Toxteth O’Grady

I owe Paddy and Sneezy the biggest apology on the planet. I was going to make Sneezy a star!! In her very own blog entries!!

Yet, as of this moment, I’ve not been able to extract my cranium from my posterior in order to do so. I promise you guys I will finish it one day. I’ve not done anything in WEEKS. I’ve not even read any blogs, much less written any.

As I mentioned last time, I am seriously fucking stressed out–not that this is anything NEW  to me. Hell, I’ve been an ulcer waiting to happen since I was six years old. I am quite shocked that I’ve never had high blood pressure in my life; I still continue to confound the Keepers of Caduceus by maintaining perfect BP.

It’s just that there’s SO much more stuff lately. Stuff I can’t talk about. Stuff I COULD talk about, but refrain from doing so.

And you know that phrase ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’??

 Well, I feel like I’m surrounded by about 50,356 pair and I expect they’ll ALL drop at any moment.–this is all my own fucking fault.

It isn’t fun.

ANYHOO. Let us, for the moment, witter on about something we CAN chuckle about–you’ve got it–the fits!! Ok, not so much the fits, and more Fucktarded Insurance Companies.

(I am not even discussing the hives which are still conveniently popping round every other day or so. I don’t know why. And I suppose going to the doctor since this has been going on for fucking weeks now, might be what’s known as ‘A Good Idea’)

A few months ago I was once again on the doorstep of Pinky and the Brain’s Cranial Emporium. I reported to the good doctor that NO!! The dreaded Rash of Death drug (read: the loathed lamictal) is NOT helping anything. Not one whit of a bit. I explained that I am still spazzing in my sleep constantly, and as a result, wake up half the time feeling like I’ve been run over by a 2-ton Guinness Truck. Guinness, might I add, that I cannot partake of because of all the Stupid Fucking Pills.

Pinky and the Brain felt that, at this juncture, it was once again time to go into Ye Olde Hospital for a sleep-EEG (read: tethered to hospital bed for x amount of days to see what yours truly is on about etc). I balked at first, remembering how awful it was the LAST time–being taken off your drugs and knowing the end result will be a full throttle fit or five is not exactly a fun way to spend four or five days, no matter WHAT you’ve heard to the contrary. I was relieved to find out that they wanted me to STAY on my drugs, so that they might see what happens as I slumbered away. And, so sayeth Pinky, after said test and pending the results, she wants me to Seriously Reconsider my negative stance with regards to the Robo-Spaz Operation(read: vagus nerve stimulator doo-hickey).

So, whoop-di-doo and la-di-da, the next day I rang the local hospital, the one Pinky had recommended. And as it happens, they don’t take my insurance. As you might expect, this happens to be the ONLYplace on the island with the equipment for said study (meaning I would have to go to Manhattan, elsewise), and indeed the only place which conducts Spaztardery Sleep Testing. The girl told me, though, that she would see about getting me accepted regardless of insurance issues, and that once the approval from the insurance company came back she’d ring me and let me know one way or another.

And we ALL remember how good my fucking insurance company is about Expediting Matters of Approval, yes??

No one was more shocked than I when I got a letter exactly three weeks later.

That said DENIED. As it wasn’t a medical necessity.

(EEG’s?? For epileptics?? What insanity!! Next they’ll be approving insulin for diabetics!! Or brain transplants for the heads of HMO’s everywhere!! CRAZY TALK I TELL YOU!!)

So the girl from the place what might not take my insurance calls me, and says that since they turned down Pinky’s request, she is going to reword it and send it from their office directly.

Was I shocked when they denied me a second time??

No. No I was not.

What DID shock me, however, was their new reason.

‘Video EEG denied, as member was non-compliant with medication, labs, and there is no documentation that continued seizures occur when medication level is in a therapeutic range’

I am so fucking compliant with my medication it isn’t bloody funny. I FEAR not taking the pills. So much so that if I find myself stuck somewhere overnight sans medication–or idiotically order my drugs at the last moment (both situations are quite rare, but it happens) and get to the drug store after it closes–I will not go to bed until those pills are safe in hand and subsequently down my fucking gullet. If I happen to lie down and forget whether or not I’ve taken my pills I’ll get RIGHT up again and count them out to make sure.

