I just spent an hour Googling “Welts from Humira.” That’s the shot I have to take, now that I’ve been diagnosed with my weirdo auto-immune disorder. I’m not quite sure what the fuck is happening around here but I’m having a hard time keeping up. All of a sudden I was in the hospital, then I was receiving a slew of gifts and flowers, then everyone I ever met was calling me, then my dad flew to L.A., then I was diagnosed, then I was released, then I was on disability, then my mom flew to L.A., then everyone was gone and I was left with some semblance of a life I had created pre-hospital and it is this life I’ve been floundering in ever since.
I like to drink Budweiser in the back of pick-up trucks, yet I haven’t had a drink in several years. I grew up in the gritty Midwest yet I seem to reside in sunny California. I work at a law firm while facing the hopeless plight of an actress. All this while jamming a needle into my abdomen every two weeks. I’m gonna be honest, it’s a little overwhelming and it’s forcing me to ask myself the big questions like, “Hey, why not drink alcohol? It’s delicious.” or “Who gives a shit about the law? Aren’t you supposed to be a waiter or something?” To be honest, I think I may be having a midlife crisis. I wish I had a family to leave. I’m not sure how a single woman in Los Angeles burns the house down in a way that conveys crisis mode but I’ve got a few ideas.
Option 1: I move to Kentucky and work at a bourbon distillery. This strikes me as very dramatic. For starters it would include drinking alcohol again and there’s nothing more dramatic than that. It would also have me living in some rural country town which would be shocking in itself as I’ve never lived farther than 30 miles away from a metropolitan area. The downside is I would probably get pregnant cause last I checked, all anyone in the bible belt does is drink whiskey and get knocked up. Oh and they go to church and judge gays…and single white women trying to make it big in Los Angeles…which I guess would make me a hypocrite…although technically I would have left that life for beautiful Paducah, KY. Ugh…fuck it. I hate Kentucky. Get me outta here.
Option 2: I become vegan. This goes against everything I stand for and would likely shock all my friends and family. The key here is that I wouldn’t just become vegan, I would be real high and mighty about it. Like I would even stop smoking and then tell people how bad it is for you and I’d cough if I came in contact with smoke. Wait…can vegans not smoke? This is bullshit.
Option 3: I move in with someone on Craigslist. There is nothing creepier than this prospect although I’m not sure it screams “midlife crisis.” It more so screams “barista” or “struggling artist.” And I’m a struggling artist and everything but not the kind that owns purple, skinny jeans and smokes cloves. I’m struggling in the way that my body is breaking down and my Burberry bag is starting to fray. OMG, I hate this. Poor people are terrible.
Option 4: I could meet someone, trick him into marrying me, get pregnant, wait for the child to be at an age where I can emotionally scar it, and then run away with a yoga instructor. This seems to be the most common midlife crisis, however, it seems slightly harder than veganism and while being vegan doesn’t strike me as all that fun at least I won’t have to carry a fetus.
The problem here is that I’ve absolutely lost my grip on normalcy and I may be in the middle of a breakdown. I carried a needle in my purse to work today and that’s not exactly where I expected to be by the age of 31. I have a whole new host of problems like, “Why is there a huge welt on my stomach after injecting myself with a needle?” and “When’s the next time I have to get my blood drawn?” I’m dying to go back to, “How come I can’t fit into pants?” and “Why is my agent ignoring me?” It’s all completely intolerable. The point here is don’t ever get sick. And certainly don’t ever stay in the hospital for an extended period of time. And whatever you do, don’t get to a point in your life where you’re forced to inject yourself with a needle. And for God’s sake don’t be a vegan. From what I understand, they’re not allowed to smoke cigarettes.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Hospital-Final Diagnosis
After six weeks off work, ten days in the hospital and visits from my father, mother and aunt, I have a diagnosis and a possible willingness to live.
Here’s the thing, my ailments were found to be so peculiar by my doctors that they actually want to write a journal about me. It seems fitting that after three years attempting to cobble together an acting career here in Los Angeles my biggest achievement would be a rare disease that launches me out of obscurity.
So here’s the final assessment. I have a weirdo auto-immune disorder called Ankylosing Spondylitis. Ever heard of it? Obviously not. Literally no one has. Apparently it’s a form of Arthritis. In addition, the governing symptom of A.S. is that my tailbone is fused to my pelvis. Ultimately, I can add Arthritic Woman unable to move her pelvis to my on-line dating profile so that’s great news. Here’s where it gets a little weird, A.S. is predominantly found it men yet here I sit, arguably a woman. In addition, 90% of A.S. patients test positive for a gene called HLA-B27. I tested negative. This wretched A.S. then launched a secondary disorder called H.L.H. which is typically found in babies. BABIES! I’m a God damn enigma. Either that or I’m a baby boy. That would be just my luck.
