Meter Maid

If there is a Spinster’s Hell, I have discovered it.

It resides in a misogynistic-looking building and comes with torture devices ensconced within its sinister walls.

I speak of none other than the local mammogram clinic.

You may recall that, last October or so, Dr WhateverIpseudonymedhimandcantbearsedtolookinthearchivestojogmymemory gave me a lovely birthday present. That present being a Golden Ticket to the local Melon Squishing Emporium, so as to give the girls their first ever starring roles as x-ray 1 and x-ray 2.

Lurvely. Or not, as it turns out, for we of the fairer sex (and a few lads who are buxom boys themselves) know full well that it hurts like a motherfucker.

I could handle that, though. For I am Babs Geller!! I can leap grand mal seizures in a single bound!! Melon Squishery??–pah, it would be a cakewalk.

First of all, allow me a complaint. Before one traverses to said clinic in order to flatten the girls out into something resembling an oddly shaped crepe, they give you a warning: Do!! Not!! Wear!! Deodorant!! For this, apparently, can lead to false-positives in testing. And this is all well and good for Those Who Have Cars, as they can ride in quick air-conditioned and non-sweaty comfort. But for We Who Must Traverse an Hour and a Half to the Other Side of the Island for said test??

Not so much.

Especially when your bus has no working air conditioner. And you are a deodorant junkie to begin with. I do not walk out of my bedroom without having madesure that I’m Sure. So traversing to the other side of this godforsaken rock sans de-smellification power??

I was not a happy camper (though I am happy to say that, when I arrived I was not at all whiffy. Hear me world!! I can safely go two hours without a bit of Suave Powder Fresh Deodorant!! Can you believe I’m saying this?? Nor me. But hey!! You can all breathe a collective sigh of relief knowing that I now know I am semi-ok for at least two hours. Yes, you’re welcome).

Jesus. I’m digressing here and there too much. I’ve got main points I wish to discuss (oh god. really?? REALLY?? Are you THAT juvenile?? Read it properly, twit).

Thing 1: Anytime we of the female type are asked to take this sort of test (or similar) involving x-rays, radiation, and whatever other sort of voodoo that they do to acquire pictures of your inside bits they ask for your Last Date of Crankiness and Hurling of Pottery. I made a critical error in telling what is commonly known as Da Troof.The last time I flung a Correlle plate in a fit of Hormonal Hysteriawas roughly the second week of April. Ish. Which, to the trained eye who is NOT aware of Babs and her Retarded Ovonic Symphony Orchestra, would give them pause. And they will say, as the girl did, ‘Oi, Babs. Sure you’re not knocked up?? I may have to give you a pregnancy test’

{And, really. How funny is it now that the painters are nowhere to be seen, yet mere months ago they were in for two or three weeks at a go?? You’re damn skippy I’m going to be ringing Ye Olde Chick Quack soon. And how}

This question, for the single spinster, is akin to asking *someone who has some comedic, though tragic, disorder what I can’t think of* if they’ve *related question that will reduce the askee to tears*. I assured the girl that no, there was no conceivable way that I could be With Midget. And I’m quite sure that had she pressed me into taking said test I would have dissolved into a puddle of Lamenting Hormonal Tears. Especially when all my friends (read: two in particular) have been constantly reminding me that I’m nearly thirty-six. And forty is just around the corner. They cannot fathom that I’ve accepted that fact that Hey!!–it might not ever happen for me. And I can deal with it. Maybe. Nor are they happy with my adamant stance with regards to being married etc before I foist a horde of spazlets upon the earth. Annie, in particular, is vocal about this. First suggesting that I attack Bulldog when he allegedly visits in July in order to procure a Person of the Babs and Bulldog extraction. Then becoming cross with me when I flat out disregard her advice with mail-a-pop (read: frozen swimmers via mail?? Are they KIDDING??). Shirley, of course, semi-backs Annie. And tries to convince me to have a one-night stand with a redneck in any of the bars where she lives (though,to be fair, she thinks there’s husband material in them thar bars for me, too). Because THAT’S the kind of fella I wish to join forces in some warped Epileptical/Hillbilly Power Base.

Um. You know what?? Not so much.

Then of course it goes back to just ‘how picky I am’ and Annie cites the fact that the Weirdo Redneck who was staring at me in the bar years back, whom she claims *was* kind of cute. And that I was just being *snobby* and *picky*. Because, you know my kind of man, naturally, is some guy who stares at me for four hours, then approaches me and proceeds to stick his face an inch away from my tits. Yet *I*was being picky when I punched him and told him to go fuck himself (mind Annie claims I ignored him all night, which is evidence of my pickiness). Of course!! That’s it!!

{Warning: This is definitely going to end up to be continued because I’m totally off subject now–and hey!! We haven’t discussed what happened at the Melon Squishing Emporium}

Then we have the fact that I haven’t been on a date since the Pleistocene Era. In fact a month or so ago Annie talked me into putting a profile up on a dating site. Which I reluctantly did. And I fucked it off the next day when a majority of the messages I received were quite obviously fellows who not only wanted Stick Figures, but wanted to chat about nothing but Doing The Deed. The fuck?? I don’t think so, Chuckleheads!!

And that reminds me. Did I ever tell you about an event from a few months back?? When Mariel had a brainstorm?? Her cell rang whilst she was over here having dinner. She, myself, and Trash were playing Scrabble (Oh the life I lead!!). I was being a Smartass. And made a remark obviously intended for the fellow she was chatting to on her phone (Hey. I’m fun like that!!). Said fellow says ‘Hey!! Put her on the phone!!’ Conversation ensued and it was quite a bit of good fun, but I was interrupted when the landlord rang in the throes of a sugar attack. I made my apologies, handed back the cell and was downstairs for the better part of an hour and a half. That boy STAYED ON THE PHONE talking to Mariel and waited for me to come back.