HOW IS THAT NON-MOTHERFUCKING-COMPLIANT?!

And, hello, how can one prove that continued blah-blah-blah when they’ve clearly not FOUND a therapeutic range for me?? Would someone PLEASEriddle me this?? Because it fucking baffles me, to be quite honest. It’s right up there with the Rubiks Cube and basic algebra. And the continued success of American bloody Idol.

I admit freely that I’ve missed the occasional lab here or there, but I’ve certainly done enough to establish my fucking levels. My arm looks like a fucking heroin addicts for fucks sake.

As luck would have it, the second request was exhausted my internal appeals, and now I’ve got to go through a whole OTHER rigamarole just to get this test fucking done.

Naturally, the above is only reinforcing my own fucktarded notion that I’m somehow faking it. That I’m a scumbag for applying for the social.

And that, somehow–in spite of all evidence to the contrary–it’s my own fucking fault.

I’m sick of it.

Spaztardo, Spaztardo, Spaztardo the (Fat Bastard of a) Clown

I am a fat bastard.

I know this.

I am acutely and ever-so aware of the fact.

I’m reminded nearly every day by strangers who feel the need to point out the blatantly fucking obvious–something I’ve spoken of many times previous.

This, however, is not the point (nor is it a fishing expedition for cries of ‘Awwwwwww!! Poor Babs!!’–so just fucking don’t. K?? I am quite aware I’ve no one to blame for this other than myself).

And, before I go any further, please, PLEASE ALSO do not shout, ‘But, nay, Babs!! It isn’t so!! For I have seen your pic, and you cannot possibly weigh more than a quarterback and two fullbacks combined!!’ The advantage of being Very Bloody Tall is that my weight is SOMEWHAT disguised. As in: Yes, one can tell I am a fat bastard, but hardly anyone can guess my actual weight. And if informed of said number, they reel back in shock and shout ‘IMPOSSIBLE!!’ It doesn’t, however, make the fact any less true–I’ve got to lose roughly the equivalent of two supermodels (They DO weigh forty-five pounds or so these days, right?? Ah, good. Then my math adds up).

My point here is that, when dealing with Doctorial Fuckwits, weight can be a dodgy kind of thing. I’ve mentioned it before. Throwing up and have a fever?? It’s because you’re a fat bastard. Vision is blurry?? There’s fat in your retina!! Go on a diet!! Contracted Dengue fever?? Lose some weight, you fucking cow.

(Also see [as mentioned previously]: Go to emergency room in massive pain around general stomach area; answer doctors questions of Smoker?? Yes. Drinker?? Occasionally. Fat fuck?? Duh!! Well, clearly you have an ulcer, Babs. Take these pills and fuck off, you pudgy bastard. Eat like a human being, while you’re at it. Then promptly throw up every pill because, HELLO, not an ulcer, but in fact mangled gallbladder. Which saw your fearless heroine having an emergency operation mere months later because she forgot that–whilst eating a Healthy Tuna Salad-y type thing–that olive oil is made from?? Olives!! And oil is a Big Fat No-No on the Gall Bladder Diet Hit Parade)

So, being fat is the cause of All My Woes.

{I’m actually sort of surprised not one quack has blamed the epilepsy on my weight. New Mission in Life: Find one fucktarded neuro who would actually make this diagnosis for a Good Sadistic Laugh at my own expense. Ahem}

I went to the orthopedist the other day to speak with him about my Gloriously Gimptarded Left Leg. I was rather hesitant to go because I know what these types are like–the second they see you are two pounds overweight, well, the fat lady has sung, now hasn’t she??