I was initially thrilled by this diagnosis merely because I finally knew what was wrong with me. It took eight days at Cedars-Sinai before my doctors finally came to this conclusion. Ugh…doctors. Let’s just talk about those clowns for a minute. In my quest to achieve health, I saw a hematologist, an oncologist, an infectious disease doctor, a rheumatologist, and a liver specialist. I was given a M.R.I., a CAT-Scan, a liver biopsy and a bone marrow biopsy. This is all in addition to wretched nurses taking zillions of vials of blood from me a day. Those assholes would wake me up in the middle of the night just to stick needles in me. I hated them. I still hate them. All nurses. Everywhere.
To be fair, I liked most of the doctors, mainly my liver specialist. The good news is he was fucking hot. The bad news is that he was married, had several offspring, and saw me on days where I was yellow and had just peed my pants. Shockingly, our interactions did not end with him leaving his wife. My least favorite doctor was The Twirp. I think this moron was maybe nineteen years old. He claimed to be an infectious disease doctor and he instantly bothered me. For starters, he was a child and I doubted he had anything to offer me. Secondly, he immediately started harassing me about my drug use and sex life and I didn’t know how to explain to him that he was a little late to the party. I had already tested negative for H.I.V. and Hepatitis and the rest of us had moved on to Lymphoma at that point but whatever, I answered his boring questions.
The Twirp: What drugs have you done?
Me: Like in life?
The Twirp: Yes.
Me: All of them.
The Twirp: *Silently Glaring At Me* You just want me to write down all drugs?
Me: I don’t really care what you do, I don’t have AIDS.
The Twirp: Are you sexually active?
Me: Not technically but I’m willing.
The Twirp: I have to go.
So yes I was trying to make him uncomfortable because he was the worst and he needs someone to launch him into adulthood. Anyway, by the time the rest of my doctors and I had moved past Lymphoma and onto an infectious disease, this clown was still in the weeds. He called me on my hospital phone a few hours later.
Me: Hello?
The Twirp: Um, hi Alison? Ya know I was just thinking and I noticed that some of your symptoms are very similar to something that I was looking into and I just wanted to ask…have you ever done ecstasy?
Me: What? Yes. Obviously.
The Twirp: Oh, ok good so when was the last time you did ecstasy?
Me: I mean…literally ten years ago. Are you trying to suggest that the ecstasy I took in college is responsible for my enlarged liver?
The Twirp: Uh…no, I guess that would be too long.
Me: I would say so. Stop calling me.
So for the last three weeks I’ve been on steroids which means I eat nine meals a day. This dashes all of my dreams of being thin after starving for two weeks. I cannot catch a break. The final crushing blow of this entire ordeal came last week when I had to see the rheumatologist. Guess what the treatment for A.S. is. Oh no big deal I just have to GIVE MYSELF A FUCKING SHOT IN THE STOMACH ONCE EVERY TWO WEEKS. You should have seen this needle. It looks like something you’d insert into yourself if you were ready to end your life. I’ve gotten two shots so far, none of which I’ve done on my own because why the fuck would I subject myself to pain. I have cried each time and the doctor keeps lying to me and telling me how normal this will all feel in a while.
Ultimately, I hate everyone. I guess the good news is that I don’t have Lymphoma, Herpes (no wait, shoot, I do have herpes) Hepatitis (that’s what I meant) or HIV. I do have a bullshit, made-up disorder that is typically reserved for baby boys…which I guess I might be. Now that it's all said and done I'm committed to moving on from this wretched hospital business. Let's all focus back up on alcoholism and move on with our lives.
Here’s the thing, my ailments were found to be so peculiar by my doctors that they actually want to write a journal about me. It seems fitting that after three years attempting to cobble together an acting career here in Los Angeles my biggest achievement would be a rare disease that launches me out of obscurity.
So here’s the final assessment. I have a weirdo auto-immune disorder called Ankylosing Spondylitis. Ever heard of it? Obviously not. Literally no one has. Apparently it’s a form of Arthritis. In addition, the governing symptom of A.S. is that my tailbone is fused to my pelvis. Ultimately, I can add Arthritic Woman unable to move her pelvis to my on-line dating profile so that’s great news. Here’s where it gets a little weird, A.S. is predominantly found it men yet here I sit, arguably a woman. In addition, 90% of A.S. patients test positive for a gene called HLA-B27. I tested negative. This wretched A.S. then launched a secondary disorder called H.L.H. which is typically found in babies. BABIES! I’m a God damn enigma. Either that or I’m a baby boy. That would be just my luck.