Ok. Fine. Was a bit of fun. Then we had to leave the house for some reason or another. And though the fellow told Mariel to quit whinging about her minutes, she said No Bloody Wayand I finally got him to hang up ten minutes later. The next night Mariel calls me. Says said fellow doesn’t want to be pushy, but thinks I’m a smartass, dead funny etc etc (or something) and can he call me?? I give Mariel the green light. He calls and More Phone Silliness Ensues. The discussion turns to ‘looks’ and he’s already dropped a good many hints the he is interested in Nothing But Stick Figures. And also, he digs Spanish chicks, so he’s confounded by this chick on the phone, as I’m clearly not his type. So I say, ‘Ah, alas, then it isn’t to be so, for I am a half Viking. And built like a right tackle’ He inquires as to ‘Exactly how big is big?? Surely not, like, Mariel sized??’ I admit not only Mariel sized, but bigger than she. And I play the age old card of ‘Well surely looks aren’t everything, no??’ Which he counters with, ‘Why of course not, but I mean surely one must have PARAMETERS’

Oh!! Oh!! Oh!! I nearly forgot, I had also divulged during ‘Deep Dark Secret Time’ that ex-asshole number two had tried to off himself because I was a heifer. For he had first divulged one of HIS big deep dark secrets. And then went a bit depressive during same. And I told him this to illustrate that, no, junior, you’re not the ONLY one who has dealt with bullshit in the whole dating deal. And this dimwit actually says ‘Well surely you can understand why he did such a thing’

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The only reason I hadn’t hung up on him at that point was because A) He was a friend of Mariel’s B) I told him what an ass he was for saying such a thing and C)during the course of the conversation I discovered that he was a bloody manic-depressive, medicated to the HILT, between jobs and sleeping on his mother’s couch (Facts which Mariel had forgotten to mention previous. Which, hello!! I’ve got enough drama with the lunatics here!!-I don’t need a side order of THAT). I stayed on the phone out of politeness and in the hopes he wouldn’t off himself for he had gone even MORE depressive-y (likely because I was heifery).

Check this out: he starts whinging about how all the girls on this island won’t date a fellow unless he’s driving a mercedes and wearing a Rolex. And god forbid you have a bit of a potbelly and don’t make a ton of money, says he.

I answer back ‘Why I know EXACTLY what you mean. Honestly. Every man on this island will bitch and whine about what the gorgeous bitchy chicks want but they won’t date a decent chick if they’re the slightest bit overweight’

He answers ‘EXACTLY!! You know what I mean!!’

And I shout, ‘Aha!!’ at his obvious hypocrisy re: yours truly and her thunderous thighs. He then backpedals and tries to qualify his arguments with the whole ‘parameters’ thing and blaming all the OTHER men on the island while attempting to validate his own idiocy.

So yes, I was, in theory, turned down by a jobless manic depressive who lives on his mother’s couch because *I* am a heifer. Yet HE was such a bloody catch. Ahem.

{Let me be clear, once I found out about all his baggage [including a side-order of a half hour lament about his ex wherein it became patently clear he was still obsessed with her] I had no intention of going on a date with him AT ALL}

God, but I can get off the subject sometimes.

{to be continued}

Red Light Green Light One, Two, Three

So the BRILLIANT CHOICEI made to switch blog addies etc carries forward.

At a snails pace.

Why??

I would like to make it seem like I am the DEAD CLEVER BASTARDthat I pretend and wish so fervently to be; when, in truth, we all know I’m a naught but fucking tard who should not be allowed access to a keyboard. Or a pen and paper. Or Crayolas. Ahem.

So yes, I am a picky cow and know I’ve written some crappity-crap-crap. I want this new place to look nice. And I could, when I felt the urge to do so, go back and edit some bits (bits that I now read over, while clasping my hands over my eyes and peeking through my fingers while cringing).

Course, bl*gsp*t doesn’t have a mass ‘Turn These Posts Into Drafts, Please’ function. No. One must go through EACH INDIVIDUAL POST and click draft. Draft. Draft. Fucking draft. Why is this?? They are bastards and want to annoy me.

It’s getting tedious. I shall, however, persevere. Or say fuck it and just bring everything over and THEN draft it, edit out old links, sort pictures and re-post.

I should be done by sometime in 2017.

Anyhoo. The Drama Familial here has been thick lately. And I am loathe to talk about it for fear of incriminating evidence that could come to light were I to end up in a court room Down Souf.

We shall instead take a merry cruise on the H.M.S. Too Much Information. Hurrah!! Get your shuffleboard arm ready and iron your dinner attire!!

For I, Babs Geller, have stupendous news: for once in my Life Medicular something has worked. WORKED!!

No one was more shocked than I.

Do you recall the Illegal Residents that had taken up residence in the E-Z Bake Uterus?? (It’s here that I would include the link to the previous post referring to same. But of course it’s going to take me til the year 2017, as stated previous, to bring it over) One of them has left the building!!

Ta da!! The one Illegal Inhabitant what decided to take up camp on my sole remaining Retardovary is gone. The pills worked and shrank it into oblivion. Thereby upping the chances that, yes, one day I will be able to foist upon the world a horde of spazlets. Assuming I ever find a moron willing to marry me. Or date me. Or play Parcheesi with me.

{Of course, the other fucking thing is still there. But such is life. I should be ok, though, so sayeth the quack}

Dr. Doom, post exam, is busily typing things into the puter which holds the sonogram pictures of Ye Olde EZ Bake Uterus. He’s typing in a notation that I’ve no right retardovary, just the left. He places the cursor over said empty spot where dear ol’ long-lamented and truly missed righty once resided.

He slowly types in ‘No right ovary’

‘Write down that I lost it in a poker game’

‘You’re crazy’

‘Ah go on, go on’

He starts to type it in, then says ‘No, no I can’t type that there!! They’ll start calling me a nitwit. What would the other doctors think?!?!’

‘You’re such a wimp’

‘You’re insane. You know this, right??’

Honestly. I can’t believe he even had to ask, seeing as it’s quite obvious.

The Lion, The Viking, and The Penguin

So.

I was going to have a big long whinge about EVERYTHING that’s been going on here at the moment. BUT!! I am feeling all Drama Queeny at the moment. And I think I have very much earned the right.

Savvy??