Do not get me wrong–I am WELL AWAREthat some of the problems I have with the gams are due to my apparent inability to consume broccoli and fiber soup three times a day and spend the rest of my hours in the loo and/or walking fifty thousand miles. This is an undisputed fact and I admit it freely. I was, however, quite sure that the reason my Gloriously Gimptarded Left Leg was far worse than the right was because of the bendy-twisty-contortiony JOYthat is spazzing every 2.5 seconds. The spazzes forcing my hip, knee, ankle and toes into painful angles that would make an acrobat with a minor in geometry who’d graduated from the University of the Marquis de Sade green with envy. This cannot be good for the leg, right??

Wrong!!–apparently.

I knew his diagnosis would be ‘Fat Bastard’ before he even entered the room, as I overheard him giving the same lecture to a nearby hip patient.

(To be fair, I wasn’t given the suggestion of the famed Bariatric Sugery, so this is a plus, yes?? Oh, si, si)

He peruses my x-rays, gives it a lot of thought and says, ‘You’ve got mild arthritis in your hips–with a few spurs, and moderate arthritis in your knees. Lose weight’

‘So what of the spazzery??’ I inquire, ‘I am WELL aware that some of my problems are because of my weight, I’ve no argument there. But what about my left leg being Oh So Worse, pain wise??’

‘No!! Bendy twisty contortion-y fun will NOT cause your leg to hurt. Nor will it damage it in any way in the long term!! Your left leg hurting more is merely coincidental!!–oh and your right leg will catch up soon enough’

‘So you’re telling me that though my left leg hurts THAT much more is merely coincidence?? The muscles and tendons and joints and whatever the fuck else is down there are unaffected??‘

*points to X-rays* ‘Think of your legs like 100,000 mile tires, these are tires with 50,000 miles on them’

{And he does the fingerquotes with this. Have any idea how much I HATE finger quote people?? HAVE YOU?? Also–having your legs compared to a set of Firestones?? Totally awesome!!–oh, NOT}

I shall now demand that anyone dealing with issues such as, oh I don’t know, tennis elbow, housemaid’s knee, carpal tunnel or any other sort of repetetive motion problem, to renounce their diagnoses NOW–for clearly IT IS ALL BUNK (especially if you are a heifer like me).

‘And what about the pain I have when I walk anything over a mile?? Why didn’t you x-ray my foot as well??’

‘Chief complaint was knee and hip*. Let me see you walk, and take off your shoes and socks’

*Actually I’d put left shoulder on the form, too, but this wasn’t even discussed.

Diagnosis: Fat fuck, arthritis, and flat feet.

{Flat feet which I have had since kidhood, incidentally}

Highly Important and Completely Sound Medical Opinion: Lose weight and get orthotics. Spazzery has NOTHING to do with it. Do not return to this office, you fat bastard.

He then gives me a referral to a podiatrist. A podiatrist whom, in happy coincidence, is the same one I saw a year and a half ago what told me I needed orthotics, but that I was shit out of luck since Government Leech Insurance doesn’t cover them. Then told me I’d have to make do with off the shelf ones that really don’t do the job but will have to do.

He offers suggestions for Pain (read: popping pills) which I decline as I walk out the door. I’ll simply suck it up the way I have been already. Pain schmain. Pah. It’s nothing.

I should have asked for a prescription for broccoli, instead.

And maybe, JUST MAYBE, I should have punched him in his smug fucking face.

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.

Arse

We shan’t bother with an excuse, right??

Right!!

Oh hell. I’ve felt like crap the past week or so.

Annie frequently wonders how I can be so gosh-darned positive and hopeful–about everything–in spite of all the crap I’ve been dealt along the years.

{Spazziness, moronic ex-assholes, psychotic family etc}

Fucked if I know. Stupidity in hope, I suppose.

The past week I have not been so gosh-darned chirpy, though.

First of all, the new-old drugs?? We can now shout merrily ‘Fuck YOU, Keppra!!’–because they haven’t done dick to help me. I’m spazzing like a motherfucker. Hurrah!!

Oh wait. Not good!!

Then again I’ve only just re-started the regimen. We don’t start the Zombification Levels til next week. I’m predicting the eminent Dr. Pinky and the Brain will jack me up to, oh, 2,500 mg. Or maybe 3000!! I’m on 1500 now. Whee!! I won’t know who I am or what planet I’m on, but maybe I’ll stop spazzing.