I was initially thrilled by this diagnosis merely because I finally knew what was wrong with me. It took eight days at Cedars-Sinai before my doctors finally came to this conclusion. Ugh…doctors. Let’s just talk about those clowns for a minute. In my quest to achieve health, I saw a hematologist, an oncologist, an infectious disease doctor, a rheumatologist, and a liver specialist. I was given a M.R.I., a CAT-Scan, a liver biopsy and a bone marrow biopsy. This is all in addition to wretched nurses taking zillions of vials of blood from me a day. Those assholes would wake me up in the middle of the night just to stick needles in me. I hated them. I still hate them. All nurses. Everywhere.
To be fair, I liked most of the doctors, mainly my liver specialist. The good news is he was fucking hot. The bad news is that he was married, had several offspring, and saw me on days where I was yellow and had just peed my pants. Shockingly, our interactions did not end with him leaving his wife. My least favorite doctor was The Twirp. I think this moron was maybe nineteen years old. He claimed to be an infectious disease doctor and he instantly bothered me. For starters, he was a child and I doubted he had anything to offer me. Secondly, he immediately started harassing me about my drug use and sex life and I didn’t know how to explain to him that he was a little late to the party. I had already tested negative for H.I.V. and Hepatitis and the rest of us had moved on to Lymphoma at that point but whatever, I answered his boring questions.
The Twirp: What drugs have you done?
Me: Like in life?
The Twirp: Yes.
Me: All of them.
The Twirp: *Silently Glaring At Me* You just want me to write down all drugs?
Me: I don’t really care what you do, I don’t have AIDS.
The Twirp: Are you sexually active?
Me: Not technically but I’m willing.
The Twirp: I have to go.
So yes I was trying to make him uncomfortable because he was the worst and he needs someone to launch him into adulthood. Anyway, by the time the rest of my doctors and I had moved past Lymphoma and onto an infectious disease, this clown was still in the weeds. He called me on my hospital phone a few hours later.
Me: Hello?
The Twirp: Um, hi Alison? Ya know I was just thinking and I noticed that some of your symptoms are very similar to something that I was looking into and I just wanted to ask…have you ever done ecstasy?
Me: What? Yes. Obviously.
The Twirp: Oh, ok good so when was the last time you did ecstasy?
Me: I mean…literally ten years ago. Are you trying to suggest that the ecstasy I took in college is responsible for my enlarged liver?
The Twirp: Uh…no, I guess that would be too long.
Me: I would say so. Stop calling me.
So for the last three weeks I’ve been on steroids which means I eat nine meals a day. This dashes all of my dreams of being thin after starving for two weeks. I cannot catch a break. The final crushing blow of this entire ordeal came last week when I had to see the rheumatologist. Guess what the treatment for A.S. is. Oh no big deal I just have to GIVE MYSELF A FUCKING SHOT IN THE STOMACH ONCE EVERY TWO WEEKS. You should have seen this needle. It looks like something you’d insert into yourself if you were ready to end your life. I’ve gotten two shots so far, none of which I’ve done on my own because why the fuck would I subject myself to pain. I have cried each time and the doctor keeps lying to me and telling me how normal this will all feel in a while.
Ultimately, I hate everyone. I guess the good news is that I don’t have Lymphoma, Herpes (no wait, shoot, I do have herpes) Hepatitis (that’s what I meant) or HIV. I do have a bullshit, made-up disorder that is typically reserved for baby boys…which I guess I might be. Now that it's all said and done I'm committed to moving on from this wretched hospital business. Let's all focus back up on alcoholism and move on with our lives.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Hospital Part 1
You have got to be fucking joking me.
I can’t even begin to describe to you the events which have occurred over the last month. It’s been a God damn blood bath. Last I knew I was enjoying a beautiful Superbowl day. I had gone to the gym, gotten a green tea pedicure, which I could not afford, eaten at Hooters and watched Tom Brady embarrass himself in front of the entire nation. Everything was coming up Royer. Nothing could have prepared me for Monday morning and the series of events which unfolded thereafter.
Monday:
Wake up, feel like I’ve been hit by Semi, sleep until Wed.
Wednesday:
Go to doctor, come home and lay in fetal position until Thu.
Thursday:
Receive call from doctor demanding that I immediately go to Emergency Room. Get ride to suggested emergency room, realize the horrors of the health care system, drive to Executive ER in Beverly Hills where they play Dr. Dre in the waiting room, received complimentary bottle of water. After many tests, it is imagined that I have gall stones.
