Now Make Like a Tree and Get Out of Here.

I don't know what kind of internet shitbowl thinks it is awesome to try to trick people into thinking that TODAY is the day that Marty McFly time traveled into the future.

I've covered this before in my ranty Back to the Future post entitled "Great Scott" but I'll say it again:

Marty McFly visited October 21, 2015.

I told someone that today when he claimed that today, my 13th wedding anniversary is the day "Marty Went To." In response to my correction, he linked me to this:

• First of all, that is a picture of Marty McFly in 1955.
• Second of all, YOU'RE A STUPID ASSHOLE. I just TOLD YOU what day Marty McFly went to. I even doubled checked by going to a Back to the Future Wiki because you shouldn't correct people when you are not right. 
• Lastly, you need to have your internets taken away permanently, because you don't know how they work.

The point is, I could likely make that time circuit readout read "YOUR MOM" and it wouldn't mean that Marty McFly traveled to your mom. It means that people on the internet are shit strainers and like to trick people into making me angry.

This image is photoshopped. Marty McFly never went to your mom.

Are You Experienced?

One of the crappiest things people can do, in my opinion, is insisting, when someone reports their personal experience, that said person with experience is clearly stupid/crazy/lying/in denial and is unaware of what is going on in their own life.

This applies to all sorts of experiences,
Like fat people who are told:

or writers of blargs who are told:
JUST STOP BEING DEPRESSED! YOU WON'T HURT IF YOU JUST GET OVER YOUR LIFE CRUSHING DEPRESSION!
Yeah. Not depressed.
DEPRESSION MANIFESTS IN COUNTLESS WAYS!
Does it ever manifest in being happy and content with your life, and being really motivated, because then maybe, yes, I am terribly depressed, but otherwise, NO, I AM NOT AND I AM GOING TO SHOVE A WAREHOUSE FULL OF TWINKIES UP YOUR BUTT IF YOU DON'T STOP TELLING ME I AM!

If someone is trying to tell you that your account of your own experience is wrong, or tries to assign feelings to you without really listening to you or even asking you how you feel, chances are, they are either trying to manipulate you, or they are an asshole.

After having been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia last week, I was sent to see a therapist yesterday to treat my "depression caused" Fibromyalgia. I willingly submitted to testing and answered questions on a little digital box to measure my sanity:

Er, does that count having to wake up to pee 10 times a night?
No. You have a reason for that, it means if you don't have a valid reason.
Okay, then no.

What? I don't abuse drugs at all! What the hell kind of question is this!? I don't think you can abuse a substance less than not doing them at all, unless I started doing nice things for drugs, like making them fancy dream houses with a working elevator or something?

False?

What's going on here? I mean they haven't in a while.

 Well, I guess true, now...


And after about 10 minutes, I had read and answered all of the questions to the best of my ability, since it asked many loaded questions along the line of "Have you stopped beating your wife? Y/N" What!? Wait! I don't even have a wife. Crap. This test should have been written by someone with a background in ambiguities.

And then the very lovely man who was assigned to talk to me plugged the test box into the the computer and a piece of paper issued from his printer with my results and after reviewing them, he said "As I am sure you are well aware, there is not a damned thing wrong with you psychologically." Which is what I have been saying to my doctors all along.

Operation: Mother May I?

Here I go being political again. If you think that we would be better off if the government controlled the lives of women, reading this will likely piss you right the hell off and your time would be better off spent elsewhere pretending I am just PMSing.





After reading more on proposed contraception bans and comments about how women should be at home taking care of children instead of working so we don't need things like Head Start, the following occurred to me:

I wonder how grating it would be to Republican politicians if hoards of women tweeted them every time we wanted to use our vaginas to see if it was okay with them.

Perhaps having to hear about tampons, and douches, and discharges, and masturbation, and kinky sex, or even conventional vanilla sex within church sanctioned marriages, 24 hours a day, would make them less interested in controlling our junk.

Think this might make a difference? Want to help make a point? Tweet your daily vaginal activities to your favorite Republican on twitter with the hashtag #MotherMayIGOP 

Don't have a republican in mind? 

You can start here:
@Senate_GOPs
@RoyBlunt
@RickSantorum
or do a search for your local GOP representative on the Google.

Don't have a vagina?

Be sure to share this post with your favorite vagina owner.

Disclaimer- One should never wait for a reply from someone to use their vagina. At this point, your vagina is yours and yours alone (unless you have figured some clever way to rent it out or are a conjoined twin)... take advantage of it while you still can!

Laughter is the best medicine cause it is free.