{Fair warning lads and those with weak constitutions, you may want to look away; for we are once again going to board the HMS Too Much Information and speak of the bits and whatnots you’d rather not hear about}

I no longer wish to whinge about all the other shite because this past Friday I toddled along to Ye Olde Chick Quack. And I have been irked, annoyed, upset as hell, and occasionally sobbing at the drop of a hat ever since.

Of course I played a cruel, cruel hoax with my nearest and dearest previous to said appointment. Because I am a mean cow like that.

Babs (on phone with Ma): Oh guess what!! I have plans Friday night!!

Ma: Really?! A date!?!

Babs: Yep.

Ma: Who?? When??

Babs: Naw. I don’t actually. I just have a doctors appointment.

Ma: God dammit, you actually had me fooled for a minute.

And don’t even ask me what doctors have hours on Friday night because I just find that bizarre, but hey!! I can pretend I was out shopping and not sitting in a god damned waiting room for an hour and a half. And then spending another half hour freezing to death whilst waiting for Dr. Doom (whom I actually like very much, but in light of what I am going to mention, he shall be known by this moniker for the rest of this bit).

Now, you might recall that said doctor told me the LAST time I was there that my problem was NOT, in fact, the Retardovary, but the Retarduterus. Fine. Lurverly. Fucking marvy. And I have the Retarduterus because I’ve got one of these god damned things. Which is fine. I suppose. Fucking hereditary shite. And on this appointment I was to get the pills to try and sort it. And make sure said occupant hadn’t grown to the size of Uzbekistan or something. Honestly. It’s only been a few months since I’ve been there. It can’t POSSIBLY have gotten any bigger, right??

WRONG!!

Bastard Retarduterus. The illegal occupant has flourished into something not the size of Uzbekistan, but easily the size of Rhode Island. But this is fine and maybe the pills will shrinkify it or at least cut the fucker off at the pass. And if this doesn’t happen I will just rename the Retarduterus The Ocean State. Or something.

This, however?? This, my dears, was not my troublesome news. Not by a long shot.

And bear in mind that I am catastrophizing in a major-ish way; which I am allowed to do under Babs Spinster by-laws of 1991 (Reproduction Issues). Now harken back to a post long gone, and remember that I am an ovary-enabled person, yes, but in singular form. I’ve only the one, having lost the other when I bet it on the Mets making it to the World Series in 1991 to a fucknormously huge 25-odd pound cyst when I was a mere eighteen years of age.

Dr. Doom was conducting a hideously invasive test in order to to see the state of things. A test which I can assure you was not in the LEAST bit comfy. Rather like having someone from the New York Philharmonic over-emphatically conducting Wagner where you would rather they wouldn’t. It bloody hurts.

He informs me of the Retarduterus Situation and says I must go on the pills Post-Haste. Then says, ‘Hello, what’s this??’ I look to the TV monitor on the side and immediately see what he’s referring to: a ginormous bubble thingy.

Which, as it happens, is not a ginormous bubble thingy; but a fucking ginormous fucking cyst on the fucking Retardovary. You know, the Retardovary?? The only fucking Purveyor of Progeny I happen to own??

I sometimes wonder if someone isn’t trying to give me a big bloody hint.

{Dear Babs,

Half your family is crazy and the other half are cancer-ified drunks and dead. Besides, do you REALLY think being an eppo and a mum is a good idea?? Do not procreate. Make gobs of money and go to Fiji instead. Or Boise!! There’s a good girl.

Hugs and kisses,

God}

Dr. Doom says we will keep an eye on said fucking inhabitant and it shouldn’t be a problem and yadda yadda yadda, but I’m not sure that I buy it. I keep flashing back to, you know, the first Blatant Ovarynapping.

So I’m Drama Queening just a tad, yes.

Then, to top it all off, Dr. Doom says brightly, ‘Ah, how old are you now??’

‘Thirty-fouuuu-five’

‘Happy Birthday!!’

And he hands me something.

A gift certificate to Barnes and Nobles?? A CD?? Perhaps a limited edition Bugs Bunny speculum as a novelty gift for laughs??

No!! A script that says (in a roundabout way) ‘Happy Birthday: This Entitles the Bearer to have their tits run through a mangle at their earliest convenience. Time for your first mammogram, you auld bitch!!’

I am really wishing this past week had never bloody happened.

Muggy

I would like to state, for the record, that when a person (read: your fearless heroine) is attempting to reach an outlet behind a HUMONGOUS dresser–an outlet where you cannot even see the damned holes–it is PERFECTLY REASONABLE, RATIONAL, AND NOT AT ALL INSANE to scream bloody murder when someone offers to assist you in finding the outlet. And it is *not* something that can be blamed on Hormones of the Female Type. Nor should you be surprised if I decide to *accidentally* fling a mug out of sheer frustration.

Look. It was bloody hot out. And it was muggy. Really. Doesn’t EVERYONE do this?? We have dealt with this all before, people. I do not get bitchy AT all. You all seem to get this notion and I’ve NO idea where it comes from.

Tsk.

Anyway. I’ve been busy, busy, busy again these past few days. Although not the clinically insane busy whereupon I had no puter and no way to foist my insanity upon the net in that netherworld known as Down South, thank goodness. I was working for Birdie who had been lamenting the state of her kitchen floor ever since I’d left and booked me straightaway once I’d gotten home. Plus, I’ve been helping out Annie again with the cleaning out of her Parental Unit’s Place (a bigger job than we’d anticipated which was also sidelined by other things, so by the time I got back I was still able to help her).

{Which means this will be fairly short and sweet because I’m bloody knackered}

Now Annie and Trash are always busting each others chops and have done so since they’ve met (well, once he was old enough to bust chops properly).

Tonight Annie and I were at the local pizza joint and I rang home, as I needed to find out TWOL’s phone number, because I’m absolute crap remembering numbers. And Annie chimed in when she heard I was talking to Trash.

Babs: Hey Dumbass, is Ma there??

Annie: Hey loser!!

Trash: *tells me to say something to Annie what I can’t remember now but was rather lame*

Annie: Oh, nice comeback, genius.