Friday:
Return to Executive ER. Gall stone test came back negative. Believed to have Hepatitis C. OBVIOUSLY. Questioned about life-long drug use and all potential suitors. Everyone is embarrassed as I take 45 minutes to list all the drugs I've done and men I've slept with. I'm sure I missed several of both.
Monday:
Return to Executive ER. I am now jaundice because of crazy liver infection. Hepatitis tests came back negative. Also tested for HIV which came back negative. I feel like I've won the lottery. Regardless, sent to liver specialist for more tests.
Let’s just cut to Thursday where the liver specialist demands I be admitted into the hospital. Cedars-Sinai here I come. At this point I clearly don’t go to work anymore and my fevers are reaching 105 degrees which is kind of a perk because I’m having awesome acid flashbacks.
Here’s where my life becomes more demoralizing than I could have ever possibly imagined and you’re talking to a girl who has repeatedly run into people that looked familiar only to find out she banged them in a laundry room at a party one night. I assure you, this was worse.
At this point I hadn’t eaten in about two weeks and everyone kept asking me if I had diarrhea which I didn’t and suspected was the only thing I had going for me. After about four hours in the emergency room, I was laying on a bed in a hallway, I had the chills so bad that I was covered head-to-toe in blankets and heating pads and then I heard the voice of an angel.
Angel: Alison, we have your room ready for you.
Me: Thank you Angel, take me there.
Angel: We’ll just need to get your $750 admittance fee. How would you like to pay for that?
Me: Take all the money in my wallet you witch. But know that I don’t trust you anymore.
Well that bitch got the last word because as soon as I got into my room, I immediately had diarrhea. It’s like she willed it onto me. I was also diagnosed with pneumonia when I first got to the hospital so I was coughing a lot thereby shitting my pants. That happened about three times as soon as I got into my room and let me tell you what’s not easy, trying to not shit your pants while strapped to an IV. It’s an impossibility. And of course, the first thing these assholes wanted from me was a stool sample. NOT FUCKING COOL DUDES!
Wretched Nurse: Miss Alison? Can you give us a stool sample?
Me: I have diarrhea.
Wretched Nurse: That’s ok.
Me: So you just want a bowl of diarrhea?
Wretched Nurse: Yes.
Me: That’s fucking disgusting.
Wretched Nurse: Just leave it on the sink.
Me: Get out.
My ass hadn’t had so much attention since I visited the fraternities while in high school. About an hour after my diarrhea bowl was delivered I had another request.
Horrible Nurse: Alison, your temperature is 105.
Me: Who cares? Let me die.
Horrible Nurse: We need to give you a suppository.
Me: No.
Horrible Nurse: You could have a seizure.
Me: But at least your finger won’t be up my asshole. I’ll take my chances.
Horrible Nurse: Turn around.
Me: *desperate crying*
Have I painted an accurate picture? This was day one.
I can’t even begin to describe to you the events which have occurred over the last month. It’s been a God damn blood bath. Last I knew I was enjoying a beautiful Superbowl day. I had gone to the gym, gotten a green tea pedicure, which I could not afford, eaten at Hooters and watched Tom Brady embarrass himself in front of the entire nation. Everything was coming up Royer. Nothing could have prepared me for Monday morning and the series of events which unfolded thereafter.
Monday:
Wake up, feel like I’ve been hit by Semi, sleep until Wed.
Wednesday:
Go to doctor, come home and lay in fetal position until Thu.
Thursday:
Receive call from doctor demanding that I immediately go to Emergency Room. Get ride to suggested emergency room, realize the horrors of the health care system, drive to Executive ER in Beverly Hills where they play Dr. Dre in the waiting room, received complimentary bottle of water. After many tests, it is imagined that I have gall stones.
Friday:
Return to Executive ER. Gall stone test came back negative. Believed to have Hepatitis C. OBVIOUSLY. Questioned about life-long drug use and all potential suitors. Everyone is embarrassed as I take 45 minutes to list all the drugs I've done and men I've slept with. I'm sure I missed several of both.
Monday:
Return to Executive ER. I am now jaundice because of crazy liver infection. Hepatitis tests came back negative. Also tested for HIV which came back negative. I feel like I've won the lottery. Regardless, sent to liver specialist for more tests.
Let’s just cut to Thursday where the liver specialist demands I be admitted into the hospital. Cedars-Sinai here I come. At this point I clearly don’t go to work anymore and my fevers are reaching 105 degrees which is kind of a perk because I’m having awesome acid flashbacks.
Here’s where my life becomes more demoralizing than I could have ever possibly imagined and you’re talking to a girl who has repeatedly run into people that looked familiar only to find out she banged them in a laundry room at a party one night. I assure you, this was worse.
