It occurred to me the other day, however, that you really must have it out for me. We don’t have to ramble through the entire checklist AGAIN, because you bloody well know what I’m on about.

But hives?? HIVES??

Honestly. What the fuck??

And hey, tip of the hat for the whole ‘extreme temperature’ activating them (read: Hello, it’s finally like WINTER here), because of COURSE that’s when I ran into that TOTALLY cute guy. You know, when I was desperately trying to NOT scratch my legs in public and failing miserably?? And my right eye was swollen shut?? Yay you!! And the hives on my neck?? Totally topped yourself. Fucking piece de resistance.

And when Dr. Fish Face Wimpy said ‘Well we don’t know what you’re allergic to that’s made you hive out, we’ll do some tests and here go to ANOTHER doctor, you know, an allergy dude*. And, oooog, don’t freak out, but, just in case, have one of these**, you know, in case you have a death rattle mo, probably won’t, but hey. If your throat starts to close, just pop out the needle, bang it into your thigh and Bob’s your uncle. The hives will probably go away in a few weeks and it isn’t UNHEARD of for people to become allergic to things they weren’t allergic to ALL their lives. Like shellfish*** Or the cold weather****. Stress alone can do it. And, no, Babs, the cure is NOT copious amounts of nookie with Colin Firth*****. Tsk.’

*Which I am SO totally ignoring for the next week until everyone gets me so fucking paranoid that I’ll have no choice. BECAUSE I HATE THE BRETHREN OF CADUCEUS AND REFUSE TO BE LIKE CERTAIN QUACK HAPPY MEMBERS OF MY FAMILY!!

**If I were to lose my pocketbook in, say, Boca Raton, people would think it belonged to 90 year old retired secretary Mavis Mae Twinkleburps, Denture-wearing, Allergy-laden, Spazmodic Wonder of the Geriatric Set, rather than Babs Geller, your adorable Spazmodic Spinster, Lunatic, and Thirty-Something Poster Girl for Poli-Grip.

***If this ever happens (which it won’t because I am already denying these hives and alleged allergies as it is. And it’s definitely not seafood that caused it) I shall jump in front of a moving train. Because life without Mussels Marinara or Oysters Rockefeller is just too cruel to contemplate.

****Is he kidding me?? I’m nearly half Viking. Isn’t possible. Ice runs in my veins, dammit. In fact, I may raid, pillage, and plunder Dublin this afternoon, just for the sheer, unadulterated fun of it. Where’d I’d put my longboat??

*****Ok, I didn’t ask if it was, and he didn’t say that. But, you know, it would be nice, one day, to find out that something I have could be sorted by hopping into the rack with Colin Firth. Or Brad Pitt. Or George Clooney. Why does this never happen?? ‘Ooog, another fit Babs?? Someone ring Mr. Firth!! STAT!! She’s afflicted again!!’

I sat back and contemplated this all for the past four days, whilst in my Benadryl Induced Coma State (which, incidentally, has now been replaced by a lovely non-drowsy, bright-eyed and bushy tailed Allegra Perkiness, that even Mary Poppins would want to bitchslap right the fuck out of me).

It IS funny. It’s not cruel. And after all, what’s a little histamin reaction between friends, eh??

Ho, ho, ho, har, har har, hoodle dee-hoo, good one God, you got me again!! But I’m still laughing, SO I WIN!!

Then I picked up my mail.

It seems that God, just for kicks, has gotten his mitts on the god damned jury pool of NY.

Bastard.

He always has to get the last laugh.

HMS Too Much Information

I know you’re ALL expecting Part III.

Isn’t happening yet.

And why is that, my darlings??

Glad you asked!!

For it’s time to jump off the lovely, yet oh-so-vague, ship, the HMS Euphemistically Speaking and climb aboard the HMS I’m Gonna Severely Maim a Motherfucking Chick Quack.

What??

Have I given away too much?? Pish posh!!

You may recall that, in my last post, I alluded to the fact that A Certain Event has been doggedly hanging around for twenty-eight of the past god damned thirty five fucking days. And I didn’t even MENTION the month before that, which was even WORSE. Or the bastard Chick Quack’s inability to master the Basic God Damned Numerical System. For I marched into his office a few months back and said ‘Oi!! Bastard!! The painters are in every two weeks and I’m sick of it!!’

And he counted the days off and said ‘No, Babs, it’s every THREE weeks’ For he counts from the BEGINNING and does not factor in when things END. Nor does he know what it’s fucking like to walk around for two weeks fucking straight in said condition; nor must he buy enough god damned Womens Products to buy these bastards a new company and a diamond-encrusted fucking yacht which they will likely christen the ‘Thanks for all the money, Babs III’. So, no. He doesn’t fucking get this AT ALL.

This is all the MORE frustrating for me, given that I’ve only got one motherfucking ovary. Frankly, I’m tired of it being an overachieving bastard.

Lo, the other day, things ended, and I rejoiced!! I danced about the house!! I was merry!! I sang from the mountaintops!! My latest three weeks of Hormonal Tyranny were over. OVER!!

Then I looked at the Alleged Magical Pill Packet (which, as of yet, has not fucking worked), and I was crestfallen. For according to said packet, in a mere four days, I’d be right back where I fucking started.

The first day I escaped unscathed and unsullied. Aha!! Perhaps things were finally right!! Maybe, just MAYBE, things were finally going to go my way. For once in my fucking life. It WOULD be nice, you know??

I mean let us look at the Big Picture, people:

I accepted a long time ago, and with good grace, I might add, that I am a windie-licking spaztard epileptic bastard. And I am fine with it. I accepted having to have my gums cut twice owing to pills owing to same before I was even 15. I graciously conceded defeat at 19 and gave up one ovary thanks to the 30 lb. spazmo-pill cyst, leaving the Retardovary behind to do all the work. And then gave up my fucking gall bladder at 27 thanks to side effects of the birth control pills which I took to counter side effects of the motherfucking spazmo-pills. And I accepted it, again with grace and poise and significantly less milk intake (because, you know, it makes me kind of ill now).

And, as you ALL know, the final blow, was losing all my god damned teeth (and that silly little anesthesia-induced cardiac arrest incident owing to said first toothal operation) and becoming the Poster Girl for Poli-Grip at the tender age of 33, just last year. I again accepted it with good humor, grace, and copious amounts of said poli-grip when my Faux Deeth were finally delivered to me, after spending seventy-odd days as a toothless bastard.

{Shall we mention that, at this very moment, we are only half deeth-ified, for the lab is no longer in the dentists office, and the deeth must once again be mailed out to be fixed?? And we are waiting for them to come back?? No we fucking won’t!! Nor the fact that, for some reason, I have broken out in hives this week. I no longer wonder why I’m not married. I wouldn’t date me, either. I’m falling the fuck apart}

God however, HAD been kind to me. No. Really. In spite of ALL my problems Chick Related, I was fortunate in that I never, EVER had pain. Nary a cramp was ever felt. Even with the 30 lb Wundercyst I never had ANY pain (hence my never knowing it was there). Pretty fair tradeoff for having to deal with months on end of Hormonal Tyranny, don’t you think??

Not any more. No. With these new Allegedly Magical Pills?? I now know what my friends were talking about all these years. And, as expected, it’s fucking come back. And it hurts so fucking bad it isn’t funny. For the past three days I’ve been DYING with pain. And, naturally, the Chick Quack says ‘Pish posh!! To be expected the first few times!! Perfectly normal!!’

Which is precisely what I shall say to the rat bastard this afternoon when I shove his speculum up his fucking ass and pull it through his motherfucking throat.

I trust you’ll all visit me in Rikers??