I'd like to talk about a major issue in my life right now. It's a downer, so prepare yourself.
So, I'm poor. I know I have said that before but when I say I am poor, I mean we survived last year on less than $6,000 income. Like super poor.
And one would think, "Oh, you're taken care of by the state," but nope.  If you don't have kids and you are poor, you can pretty much go fuck yourself... which apparently I have done by becoming ill while poor.
I have been chronically ill for about 8 years now. Longer really, but it has been steady for 8 years. I used to have a job, and I worked, and I loved working. I would even work for free, if they didn't have money to pay me because working was awesome and fun. But then I got sick and I had to go home from work all the time and had to ask people to cover for me, and my job was such that I couldn't just leave when I needed to... I had to wait for someone else to be there before I could go, so it sucked, and it made many people mad at me, and at the end of the year, I got let go. And the next year, my contract wasn't renewed. And then my day to day jobs stopped because I was making errors of judgment from being on pain pills that I was required to take... and then 4 years ago, I stopped working. I was making it through my days by refusing to eat or drink, because those things made me sick and made me have to go home, and working is hard when you have no food in you.  I know models do it, but they just have to stand there and look pretty... they don't have to keep other people safe and alive and stuff.
And the point of telling you that I am poor is to tell you I have no insurance. I have no medicaid, I ain't got shit... except a bunch of chronic illnesses that like to make me miserable and a moral code that tells me it is wrong to run up bills and not pay them.
Beyond that, I have several diseases, all autoimmune, that don't have cures.  My experiences with doctors has been this:

I am certain there is something actually wrong with me that hasn't been diagnosed, as far as my chronic pain and lessening muscle control, but I think I come off to doctors as a hypochondriac.  I say this because I complain and I complain and they just look at me cross-armed and say "Mmhm." and nothing gets done.
I had one doctor lady stand across from me, when I was pleading that she do some test, test for MS maybe because it runs in my family and I have almost all the symptoms of it, and I was being told "we don't know what is wrong so we aren't going to do any more tests on you," please test me, for the love of God, test me,  and she crossed her arms and her legs and said in a nasty accusatory tone, "Do you WANT to have MS?"
And you know, yeah, I would rather be diagnosed with MS when I have most of the symptoms of it anyway, and actually fucking be treated, than to sit in a room with shitty doctors who treat you like crap because you have problems that they don't have a name for. You get screwed because your symptoms are too hard to figure out and testing costs money and you don't have money, and people subsequently think you are making it all up, but you are in pain all the time and you know this is real.
So, I have tried to get help but all of the agencies say that there isn't enough documentation to prove that I am sick enough. Because when I am feeling my worst, I don't want to go sit in a doctor's office, or ER, for hours to tell them "I feel like shit, I am going to take some narcotics and lie in bed for the rest of the day. " Or "I feel like shit, I am puking and crapping and I can't stop." yelled through the bathroom door of the doctor's office because I don't relish the idea of wearing a diaper out in public. Or "Hi, my intestines are bleeding again. I have ulcers on every mucus membrane of my body. I can't sit up because it hurts so bad. You can't do anything about it because taking steroids all the time is going to kill me... so hi, bye, thanks for writing it down after I sat here miserable for 5 hours. That will be $500 I don't have. Please, make sure you call me every day to stress me about it which will make all of this flare worse."
And because it has been suggested that they can't do anything for me, it seems an exercise in futility to mention it. I don't WANT to spend every second thinking about being sick. I want to ignore it and do whatever I can to bring myself joy (like writing this blarg here, that I love, and interacting with all of you), but in order to get any help from any agency that is in place (disability, voc. rehab, etc), it seems that you can't have a moment of joy in your life, which is about how I feel right now. So, please, I can have help nao?

Scrooged.

I'm having a hard time getting into the holiday spirit this year.

For the first time in. . . forever, actually, I think, I cannot afford to send gifts to my friends around the country.

Of course, they will understand, but the problem is, sending things out to people is also MY gift.

The whole process of baking fiddly things and then having to bake more because the monster version of my husband eats half the batch of cookies in the middle of the night, and packaging them up with funny labels, and dealing with the heinously rude jerk mail lady, Betty, after waiting in a giant line, sweating to death because I am wearing 2 sweaters and a fluffy coat and the post office is toasty warm, is my present to myself.
I don't get many presents, so I usually sustain myself by sending things out and being elf-like.  Not LOTR elf-like, more of the Harry Potter/Keeblerish type, and that I can't afford that right now kinda makes me one grumpy asshole.

And unfortunately, "Jesus" being "the reason for the season" doesn't really work for me, because I am Jewish and the Maccabees are the reason for the season, which doesn't ring quite as nicely, since they were an army, and long burning oil during a cleaning binge isn't terribly inspiring. So, barring some unexpected windfall,  I guess this year I'll gorge myself on latkes and Christmas cookies and then I'll go out and find some orphans to kick and maybe staple little antlers on some dormice.

As an aside, I've never understood why they make places so damned hot inside during the winter when people are dressed warmly anyway.  I mean, I don't need it to be negative degrees inside too, but it should be cool enough that people don't get heat stroke while waiting in line, buying eggnog.