At this point I hadn’t eaten in about two weeks and everyone kept asking me if I had diarrhea which I didn’t and suspected was the only thing I had going for me. After about four hours in the emergency room, I was laying on a bed in a hallway, I had the chills so bad that I was covered head-to-toe in blankets and heating pads and then I heard the voice of an angel.
Angel: Alison, we have your room ready for you.
Me: Thank you Angel, take me there.
Angel: We’ll just need to get your $750 admittance fee. How would you like to pay for that?
Me: Take all the money in my wallet you witch. But know that I don’t trust you anymore.
Well that bitch got the last word because as soon as I got into my room, I immediately had diarrhea. It’s like she willed it onto me. I was also diagnosed with pneumonia when I first got to the hospital so I was coughing a lot thereby shitting my pants. That happened about three times as soon as I got into my room and let me tell you what’s not easy, trying to not shit your pants while strapped to an IV. It’s an impossibility. And of course, the first thing these assholes wanted from me was a stool sample. NOT FUCKING COOL DUDES!
Wretched Nurse: Miss Alison? Can you give us a stool sample?
Me: I have diarrhea.
Wretched Nurse: That’s ok.
Me: So you just want a bowl of diarrhea?
Wretched Nurse: Yes.
Me: That’s fucking disgusting.
Wretched Nurse: Just leave it on the sink.
Me: Get out.
My ass hadn’t had so much attention since I visited the fraternities while in high school. About an hour after my diarrhea bowl was delivered I had another request.
Horrible Nurse: Alison, your temperature is 105.
Me: Who cares? Let me die.
Horrible Nurse: We need to give you a suppository.
Me: No.
Horrible Nurse: You could have a seizure.
Me: But at least your finger won’t be up my asshole. I’ll take my chances.
Horrible Nurse: Turn around.
Me: *desperate crying*
Have I painted an accurate picture? This was day one.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Can you watch my cat?
This has got to be the most offensive thing you can ask someone. “Hey, you don’t have a life, any prospects or things to do…why don’t you watch this animal which is touted as being fully self-sufficient?” Based on those reasons alone, I am often asked to watch other people’s cats. It’s completely insulting. What’s worse? I don’t listen and I’m lazy, so not one of these “favors” I’m supposedly doing for other people has actually ever resulted in appropriate cat tending.
The first cat watching I ever did was for my friend Jenny. Jenny is terrifying to begin with, and I knew if I fucked this up she would literally murder me. I tried incredibly hard to pay attention as she described the wet food/dry food mixture I was to abide by. After that, she mentioned something about ice cubes in the cat water at which point I basically blacked out. There’s something else that doesn’t fit into my “cat watcher” profile and that’s the fact that I fucking hate cats… they know too much.
I remember being pretty excited on the day I went to watch Jenny’s cats and this was largely due to the fact that she kept a carton of cigarettes in her freezer and I was fresh out. Score! Once I stole a pack, I was ready to attend to the wretched cats. I did everything Jenny asked me to and even took a few matters into my own hands by closing closet doors and putting the toilet seat down. I was pretty proud of myself. That is until three days later when Jenny got home and informed me that her cats had shit all over the shoes in her closet seeing as I had closed the door to the litter box closet. HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE THE LITTER BOX IS?! WHY DOESN’T THE CLOSET THAT HOLDS YOUR CLOTHES COME WITH A DOOR?! She claims it was pretty obvious, but so was the bottle of Jack Daniels I found in her kitchen... so I was a little preoccupied. Get off my back.
What’s crazy is that I relayed this entire scenario to my friend Rob and he then asked me to watch his cats. Ultimately, I don’t feel like I can be held responsible for what happened at his house. He had been warned. The sad thing is I was actually trying. I wanted to be good at watching cats, merely for ego reasons, but I kept getting waylaid by my deep hatred of the wretched little know-it-alls. That, combined with the general indifference I feel when it comes to doing things for others. Again, I wasn’t listening when Rob gave me my cat instructions, but I’m certain I felt like I was at the time. I didn’t notice the suitcases I had to walk over when I finally made it over to Rob’s house. I checked the water which seemed to be at a reasonable level as were the food dishes. Furthermore, the litter box was pristine. I called Rob to tell him the good news only to find out he had already vacationed and returned home. Turns out I was a little late in getting over there. Strike mother fucking two.
I know what you’re asking yourself, “Why the fuck did your idiot friends keep asking you to watch cats?” Honestly, I have no idea. I think it’s because they hate me but lo and behold, one week later, my friend Paul asked if I would watch his cat.