{Oh ha ha HAAAAAAAA. As if I believe THAT}

Anyway thinking about all that has made me decidely UN-hopeful. And definitely not chirpy. My mood can also just be because of the medication switch.

{And let us not forget the magic of hormones. Yay!!}

Seriously though, what’s the good of not spazzing if I’m drugged to the point of crack-addictery?? WHAT’S THE FUCKING POINT??

Yes. Cranky. Did I mention that??

I will remain so until Wednesday, which is D-Day for ol’ Lefty, my sole remaining (and currently cyst-ified) ovary. Sure, the pills probably shrank it into oblivion. Maybe. Possibly?? Who knows. I will not rest until I know for sure. I keep imagining the worst because, well, because I’m a fucking moron.

Just to round out the fun, my left wonky leg has had me in SUCH pain it isn’t funny. I’d already procured a referral for an orthopedist–grudgingly, you understand. I seriously don’t want to, but Fishface Wimpy demands it to be done. And I’ve been whinging about my Gimptarded Left Leg for how long?? Then this wacked out pain started. Everyone I know claims it’s Sciatica. Which I call Bullshit. For I do not succumb to such sissy-mary-namby-pamby Structural Problems. Never!! I even had the good sense to Dr. Google said ailment to prove them wrong. Webmd Symptomchecker, prove them wrong!!

Oh I would gloat when I showed them the Webmd’s ideas of what it could be. And then laugh heartily once at the office of said Orthopedist.

Course, the first thing it shot back at me was Fucking Sciatica.

I will remain in pain and denial until the orthopedist appointment. Because clearly webmd and their symptom checker thingie, is pure shite.

On another note, for reasons that will be explained on my new page, Spazzymoto will die with this post. If you want to follow me along leave a comment and I’ll email the site name (I can grab your email off haloscan–no one else will see it). Or you’ll just see when I comment on your page. And link!!

Now I’ve got to go put every single post here in drafts (why, oh, WHY is there not a simple way to do this??). That way when I move the archives to the new joint I can cull the pure crap I’ve written for the past *cough* years.

Which will leave me with, oh, a dozen old posts or so.

Happy Anni(blog)versary to me!!

La La La

I am never, ever, ever, going to let Annie accompany me to the doctors office again.

Ever!!

You may recall when, ages back, I mentioned that Annie can and will (much in the fashion of Sneezy, Paddy’s soon to be betrothed) do anything to make me turn thirty shades of red.

At times, she even drags me into the muck that is Uncivilized Behavior, when normally I am quite Saintly and Polite.

She had agreed to pop round to the Quackery, as she was going to go to the shops too, and I was going as well (post-quackery), so hey–why didn’t she take me with her. Jolly good, old chap!!

Annie: Do you know that store in the mall??

Babs: Yes.

Annie: They have *ahems* now.

Babs: You’re fucking kidding me.

Annie: Nope!!

Babs: That’s bloody bizarre!!

Annie: I know!! I was telling the girl there how years back they NEVER had anything like *that*. The rudest thing they had were furry handcuffs. And those were a gag gift!!

Babs: Wait. Let me get this right. Everyone whinged and moaned about the whole whether or not the nativity scene was there at Christmas time, but they are oddly ok with *ahems* being sold there?!

Annie: I know!!

Babs: People on this island are such twits sometimes.

{Can you SEE how the tone of my blog is being lowered already?? CAN YOU?? Lordy. And she wasn’t saying *ahem* in the office!! And at least *my* whisper was a whisper}

Thankfully we veered right off that subject. I decided to take out my notebook to practice Ma’s signature (read: am also an ace forge artist now since Ma is away and have to deposit checks of hers–have actually known how to sign her name since 2nd grade but needed to brush up). La la la. Not enough swoop in the T!!