Babs: Do you know TWOL’s phone number?? Well look in Ma’s phone book then, moron.

Annie: *says something else smartassy that I also can’t remember but doesn’t matter as this is not crux of funny convo so ignore it*

Babs: He says fuck off.

Annie: Tell him he can kiss my ass.

Babs (to Trash): She says kiss her ass.

Annie: What’d he say??

Babs: He’s humming.

Annie: *suddenly has look of revulsion on her face*

Babs (to Annie): What??

Annie: What did you say??

Babs (v. confused now): Huh?? He’s humming.

Annie: Oh my god!! That’s fucking gross!!

Babs: Er. Um. What??

Annie: Wait. WHAT did you say??

Babs: I said he’s humming. Don’t know what song, though. I think he’s still looking for Ma’s phone book. What the hell did you think I said?!

Annie: I thought you said….oh my god I can’t believe I misheard that.

Babs (suddenly realizing what Annie thought she said and the thinking behind it): Oh ew ew ew!! WHY would you think that?!?! Oh my GOD!! That’s SICK!!

Annie: First I thought he meant he was going to come here to the restaurant. And then I thought??

{And, mind you, we are now pissing ourselves laughing by this point, so everyone in the place is looking at us like we are mental cases. Which, ok, is probably a very fair assessment}

Babs: You’re twisted!! I said humming you nit!! Why the HELL would my brother do something like that while I was on the phone?? Or um, EVER?!?! Sheesh, think woman!!

Annie: I need to get more sleep, I think.

Babs: Yes. Definitely.

Lonely Planet

I shall warn you fellows of the male persuasion (and those who are weak of stomach) to jump ship here and now. For we here at Spazzymoto’s Revenge are once again merrily rowing from the Ship Euphemistically Speaking and leaping right on board the HMS Too Much Information. And dealing with the workings of the female form. And NOT the bits you ogle whilst remaining blissfully unaware that you’ve NO chance of bedding Heidi Klum.

And if we’re all REALLY lucky we’ll get to the 4PM buffet before all the shrimp is gone.

Hurrah!!

Still here?? Hey. As always, I warned you.

Now you lot may well recall back in April when I quit smoking. I had to do this on Direct Orders of Right Bastard MD. And I went to see HIM because my PREVIOUS doctor was a right fucking moron (read: still have nightmares about painters being in for oh, say, 99 days out of 100 or whatever the fuck it was).

I never specifically stated what the problem was exactly because, well, I didn’t want to at the time. Moreover, I’d already gotten an earful of ‘helpful’ advice from my nearest and dearest friends of the female type (read: Ma, Shirley, Sylvia etc).

Which did nothing to cheer me up. Well, Ma was helpful, once I owned up to the problem after three days of silent sobbing and cursing her for passing on this stupid fucking hereditary blunder. I wasn’t going to tell her, as her Reliance on the Brethren of Caduceus is not something I approve of, nor trust. Plus she’s still obsessed with my fucking thyroid gland, which is also something I neither approve of nor trust.

Anyway.

What Right Bastard MD announced, after a most invasive and horrific test (I was not even bought dinner beforehand–I’m sorry but when you are popped up on a table in the manner of a ‘57 Chevy getting an oil change, you at least deserve a god damned drink), was that I have one of these fucking things. Smack dab in the middle of the Mini-Spaz Oven (read: uterus, obviously).

Fuckers.

So!! Now I am not only Wunderspaz with Gloriously Gimptardic Left Leg. I am also a Wunderspaz who, apparently, breaks out in hives at 15 degrees if she does not take some fucking Allegra in deepest darkest winter, wearer of Faux Deeth, Alleged (and still adamantly denied) Sleep Apnea complete with Electrolux of Death Sleep Apparati, and owner of one sole, lonely, ovary which is a Retardovary, at that. I now have an illegal resident inside Babyville. And I can’t evict the bastard!!

{I can see the men swooning now. SWOONING, I tell you. Can you hear them knocking at my door?? I am as good as engaged. Ha. HA I say!!}

While I was in the office I was filled with rage at the first doctor who, along with the lab monkeys, had ALSO given me just as invasive a test (if not moreso) yet missed this entirely. And, for that matter, did not buy me a drink either. I should have left Right Bastard MD’s office, got right on the bus, gone to the old quacks place, and socked him right in the fucking mouth. Instead I stayed and asked the obvious questions:

‘WHY ME?!?!’

‘Och. Tsk, Babs. Don’t worry. It’s not that big–an inch or so in fact. And there’s only just the one’

Then the next obvious question:

‘What about getting knocked up?? Reckon this is going to impede progress in the future??’

{And you in the back, sniggering because we all know Babs has not had a date since 1857, be quiet. For Babs will gut you. As she is cranky, and the bowl of chocolate ice cream she has just consumed, at 5 AM, mind you, has done nothing to alleviate this crankiness}

‘Nah. I don’t think it will since it’s not too terribly big. You should be ok. For the moment’

So I, of course, choose not to believe him (read: Babs Selective Hearing Act of 1985).

Now seeing as we here at Spazzymoto’s Revenge don’t have a BF, nor anything remotely resembling a husband, it seems a moot point to be asking such a question. But hey!! I was a Girl Scout. Be prepared!!

I mean, what if Colin Firth came by tomorrow?? Let it never be said that I don’t think ahead.

Anyway. The point. Well see there’s LOTS of points here so DEAL please, people. I know you hate long posts, but hey!! I hate having the painters in for two weeks at a go and I’ve been quietly dealing with it, so now you must suffer, too.

The nicest way of getting rid of the bastard things is to rip out the offending EZ-Bake Uterus, but hey!! I haven’t had kids yet. So myself and Right Bastard MD are very much in agreeance that this is not the route to go; especially since it’s only the one illegal resident and tiny, at that. And plucking the one illegal resident out is sometimes all but a guarantee, much like the fabled gray hair, that three more will grow in its god damned place. The possible solution?? Pills!! More fucking pills!! I do not know what these pills are yet, for I was to see him on the first and lo!! Guess what happened. So I rescheduled for a later date.