On the surface, watching Paul’s cat was a huge success. I was there at the correct time, did food and poop duties excellently, I even petted the horrid creature. However, everything backfired when I accidentally banged Paul. IT WAS A TRICK! Think about it... Paul could have asked anyone to watch his cat and he knew I was in a vulnerable place after failing twice before. After the run I’d had, it would be only natural that I wanted to go above and beyond the call of duty, which in this case meant sleeping with Paul. If he was a real friend, he would have understood that I was really working through something, but instead, he took advantage of me.
Paul’s was the last cat I ever watched. These days, if people ask me to watch their fleabags I tell them the truth, “I would…but the last time I did that, I ended up getting herpes. No, thank you.”
The first cat watching I ever did was for my friend Jenny. Jenny is terrifying to begin with, and I knew if I fucked this up she would literally murder me. I tried incredibly hard to pay attention as she described the wet food/dry food mixture I was to abide by. After that, she mentioned something about ice cubes in the cat water at which point I basically blacked out. There’s something else that doesn’t fit into my “cat watcher” profile and that’s the fact that I fucking hate cats… they know too much.
I remember being pretty excited on the day I went to watch Jenny’s cats and this was largely due to the fact that she kept a carton of cigarettes in her freezer and I was fresh out. Score! Once I stole a pack, I was ready to attend to the wretched cats. I did everything Jenny asked me to and even took a few matters into my own hands by closing closet doors and putting the toilet seat down. I was pretty proud of myself. That is until three days later when Jenny got home and informed me that her cats had shit all over the shoes in her closet seeing as I had closed the door to the litter box closet. HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE THE LITTER BOX IS?! WHY DOESN’T THE CLOSET THAT HOLDS YOUR CLOTHES COME WITH A DOOR?! She claims it was pretty obvious, but so was the bottle of Jack Daniels I found in her kitchen... so I was a little preoccupied. Get off my back.
What’s crazy is that I relayed this entire scenario to my friend Rob and he then asked me to watch his cats. Ultimately, I don’t feel like I can be held responsible for what happened at his house. He had been warned. The sad thing is I was actually trying. I wanted to be good at watching cats, merely for ego reasons, but I kept getting waylaid by my deep hatred of the wretched little know-it-alls. That, combined with the general indifference I feel when it comes to doing things for others. Again, I wasn’t listening when Rob gave me my cat instructions, but I’m certain I felt like I was at the time. I didn’t notice the suitcases I had to walk over when I finally made it over to Rob’s house. I checked the water which seemed to be at a reasonable level as were the food dishes. Furthermore, the litter box was pristine. I called Rob to tell him the good news only to find out he had already vacationed and returned home. Turns out I was a little late in getting over there. Strike mother fucking two.
I know what you’re asking yourself, “Why the fuck did your idiot friends keep asking you to watch cats?” Honestly, I have no idea. I think it’s because they hate me but lo and behold, one week later, my friend Paul asked if I would watch his cat.
On the surface, watching Paul’s cat was a huge success. I was there at the correct time, did food and poop duties excellently, I even petted the horrid creature. However, everything backfired when I accidentally banged Paul. IT WAS A TRICK! Think about it... Paul could have asked anyone to watch his cat and he knew I was in a vulnerable place after failing twice before. After the run I’d had, it would be only natural that I wanted to go above and beyond the call of duty, which in this case meant sleeping with Paul. If he was a real friend, he would have understood that I was really working through something, but instead, he took advantage of me.
Paul’s was the last cat I ever watched. These days, if people ask me to watch their fleabags I tell them the truth, “I would…but the last time I did that, I ended up getting herpes. No, thank you.”
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Grandma
The holidays always remind me of what a bitch my grandma is. It was two years ago on a snowy Chicago day that my grandma fucked me over by epic proportions, and I will never forgive her for her shrewishness.
I had spent the night at my friend Reggie’s house and my car got towed. Technically, it was my parents’ car. Mimi and Jim Royer love to make me feel like a child and when I called to tell them the good news, they said brilliant things like, "we just don't think you understand the ramifications of your actions" and "money doesn't grow on trees ya know." Yes assholes, I do know. Because I'm 30. And I have a job. How. Fucking. Dare. You.
Needless to say, my day was not off to a good start. To make matters worse, Reggie was hysterically laughing at me because I had gotten the mini-van towed and couldn’t stop screaming about how I was 30 and had a job.
On this particular day, I was scheduled to meet Mimi and Jim at the white-trash nursing home where my grandma was stowed. But first, I had to hightail it to the dirty Westside to rescue the mini-van out of the tow lot. This was a harrowing experience solely because I don’t like to travel west of Damen, yet here I stood in the middle of the ghetto holding $300 cash. What makes it worse is that with all the drug dealers around there it took everything in me to spend that money on getting the mini-van back and not on an eight ball.