Annie grabs the notebook from me, draws twelve dashes on a blank page, and a hangman’s noose. Then writes the word ‘Activity’ at the top of the page. Alright!! This will kill time for sure. I pick the letter N. Bingo. I pick the letter M. Hurrah!! I go for an S–again I’m right. E–boo, I see a noggin drawn. How about an A?? Yep (two of them, apparently)—hang on, I see where this is going. T?? B?? I?? And of course you can all see what’s going to follow.

Babs: Oh god. You’ve got SUCH issues.

Annie: *cackles sadistically*

Fine!! Fight fire with fire I say.

I take the notebook back. I draw six dashes, and the word ‘things’ across the top.

She picks the S straight off. Bingo. She asks for an A. No go, and I merrily pencil in a noggin. T?? Nope. I draw the body. D. Two Ds. First and fourth letters.

Annie: *looks at me shocked* And I’m the pig??

Babs: Pfft. Keep playing, Sherlock.

She picks an I, thinking she’s got a dead lock. Right. I is the second letter.

Annie: Ha!! I knew it.

Babs: So you think.

L!! I tell her nope, and draw the first leg from the body. Now she’s really confused. She’s guessing away until she finally has it down to D_ODES.

Annie: Diodes?!

Babs: And you thought it was going to be something else. Ha!!

Annie: You and your friggin’ SAT words!!

And the moral of the story, of course, is never play hangman with a prude who has had an EEG the day previous.

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.

Mayberry

‘Hang on, my brains have fallen out of my head again’–this is my most frequently uttered phrase this week.

{Aside from ‘You’re fucking kidding me’–usually uttered during phone calls to Ma}

Now don’t get me wrong. I had expected some glitches, what with the GLORIOUS fun that is Drug Uppage.

{And hurrah!! Once again the Highly Anticipated and Muchly Adored Side Effect of Loss of Appetite has occurred!! The other day I forgot to eat for like, seven weeks. Or something like fourteen hours. Ish. The pill, it does not make the stomach growl!! Thus one does not think to cook and instead one reads, does dishes, or knits tiny mittens for dyslexic hasmters and says ‘What on earth was I supposed to do around noon?? And maybe eight PM??’}

I did NOT, however, expect Instant Stupidity.

I can handle Instant Stupidity, though–some here would say I’ve been working steadily towards it all my life. I got the boot from the Very Clever Catholic High School* for a reason after all, right??

*Note: Aside from lemon-yellow Converse with school uniform

What’s really pissing me RIGHT the fuck off is the fact that in SPITE of that fact that Pinky and the god damned Brain (Alleged Neuro at-large) have upped my god damned drug** levels; I have been waking up each and every god damned morning spazzing like a motherfucker. With my Gloriously Gimptardic Left Leg doing its very own version of a Rockettes audition.

Into the wall.

Which is made of plaster.

**Drugs: You know, the shite that’s supposed to STOP this fucking stuff from happening but very much isn’t?? Signed, Jaded Eppo

If anyone is looking for me I’ll be gluing bumper pads to my wall.

You know, as you do.

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.

Electrocution–Good for Morale

Yesterday was the 19th, the day of the Infamous and Long Awaited Nerve Test Thingamabob for my Gloriously Gimptarded Leg. Otherwise known as an EMG. The point of this test was to see if my nerves were perhaps pinched, or if indeed the kicking was due to my epilepsy and not, say, some latent desire to become the Worlds Heftiest Rockette.

First of all, do you recall how they said it would be ‘a bit uncomfortable’?? As in ‘Oh, worry not, Babs. This will just pinch a LEEEETLE bit??’ No?? Well I do. And that’s what bloody counts here.

BALD FACED LIE!!

I had thought, what with my Epileptic Bravado and Tough Chick ‘Tude, that I could muscle through this test with nary a whimper. After all, it couldn’t be worse than the fit itself, right??

WRONG!!