Woe is me. I had been lulled into a goodly two or three months worth of normalcy after he’d taken me off the bastard doctors moron pills. Five to seven days!! At the same time each month!! I was giddy. I was in heaven!! I flitted merrily from room to room, secure in the fact that, somehow, the old pills had managed to knock my hormones back into place; and had served an eviction notice on that bastard squatter that had not even paid rent to live on the second floor of Mini-Spaz Towers. And I was happy!! Then two weeks ago I doubled over in pain and realized I was fucking delusional. And it’s still going on. Two weeks later!!

Now this, while a Goodly Big Problem, it is not my most pressing matter.

You would think that, of anyone, I could talk to my closest friends (read: only 2 or 3, for I am not in the habit of talking about my uterus with every Mary, Jane and Jill. Except, of course, for you lot. Hey!! You’re special!!) when feeling a bit fucking upset about all this. Now I have learned that, as the only single/non-divorcee amongst our merry little band, I am not to talk about some things because it will just end in a reminder that I’m a fucking spinster and know nothing etc. Mostly revolving around Children and the Taking Care Of. Because I can’t possibly know a super-neat way to say, DO ANYTHING, because I haven’t had a kid myself. I also don’t talk often about the fact that I’ve not had one BF worth shaking a stick at (except for maybe a Louisville Slugger). Because it just results in a round of ‘I told you so’s’ or ‘What were you THINKING, Babs??’

I’ve had a range of super-duper advice lobbed at me from varying parties ranging from:

‘Well, at your age, your odds of getting married aren’t likely anyway, so why worry??’

to

‘Hey!! Motherhood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway. You could travel instead!!’

Which, I can assure you, is very helpful when you’re completely fucking mental from hormones and the like and ready to bash peoples skulls in.

Or not.

Yes!! That’s me, Babs Geller, Lonely Planet Tour Guide and Shrinker of Would Be Good Advice Givers Heads. Next week: Fiji!!

I was on the phone with one of my nearest and dearest the other day. And I was, yes, feeling a bit under the weather about all this fucking Alien-esque business going on in my insides. And hoping it didn’t turn into some scene of mass carnage because I totally hated that damned movie. Who the hell names their kid Sigourney anyway?? Sheesh. After wittering on about my problem they had the key!! THEY HAD THE SOLUTION TO ALL MY WOES!!

‘You know. You should do what Effie was talking about back when we were like 29′

{They were talking about it. I had said no straight away}

‘I am NOT doing that’

‘No really. You should do it now while there’s still time’

‘It’s not a matter of wanting to do it NOW. I want to be married or, you know, living with a fella for keeps first. It’s best for me to be with someone I reckon, what with being a spaz. I mean if I got accidentally knocked up beforehand obviously I’d still have my kid, and I’d be able to hack it easy-peasy. But the best scenario for me, I feel, is to be with someone’

‘Yes but you don’t want to lose your chance’

‘I’ve always been sort of preparing for the fact that I might not ever get the chance–I can sort of deal with that’

‘You want to be happy, right?? Think how happy it would make you!!’

‘I never said that would or wouldn’t make me happy. I’m just annoyed that, should I get the chance one day, I’ve got one more problem in the way. But I’m certainly not going to let some random fucktard who left his progeny floating in a Tupperware cup for $25 father my god damned children, you know?? I’m not that hard up’

‘Damn. Hang on. You know what?? Let me call you back a little later. The kids are getting into something’

I am not sure what annoys me more.

The fact that a resident alien has set up camp in my nether regions.

The fact that I can’t talk to my best friend (or any of the girls) about this, because they all have the same fucktarded reasoning.

Or the fact that she thinks my best and only shot at a relationship, apparently, involves my saying ‘I do’ to a Tupperware cup and a turkey baster.

It’s Just Pining

‘Oh, please, Babs. If your father could do it so can you’

I hate when she does that.

I mean he could pee standing up and re-rope elevators, as well, but I can’t bloody well do either of THOSE, can I??

And, before I go on, I want not ONE WORD from Ye of the Nicotine Nazi Faction; nor your FAR more treacherous cousins, the I’ve Quit and am Now a Militant Anti-Smoker and Have Completely Forgotten What a Torturous Hell Quitting Was Like Bandwagon.

No. Really. Think of it as a kindness towards me once I’m in the throes of rabid nicotine withdrawal.

Otherwise I may want to plunge a butchers knife through your skull while cackling oh-so-evilly. Savvy??

Ah. You’re an absolute darling.

So. Yes!! I must quit the fiend nicotine. My hand was forced by the New Chick Quack, who is very nice, but for the duration of my Nicotine Withdrawal, will be known as Right Fucking Bastard, Anti-Christ M.D. (other than this he’s a lovely doctor).

Ma, having never been a smoker, thinks it’s all La-di-da and a walk in the park to give it up. Fucking cow. So she chirps all the time ‘Oof, your father quit it too!! And cold turkey, at that!!’

Well of course he fucking did, he had the ‘Or die’ clause. And it’s a LOT easier to quit, I’m sure, when someone says, ‘Oh sorry old chap, but you must stop immediately or you’re going to die next Tuesday’

{Plus the doctor wouldn’t operate on him until he gave up that and the booze}

I mean the vague ‘Oh yes it will kill you ONE day’ is incentive, but for a fiend it’s not enough, you see?? Logically it makes no sense, I know. Fuck off, I don’t have to make sense, dammit. I’m being a two year old about this at the moment. Pbbt.

So anyway. Right Fucking Bastard was quite perplexed at the Old Chick Quack giving me the Alleged Magical Pill Packets (which never did work) given that I smoke (which OCQ knew).

‘It’s a bit dangerous’ Right Fucking Bastard intoned, very doctorially.

And I said ‘Aha!! They say it’s dangerous for women over 35 to smoke and be on the pill, Right Fucking Bastard!! And I am immortal and 34!! So I am safe!! You know nothing, soon-to-be-smiter of the Retardovary and non-knower of Loopholes to Get Out of Quitting Smoking Just Yet!!’