I remained strong and eventually made it to the white-trash nursing home and I was pissed off. Upon arrival I looked for an activity that would keep me busy as I knew I was looking at about an hour of my grandma screaming at my dad and I needed a distraction. Enter Elaine. Elaine was probably someone else's grandma but on that particular day I adopted her as my grandma based on the fact that she let me borrow her coloring book and crayons, she liked to hug, and she smiled a lot. Needless to say, my “Actual Grandma” wasn't real thrilled when I introduced my new adopted grandma to everyone but I didn't care because now I had a coloring book. For the next hour or so my Actual Grandma played right into her stereotype. She told my dad she wished she had put him up for adoption. She asked my mom what she ever saw in my father despite the fact that they have been married for 37 years. And of course, she claimed to be dying, which she'd been claiming for years. Yet... there she sat.
After a few hours of this song and dance I had to make my way back to the city. I was coming into Chicago from the north side which ultimately means I sat in the mini-van for two and a half hours with a dick up my ass. I had forgotten how wretched the north side was and, eventually, this return venture had me in tears.
Ironically, I was trying to make it back to the city to attend a sort of self-help group I had frequented when I actually lived in Chicago. I saw this as the silver lining. The format of this particular self-help group was that people in the group were randomly asked to share their stories and I knew they were going to call on me since I was visiting from out of town. This made me very happy because I had had the worst day ever and I knew everyone was going to feel so sorry for me. Finally, I could get some relief.
This is when God bitch slapped me with the story of Charlie. I'd never seen Charlie before, so I had to imagine he was new to this group. He got called on and when he got up he said the following, "My mom died today. And I've been so upset all day but you guys have given me a place to go in good times and bad. I didn't know what to do after I found out so I just came here to be with you...my family………”
FUCK YOU CHARLIE!!!! You have got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously? Your mom died?! Well that's reeeeeaaal convenient, isn't it? You couldn't have been called on after me Charlie? Of course not, you had to get up there and take a shit on my one opportunity to elicit any sympathy from my peers. You've got a lot of nerve, assclown.
Of course, I get called on next and I mumble something about how proud I am of Charlie and what a great example he is to me, but really all I'm thinking is that my parents hate me, the mini-van is my own personal jail cell and my grandma's a bitch.
After Charlie’s escapade, I drove back to my parents’ house and, after a good night's sleep, I woke up feeling refreshed. I'm always grateful for the opportunity to start anew. As I was sipping my morning coffee, the phone rang. My grandma died in her sleep the night before. The room was quiet for a minute and then I broke down. Of course. Of course she couldn't have died a few hours earlier so that I could have talked about it at that God damn meeting. I have to believe that she held out just long enough for me to get my ass handed to me by Charlie. Couldn't have helped me out on that last one G-ma? Of course not. You bitch.
I had spent the night at my friend Reggie’s house and my car got towed. Technically, it was my parents’ car. Mimi and Jim Royer love to make me feel like a child and when I called to tell them the good news, they said brilliant things like, "we just don't think you understand the ramifications of your actions" and "money doesn't grow on trees ya know." Yes assholes, I do know. Because I'm 30. And I have a job. How. Fucking. Dare. You.
Needless to say, my day was not off to a good start. To make matters worse, Reggie was hysterically laughing at me because I had gotten the mini-van towed and couldn’t stop screaming about how I was 30 and had a job.
On this particular day, I was scheduled to meet Mimi and Jim at the white-trash nursing home where my grandma was stowed. But first, I had to hightail it to the dirty Westside to rescue the mini-van out of the tow lot. This was a harrowing experience solely because I don’t like to travel west of Damen, yet here I stood in the middle of the ghetto holding $300 cash. What makes it worse is that with all the drug dealers around there it took everything in me to spend that money on getting the mini-van back and not on an eight ball.
I remained strong and eventually made it to the white-trash nursing home and I was pissed off. Upon arrival I looked for an activity that would keep me busy as I knew I was looking at about an hour of my grandma screaming at my dad and I needed a distraction. Enter Elaine. Elaine was probably someone else's grandma but on that particular day I adopted her as my grandma based on the fact that she let me borrow her coloring book and crayons, she liked to hug, and she smiled a lot. Needless to say, my “Actual Grandma” wasn't real thrilled when I introduced my new adopted grandma to everyone but I didn't care because now I had a coloring book. For the next hour or so my Actual Grandma played right into her stereotype. She told my dad she wished she had put him up for adoption. She asked my mom what she ever saw in my father despite the fact that they have been married for 37 years. And of course, she claimed to be dying, which she'd been claiming for years. Yet... there she sat.