Let us, for the sake of my newer readers, remind ourselves how the mini-spazzes work. For this exercise you will need:

2 cases of Budweiser
1 very drunk, very large, Hells Angel
Desire to get the shit beat out of oneself

Drink both cases of Budweiser. When you are THAT inebriated, start hurling insults at said Hells Angel. Have same start punching you in left abdomen–as a result, left leg will start kicking. You may also grunt and drool. Not very attractive, no, but hey!! this is a mini-fit–not Hollywood, people. The kicking will not stop until the punching in the abdomen stops. Great bloody fun to wake up to, yes?? Yes!! I mean, no!! Bah. I always get that mixed up. It also happens when I’m awake. And walking. And shopping in Pathmark. Or dining with Colin Firth. But hey–I don’t pass out in a puddle of piss with these mini-fits so hey!! Yay me (we will revisit grand mal seizures at a later date).

{Alternatively: Tie fishing line around major muscles in leg and around abdomen. Have evil sadistic puppet master yank line upwards and inwards, in which ways leg is not meant to go, at will}

We’ve got the point, yes??

The very thing I’d forgotten though, is that while I’m so very used to the muscle twitching, twisty, contortion-y fun of a mini-spaz, I was going to be zapped with electricity. ELECTRICITY!!

I know three things about electricity: Don’t touch the red wires, avoid puddles at all costs, and I am Not Allowed to Touch Electricity Ever.

EVER!!

{No. Really. VBFITW declared it. Many, many times}

I get to Pinky and the Brain’s Cranium Emporium–on time, I’ll have you know, and I start to worry when I see an older man come out, arm still twitching from the very test I’m about to have.

This does not bode well.

I meander into the room, a lovely bed waiting for me (Why not a rack?? It seems more fitting for this sort of thing. Must recommend the Iron Maiden next time I’m there).

‘Hop in here, Babs’

Righto.

She glues a thingie (do you not love my grasp of the technical side of these things??) to my leg. Then grabs what can only be described as the top of an over sized nine-volt battery. Then pops some gel on said doo-hickey so as to what’s that?? Ah yes, to conduct electricity better!!

*blip* *blip* *blip*

*OHHOLYHELLMOTHERFUCKERZAP* *ZAP* *ZAP* *ZAP*

Yes. It hurt. Quite a little bit. More than.

‘You know’ I muttered between anguished cries of pain, ‘I’m pretty sure she only wants to test my left leg’

‘Oh, well, we’ll do both legs. I can only do the first part of the test. Dr. Pinky and the Brain has to do the needle insertion part. Don’t worry. It’s not so bad’

NEEDLE INSERTION!!

‘That’s easy for you to say, sister’

With each zap my entire body pops up. Great fun let me assure you.

Anyone need there batteries recharged?? I think I’ve still got a good gazillion volts running through me. Bastards. I may try the Uncle Fester trick later on, I need a new nightlight anyway.

{Also, in your humble heroines opinion, it would be the nerve on the inner ankle that hurts THE worst when they zap it. AVOID AT ALL COSTS}

Finally, after what seemed like HOURS (read: more like fifteen minutes), Dr Pinky and the Brain comes in for the Needle Insertion part of the program.

*cue to applause*

She tells me to push my leg outwards, then relax it. I feel the tiniest of pinches (I would say something else but I know how gutter minded you lot are) and she tells me to push my leg outwards again. I declare ‘Was that it?? Pah!! This is WAY easier!!’

‘Ah’ Dr Pinky wisely warns me, ‘Not ALL muscles are that easy’

Next muscle, bit worse, but nothing I, the oh-so-tough Babs Geller cannot handle.

It goes downhill from there.

Finally she gets to the muscle above my knee.

‘OH MY GOD THAT FUCKING HURTS MAKE IT STOP OH GOD WHAT THE HELL DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?? OW!! OW!! OWWWWWW!!’

Lost my composure. Ever so slightly. I may have even threatened to tell my mother. Ahem.

End result??

Good news: Nerves?? Fantabulously fine and not one bit pinched.

Bad news: Gloriously Gimptarded Leg?? It’s because of the epilepsy, and my fucked brain, as originally thought. So back to square one as far as that goes.

Great news: Am running puter with two alligator clips attached to earrings and will save $16.95 on electricity this month thanks to extra voltage.

Yay!!