And now for something only slightly different.

I'm sure I'll get the hang of it eventually, but in the meantime the sentiment holds.

The Value of Pie

There are a few books from my early childhood that really influenced who I am as a person (and a writer, I suppose). Each taught me things that formed my personality and sense of humor.

The King Who Rained by Fred Gwynne

One of my very favorite books EVER.  Beautiful illustrations, and very funny. The King Who Rained is full of homophone humor that instilled in me a love of word play and of picturing things in the funniest way possible. I guess I stole my whole schtick from this book, looking back at it.

Tikki Tikki Tembo by Arlene Mosel

This book appealed to me because it had such beautiful stylized illustrations and a cute story based on repetition. I remember it being read to us in the library, possibly by my mom, possibly by the librarian;  It was a long time ago. I learned from it to be succinct in my writing and speech, to get my point across when it was most important.

Where the Sidewalk Ends 

So many people love this book by Shel Silverstein, so I do not really have to expound upon its appeal. I did learn from it, though, that poems are better funny than serious, and dear lord, if I had only remembered that lesson in my mopey high school and college years when I wrote terrible embarrassing beat poetry that I, at least, had the decency to avoid reading aloud at the many awful and painful poetry readings I attended.

Amelia Bedilia by Peggy Parish

I never actually read this book, but it taught me a very important lesson.  And that lesson is, some people are total jerks and suck at their jobs and will shirk their own professional responsibilities off onto first graders instead of actually taking responsibilities for their own mistakes.

Obviously, there is more to this story.

When I was in first grade at Maryland Elementary School in Phoenix, Arizona, I loved reading and I utilized the school library as much as I was allowed.  Being the nerdpants I have always been, I was very respectful of the rules and always made sure I got my books back on time, because that was the rule of checking things out in the library, and you're supposed to follow rules.

Now this was a time when computers were things that took up entire rooms and were not available for frivolous things like library catalogs, and so everything was done by hand. You would write your name on the book's call card and the librarian would take the card out of the little pocket in the back and she would replace the card with a brightly colored piece of paper that was covered in rows of date stamps, and you would look at the last stamp on the page and that would be when you had to have your book back by... or else!

And so it happened one day, when the library sent their little slips to the teachers that kindly reminded the students that they had clearly not paid close enough attention to the OR ELSE caveat of borrowing books, and imparted to them that in their joy of reading, they had forgotten to bring back their books on time, that I found myself totally confused at receiving a slip that called for me to return "Amelia Bedilia" immediately.  I had never heard of this woman nor the book telling of her, and so I may have just ignored it, knowing it was quite obviously a mistake.

Until I went to check out another book.

The head librarian at Maryland Elementary was not the nicest lady in the world which is a nice way of saying, she was kind of a heinous bitch.  She was, in fact, the very same librarian who had been a terrible ogre when my dad had attended Maryland Elementary school 20 years earlier  And the problem was, she seemed to hate children, which is not the greatest personality trait for someone who works almost entirely with children, but these things happen.

Standing there with a book in my little hands, I pushed it over the checkout desk, eager to devour its story, only to have the crotchety old librarian cruelly tell me that I was banned from checking out books. I stood looking at her bewildered and then, she pulled out a call card. "Amelia Bedilia" she said, waving it in front of my face. I screwed up my face not understanding how this happened.

"But I never checked that book out.  I wouldn't know Amelia Bedilia if I fell over her!"

"Well, here is your name, in your handwriting on the card!"  And it was, it really was.

"But I didn't check that book out! The wrong card must have been put in the back of the book I checked out. I meant to sign for that one, and I returned that one, on time. I really did!"

And she looked at me, only considering what I said for a split second before she told me that it was my responsibility to check the call cards in books I checked out and that I would have to pay to replace Amelia Bedilia before I could check out any other books because I had signed for it, which seemed ridiculously unfair to me.  Even at that young age, I recognized that it was her responsibility, as the adult and the librarian, to make sure her library was in order, and her mistake was now costing me actual money (that is hard to come by when you are six) and was denying me the ability to fill my head with fanciful stories and beautiful illustrations and important information about narwhals that I would need later in life.


For many years, I held a grudge against Ms. Bedilia, which is a shame, because it was just the sort of silliness that I should have loved- a series based around a maid who had no grasp of idioms and so did exactly as told "dress the turkey for dinner, draw the curtains, etc." And THEN she manages not to get fired each time by making a super tasty pie.  Imagine the life lessons I could have learned from that!

Ow.

This post is brought to you by my migraine. It's a grumpy post.


This is what I have:

This, is what I want:

Only quiet, with no sounds of humming computers, or TVs, or friggen birds, or traffic, or people breathing... 

and sleep... I'd like some sleep too...