Right Fucking Bastard looked at me and said ‘Who are you kidding, hon??’

And I told him I hoped the Yankees would tank again this year, for it was the cruelest thing I could think of (What, you don’t talk about baseball with YOUR chick quack??) and winced, for I knew he was right.

Then came the ultimatum. He could sort out my Retardovary Problem (which actually isn’t the Retardovary at all as it turns out, but something else entirely. But, you know Retardovary is SO much funnier that we shall keep it as such) but it requires a different pill. A Stronger and Entirely Different Pill.

‘I cannot, in good conscience, give you this pill if you still smoke, as smoking and taking this pill?? It’s like playing Russian Roulette with your brain. You’d stroke out in a heartbeat’

{And let us face facts, my spaztardic brain is fucked as it is}

Well!!

So. My options:

1) Smoke and painters come and go as they please for three weeks at a fucking clip

2) Smoke (and not tell Right Fucking Bastard), take pills, and have stroke because he does NOT believe I am, in fact, immortal

3) Quit smoking (as of tomorrow, in case anyone was wondering when to get their helmets and Uzis out)

I don’t really fancy Option 1. I mean yes, I’d get to keep smoking and all that, but, painters in for three weeks in a row all the time?? No, no, no!! Sick of it!! I want the new pills!!

Option 2, again I get to keep smoking, yea, but NOT really liking the whole ‘maybe have a stroke’ thing. I mean, ok, this could be a Scare Tactic, but it’s one of my biggest fears, so, hey good job!! It worked!! I already get a sense of what being paralyzed and not being able to move and talk etc etc is like with the fits. Not happening!! Even Scare Tacticorially!! Bastards!!

Well I suppose it’s Option 3 then, isn’t it??

And my god, we’re back to it being a right bastard to quit, aren’t we??

See, all you lucky fuckers can use the patch and shite. Or those lovely pill things. And I can’t.

{Go on. Ask me why. Askkkkkkkkkk. You know why!! It’s to do with the spaz pills. Gah!! Can I do NOTHING like anyone else??}

No. Not me. I’ve got to go cold turkey. Dinde froide. Kalter Truthahn. Koud Turkije. Turquia fria. Turchia Fredda.

{Ok. That’s enough with Babelfish}

Quitting is a right fucking bastard. I know because I’ve tried quite a few times. I was shite at it. And I’ve no choice now, DAMMIT.

Whats more, while on the one hand, Ma says ‘Och, your father the dead Was Oh So Marvelous and Quit Smoking in a Single Bound’ like he was some sort of fucking Nobel Laureate for the fact, keeps telling me she’ll believe it when she sees it. Because she obviously doesn’t.

Nor does Trash.

Nor does anyone else who knows me.

No one thinks I can fucking do it.

Least of all me.

I expect to be breaking a lot of plates in the next week and a half or so.

Calvinball

I do hope you can forgive me and my Lack of Posting, fair reader. We here at Spazzymoto’s Revenge have been dealing with lots of Goodly Fun.

First of all, there’s been Drug Uppage. And we all know what a picnic THAT can BE. Yes, a mere extra 100 mgs of our beloved Topie (and, hello, more weight loss!! Go Topie, go!!) a day has made us ditzier than ever. This little by-product of Drug Uppage will wear out in a week or so. I hope.

Then, of course, there was the bit of a snit I was in, owing to the general frustration with the Retardovary Situation. Which transmogrified into a tiny bout of Latent Ovary Paranoia (read: fearus solitarius ovarius yankus). And, thanks to the dead smart move of my seeking a Second Opinion, I’ve found out that, whee!! It’s not the Retardovary AT ALL. So now I’m thinking of new and interesting ways of ripping off the Old Chick Quack’s testicles and nailing them to his fucking earlobes (read: such as utilizing a high velocity nail gun or a 50lb mallet and some tent spikes) when I go there to demand my records and inform him that I shall ne’er darken his doorstep again; because he doesn’t know his ass from his fucking speculum. Ahem. Moi?? Annoyed?? Why should I be?? He’s only mis-fucking-diagnosed me completely and mis-fucking-read two tests completely!! Honestly. It was a mistake ANYONE with a degree from Johns Hopkins and completely misguided faith in lab-monkeys who read said fucking tests (and which he read, too, I am sure) could have made. So he’s been giving me the wrong Allegedly Magical Pill Packets since November, which just made matters worse instead of better.

Pah. It was NOTHING. Really.

Then, of course, there was the fact that I hadn’t been going out much owing to the Deep Freeze and my fear of turning into a Giant Histamin. But hurrah!! Allegedly Spring-Like Weather is here and I’m out and about!! Hives be damned!!

Today I was once again off to Birdie’s house to do some work. And, before I mention the Alleged and Oh-So-Endearing Procrastination Habit, let me say here and now that THIS time it was so NOT MY FAULT!!

Almost. Kinda sorta. Ahem.

The MINUTE I woke the first thing I did was to race into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. This HAD to be done. The caffeine supply must be ready and raring to go at a moments notice; for as I’ve said before, a just woken Babs is a cranky Babs. Then, whilst waiting for said beverage to cool off a tiny bit, I made a mad dash for the loo, so as to make sure I beat Trash there. For if Trash gets to the loo first, newspaper in hand, said room can no longer sustain carbon-based life forms for six to eight weeks. Minimum. Unless you have one of those new-fangled space suits from NASA.

So. I will now surely leave on time. My tea is sorted and I’m caffeinated. I’m all scrubbed up. I call the New Quack and ask for an appointment later in the day and they kindly obliged. I did this because I know I’ve got a lot of work to do over at Birdie’s house, plus we always sit down and yammer for AGES. As I’ve mentioned, half the fun of going to Birdie’s house is the fact that she’s got HYSTERICAL stories to tell.

I call Birdie and tell her I’ll be leaving in about ten minutes.

Half an hour later I’m on my way out the door.