Spazzy McButterpants

I am very, very proud of myself, fair reader. For I, Babs Geller, in spite of the Crunchy Knee situation alluded to in my post of May the 20th, have yet to cave in and call Dr Fish Face Wimpy. No!! I did declareth that I would get it looked at AFTER the Gloriously Gimptarded Leg Test (coming to a neuro’s office near you). Oh, I have on occasion wavered and said to various parties, ‘Do y’know what?? I’m really going to go get this looked at tomorrow, because I really, really can’t take this anymore’ But I muscled through it and I didn’t. DIDN’T!! And though the pain is now BEYOND fucking unbearable, I have managed to summon my Inner Viking, suck it up, and I’ve not even popped so much as a single aspirin. Such is my aversion to Pills Not Necessary and Quacks.

Ha!!

Clearly this is a plan that is foolproof and highly thought out, oh yes. She says as she sits with an ice pack on her hideously swollen knee. Ahem.

I sometimes think my stubbornness will be the death of me.

The reason it is Still Bothering Me, (aside from the fact that I am being Very Clever and not getting it looked at until after the 19th) is that I still insist on going for walks. For when one has summoned their Inner Viking they must make their forebears proud!! Would the Vikings have let a bum knee stop them from pillaging, plundering or, hey, even discovering America (No. Don’t you dare give me any shit about Columbus. He was a sham. He got lost. And no, he didn’t get here first. St. Brendan?? Maybe. Columbus?? No way)??

Plus I’m a heiferish bastard and, Crunchy Knee or not, I’ve got to lose weight.

{Read: Suck it up, Buttercup}

Savvy??

Good!!

In order to Facilitate Thinness I am trying to make small changes which will add up to bigger changes and voila!! No more fat bastard. Or Fat Bastard the Lesser. Either way works. For instance, instead of avoiding Ginormous Hills by utilizing public transportation, I walk. And when I go to various Quackeries and Stores I’ll get off a stop or two early and hoof it. It’s got to help somewhat. Then I take hoofs around the neighborhood when all the crackheads are abed (read: daytime).

{Plus, obviously, eating naught but rabbit food. And the already spoken of Retardaerobics}

I am pleased to announce that everyone in my neighborhood is STILL behind me one hundred percent. As they were last year. And the year before.

And, before I go on, allow me to say that I am always, as I’ve stated many times previous, a POLITE person of heiferage. I cover my rotundicity as best as I can in the summertime. I do not pander to the Spandex Minions, nor do I wear tops that leave little to the imagination. My shorts generally almost hit the knee or pretty damn close, and I usually wear a tshirt or something. My summer clothes make Burkas look daring, for gods sake.

{I did wear a [over sized and loose] tank top once, but small children wept with fear, grown men turned to stone, and the national economy collapsed. Ever since then, when feeling daring, I’ve opted for the occasional sleeveless boatneck top, and warily, at that. Blame Frieda. It was she who convinced me I could try a tank, dammit}

Anyway. The other day I was on one of my occasional neighborhood hoofs; this time the end destination being the store as I had to pick up a few things for the house. I saw a gaggle of girls on my way back, all piling onto the sidewalk.

The sidewalk, I should tell you, is a good five feet wide or so.

I should ALSO tell you that, though large, I am NOT a good five feet wide or so.

I circle around them, walk to the curb, and, in spite of this, one of the girls bumps into me. And yes, I am about to chip away at my surly and oh-so-crabby exterior yet again (god DAMMIT) and admit to an Act of Politeness. I smiled with bright deeth and apologized to the girl, even though she’d clearly not been paying attention to where she was going.

I didn’t expect a co-apology. I didn’t even expect an ‘Oh that’s ok’ I expected NOTHING.

But fair reader I got so much more.

I got the encouragement I get day after day. Because clearly everyone in this neighborhood is worried about my Weight Woes.

As I walked away I hear her say ‘Damn you’re a FAT BITCH!!’

And the rest of her friends start laughing.

Which sets off the guys sitting on the stoop next door. Who start saying shit to me, too.

It’s so nice to know that they care. Bless.

They’ve been saying something every day since.

I reckon after a week or so I’m just going to clock the bitch.