Oh don’t bloody well ask. I don’t know. For gods sake, I was ready to go dammit!! I really don’t know what happened there. Anyway. It’s 11:10 and I’m on the first bus. And, hello, paranoiac freaktard alert?? I’m sitting in my seat minding my own bloody business. Problem is the driver is speeding like a maniac and I’m sliding all over my damned seat. So I go to grab the pole attached to the seat in front of me to steady myself (so, you know, I don’t fall out of the damned thing) and I accidentally tap the jacket of the woman sitting in front of me with my finger. In an uncharacteristically non-Noo Yawka like manner, I apologize to her, and, as far as I can tell, loud enough for her to hear. In spite of this she gives me a dirty look and proceeds to make a show of getting up and moving to the seats across the way. What the fuck?? I swear to god some of my fellow Noo Yawkas perplex even me, the biggest paranoiac of them all. Get a grip, lady.

By 11:20 I’m waiting for the second bus. Which not only takes forever to get there, but is packed to the bloody gills and is stopping at each and every god damned stop. And I am stuck in back next to someone who has mistaken their pants for a god damned urinal. Why?? Because god is punishing me for not leaving earlier, that’s why.

Finally, blessedly, and mercifully I’m walking down my old street and the old neighbors are all saying hi as I toddle past (you’d think I’d still lived there, you know). Next thing you know I’m in Birdie’s kitchen. ‘Here have a coke, Babs!! Sit down, relax for a minute!!’ I look at the clock and think to myself ‘Wow!! It’s only 11:15?? I made damned good time!!’ So I’m like ‘Sure!!’ Because, at 11:15, I Have All The Time In The World.

{Has anyone noticed yet?? Because I certainly hadn’t}

So we shoot the shit for a while over a few cigarettes and an Entennmans cheesy bun that Birdie insisted I have. And who am I to argue about mass-produced yummy pastries?? No one, that’s who.

I finally set about my work which is really just cleaning sort of business, so nothing of interest there. I cannot wax poetic about the virtues of Scrubbing Bubbles and Mr. Clean, people. There are some things that are really, really just beyond me. It has to be a full scrub down of whichever room I happen to be working in though, as Birdie is a self-proclaimed fuss-budget and neat freak (she is however, quite amusing about it, so it isn’t a bother). So it takes a while to get, say, the loo sorted. About an hour and a half later I go back downstairs for a drink right before I’m about to tackle the floor (read: coffee cigarette break). We’re yapping again and suddenly it occurs to me:

‘Er, Birdie, did you guys change the clock over the sink yet??’

‘Um. No. I can’t climb up there’

Which I should have bloody thought of, because the reason I’m working for Birdie is because she can’t do this sort of thing these days.

Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk!!

I’m an hour behind. Well, more than, as I sat around yapping thinking I Had All The Time In The World. As I’d somehow completely forgotten that there was no way I’d gotten to her house at 11:15 seeing as I was on the bloody bus at 11:20. Unless there was some sort of warp in time-space continuum on the bus that I was somehow unaware of. I am a genius. But an endearing and currently dealing with Drug Uppage genius. Ok??

And were it not for the nitwits in congress that started the Daylight Savings Crap a month early?? I totally would have been on time.

Of course, my going to the drugstore afterwards to get the Topie (on the way to New Quack) and dawdling over the buy one get one free sale at the make-up counter for a good twenty minutes didn’t help matters much, either.

I am glad to say, however, that in spite of geting lost on the way to said New Quacks office and dawdling over the aforementioned warpaint that I STILL got there ten minutes early.

Mytzlplk

I admit it.

I, Babs Geller, have not been my usual ray-of-sunshine-fluffy-white-cloud-and-cotton-candied endearing little self.

And I’m laying the blame squarely and solely on the shoulders of the god damned hormones, people.

{This is the cue for you, my male readers, to go and read some DIY books. Build a birdhouse or something. You’ve been wanting to re-tile that kitchen floor for ages now, haven’t you?? Go on then. Not leaving?? Oh well. You were warned. I cannot be held accountable for what you read after this}

You know, that bastard Chick Quack gave me those pills to sort out my *ahem* problems. And they didn’t work. ‘Aha!!’ he did crieth, ‘We’ll try these ones now!! They’re the strongest of the strong!!’

I was optimistic. At first. My optimism started to waver, just the tiniest of bits, when things started FAR too early last Monday.

And said optimism flew RIGHT out the window when I realized that here we are, going on NINE GOD DAMNED DAYS; in spite of the Chick Quack’s assertion of ‘Oh yes these will CERTAINLY work, Babs!!’ I thought he said these were the strongest. And, if they are, what the HELL is next??

Getting Sick-Girl to score me some Progestrin?? Smoking Provera?? Mainlining estrogen??

Then toddle off to Clove Lakes Park for some fresh air and give a rambling diatribe on why being Babs is shite??

It’s SHITE being Babs!! I’m the moodiest of the moody. The battiest creature on fucking Earth!! The most wretched, miserable, servile, pathetic trash that was ever shat on civilization* Some people hate the Chick Quacks. I don’t. They’re just wankers. I, on the other hand, am tortured by said wankers. Can’t even find a decent quack to get tortured by. I’m ruled by effete assholes who don’t know their speculums from their fucking elbows. It’s a shite state of affairs to be in, Commie, and all the fresh air in the world won’t make any fucking difference!!**

*I liked that line so much that I saw no need to re-write it when I nicked this bit for Comedic Purposes.

** Of course, if you’ve never seen the movie, you’ve no idea what any of this is about and you should just ignore it entirely. In fact, ignore it even if you have seen it. I’m high on Benadryl at the moment. I’ll regret having done this later.

So. Anyway. These new pills?? Basket case does not BEGIN to describe what I’ve turned into these past two weeks (I mean, it’s all rather obvious. Have you not read the beginning of this bit?? Or my last ten posts??).

I am used to the whole ‘mood swing’ thing. Normally. These new ones, however, are fucking catastrophic.

I mean, good christ, the other night I cried for half an hour because I didn’t think my chicken/pasta dish was up to snuff. What the FUCK??

Who the HELL falls to pieces over a bow-tie pasta and poultry ensemble??

Honestly.

Crap like this is happening ALL the time. I don’t cry dammit, so it’s pissing me RIGHT the fuck off. My tough-girl reputation is going to be in tatters. Damnation.

Amusingly, ten minutes later, I’ll be trill-trill-trilling gaily about the house as if someone had just told me I’d won the lottery.

I don’t get it.

If this were not bad enough, my beloved readers, the fits are back.

With a vengeance.

Complete with nightmares, even.

Last night I was chased over a cliff. Only to land in front of a bus with, what the hell?? Ex-asshole # 3 standing in said bus. He toddles off, tells me I’m hideous, and then my head implodes. Seriously.

The night before that?? I was Down South. Apparently I drove there for five minutes to drop something off. And, in said nightmare, Sylvia beat the crap out of me.

I can’t remember the spazzing itself, mind you. Ma told me the other day that she’d popped in three times to try and ask me something. Each time I spazzed like a bastard.

I don’t remember a whit of it.

I do, however, recall waking with my left leg rendered useless, and my toe practically embedded in the plaster of my wall.

Whee.

Oh. Remember last week?? When my radiator when kaput the moment the mercury took a header for the hinterlands of the sub-artic??

I figured out how to fix it today.

Rather, Mother Nature figured out how to fix it today. It was actually noticed the OTHER day, but was written off as a freak event.

Allow me to explain.

The other day I woke up dying of the heat and soaked in sweat. I thought I had a fever or something. Cold, flu, god knows what. With my luck it could have been ANYTHING. But I didn’t feel ill, you know?? Just bloody hot. So I hopped out of bed, turned the electric radiator off and went on my merry way. I came back to my room a bit later to do a bit of tidying up, went to grab some papers I’d left on the broken radiator and, what’s this?? They’re HOT. So I feel the radiator to confirm the very bleedin’ obvious: it’s working again.

Which would explain why I woken up in a pool of sweat. Not only did I have the electric radiator cranked to the highest level and five blankets over me; the regular radiator was going full blast too. I was, in effect, baking myself like a Giant Spazmodic Oven Stuffer Roaster all afternoon as I slept (owing to spazzery). I did a little jig, wheeled the electric radiator out of my room and left in in the living room temporarily. I didn’t want to tempt fate by giving it back to EFL straightaway. Nor did I want to get into a twenty minute debate with EFL on how my radiator started working again, as no doubt it would somehow be blamed on me. I’m clever that way, you know.

Fate said fuck off regardless. Night came, radiator never came back to life. So back to the electric radiator it was. I didn’t know what had ‘unsabotaged’ it. Or ‘re-sabotaged’ it.

Until today. I once again woke in manner of ‘Giant Spazmodic Oven Stuffer Roaster’ late this afternoon (again, owing to spazzery). Old broken radiator?? Not so much broken and very much working yet again. What. The. Hell??

It seems I’ve got the only bloody radiator in the house that works when the temperature outside goes ABOVE 40 odd degrees, and goes into hibernation for anything BELOW 40.

So there you have it.

I am moody. My hormones are buggered. My body is killing me from the fits. And my radiator is a spaz.

Just like me.

To the Depths

Ok. So. The Obligatory Blog Anniversary Post?? Wherein I would have made silly jokes about foisting crap posts and insanity up the wazoo since this day in 2004??

Isn’t happening.

I’ve tried and tried, but it’s just not working out today. So there we are.

I am, at the moment, a very moody and, dare I say, insolent cow. This isn’t to say that I’m not ALWAYS this way. Just moreso today. There are very good reasons for this. Such as:

1) Have been dealing with Gloating Bastard on phone nearly every night of this past week. Look. Calling me once to tell me how PERFECT your Valentine’s Day was is acceptable. I understand this. Calling me every night to go over each and every detail ad fucking nauseam is rubbing it in. I know it and you know it. I will be forced to violence. Soon.

2) NEW Alleged Magical Pill Packet HAS NOT FUCKING WORKED. Even if we factor in drug-store glitch which put off taking of said pills for an entire week, things should not have fucking started. And certain Chick Quacks are getting the heave-ho. That is, once I castrate the motherfucker and boil him in oil. This turn of events can probably explain my less-than-patient attitude while dealing with Gloating Bastard from Reason # 1. Never EVER fuck with a hormonal spinster with access to cutlery*

*Unless you are Colin Firth and you are armed with a gallon of chocolate Haagen Daaz. In which case we are most forgiving. Usually.

3) Have gained 2 lbs. This was learned on Monday. May be directly attributed to Reason # 2, but still. Have felt like GINORMOUS spazmodic hippopotamus ever since. As opposed to merely gigantic spazmodic hippopotamus. Will find out when problem goes away. If it ever does. I’m thinking of starting a betting pool. I’d make a fucking fortune.

4) Am seizing owing to Reason # 2 (likely). And I’m sick of Certain Parties suggesting that I’m an idiot for not yanking out Ye Olde EZ-bake Uterus to *maybe* make my life simpler. When you suggest that I get a hysterectomy in the name of ‘Maybe not spazzing’ and I respond ‘Out of the question and not up for discussion with ANYONE. Oog. Is that a U.F.O coming to abduct you?? God I fucking hope so’ this is your cue to shut the fuck up and drop the subject. Especially since I never asked for your opinion or input to begin with. This is NOT your cue to tell me I’m crazy and say ‘Oog!! But you could have a seizure and die!!’ Or that I’m selfish because there are SO many kids that need adopting. Or remind me that I’m getting older and that my odds of finding a husband in time for me to one day get knocked up are now slim to none ANYWAY. Fuck off and die.

5) Stupid Allergy Fuckwit: ‘I think your hives are a case of physical hives, Babs. Meaning the extreme cold is bringing them out. Take this pill once a week for the next three weeks. Then every other day. Come back then and we’ll see how it goes from there’ ‘So, what, am I going to have to move to Fiji or something then??’ ‘Oog. It will be warmer in a few weeks at least, Babs!!’ YEA THAT’S A BIG FUCKING HELP, ISN’T IT?? I hope she chokes on her stethescope.

One can understand my dilemma, no??

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??