After a few hours of this song and dance I had to make my way back to the city. I was coming into Chicago from the north side which ultimately means I sat in the mini-van for two and a half hours with a dick up my ass. I had forgotten how wretched the north side was and, eventually, this return venture had me in tears.
Ironically, I was trying to make it back to the city to attend a sort of self-help group I had frequented when I actually lived in Chicago. I saw this as the silver lining. The format of this particular self-help group was that people in the group were randomly asked to share their stories and I knew they were going to call on me since I was visiting from out of town. This made me very happy because I had had the worst day ever and I knew everyone was going to feel so sorry for me. Finally, I could get some relief.
This is when God bitch slapped me with the story of Charlie. I'd never seen Charlie before, so I had to imagine he was new to this group. He got called on and when he got up he said the following, "My mom died today. And I've been so upset all day but you guys have given me a place to go in good times and bad. I didn't know what to do after I found out so I just came here to be with you...my family………”
FUCK YOU CHARLIE!!!! You have got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously? Your mom died?! Well that's reeeeeaaal convenient, isn't it? You couldn't have been called on after me Charlie? Of course not, you had to get up there and take a shit on my one opportunity to elicit any sympathy from my peers. You've got a lot of nerve, assclown.
Of course, I get called on next and I mumble something about how proud I am of Charlie and what a great example he is to me, but really all I'm thinking is that my parents hate me, the mini-van is my own personal jail cell and my grandma's a bitch.
After Charlie’s escapade, I drove back to my parents’ house and, after a good night's sleep, I woke up feeling refreshed. I'm always grateful for the opportunity to start anew. As I was sipping my morning coffee, the phone rang. My grandma died in her sleep the night before. The room was quiet for a minute and then I broke down. Of course. Of course she couldn't have died a few hours earlier so that I could have talked about it at that God damn meeting. I have to believe that she held out just long enough for me to get my ass handed to me by Charlie. Couldn't have helped me out on that last one G-ma? Of course not. You bitch.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Lady
I begin a lot of sentences by talking about jamming a dildo into my asshole and lately this behavior has garnered a slew of sideway glances and jaw-dropping horror from my lady friends. It’s possible that this has always been the case but it took me a while to notice it. It’s hard to give things your full attention when you’re eating a delicious plate of cheeseburgers. (Mmmm….cheeseburgers). Anyway, it got me thinking. What is a lady? This mystical creature that men seem to pine for. I’ve heard a lot about them and decided to put some effort into being one. I have zero ideas as to what being a lady actually entails. All I know is that I’m not doing it. I can tell because I’ve seen a lady before and men always treat them differently. The most common thing a man ever says to me is, “What’s your friend’s name?” Or, “Um…there’s mustard on your eyebrow.” Or, “How can you be sure it’s my baby?” Not exactly lady material. So I googled the word “lady” to see if perhaps I could change my ways.
HOW TO ACT LIKE A LADY:
Dress Nicely-Easy, pal.... Let’s not try to changes things all at once. I was thinking this would be more of a baby steps situation. It is fairly standard for me to realize, half-way through my work day, that I’ve got a hole in some part of my clothing. I’m known for dressing in rags and honestly, who has time to keep up with the Hollywood trends? Have you encountered a feather extension recently? It’s literally a feather that’s like stapled to your head or something. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I’ve found discarded animal parts in my hair but is that considered fashionable? Nooooo…… Apparently it’s only cool if you paid money for it and no animals were harmed in the process. I could never pull that shit off. Nor can I pull off A-line dresses or anything made out of silk. Or pants. Obviously. Pants and I have never gotten along. If being a lady involves wearing pants, you can count me out. It’s physically impossible
Look Good, Smell Good-I usually smell like cigs and look like hot garbage. There’s a period of about 8 minutes between the time I wake up and the time I’m in my Daewoo. I can’t be expected to wake up 8 minutes earlier just to push my way into the lady category. I have a mullet and have had it for years and no matter what I try to do to get rid of it, it remains. Also, in order to combat my cig smell, I’ve attempted to use anti-bacterical gel which ultimately just has me smelling like alcohol, yet it lacks the alluring charisma that comes from me being actually drunk.
Choose Your Words-How about you suck ma dick?
Ugh, that’s enough. Acting like a lady isn’t for me. Everybody knows that. When I was watching football, at the bar on Sunday, I was screaming at the television and shoveling fries into my mouth when my friend Brian leaned over and said, “You should teach a class on how to never get picked up by men.” He’s right. Listen, does my body size dictate that I’ll never find love in this world? Yes. Do I consider a bucket of fries a meal? Absolutely. (Mmmmm…..fries) Do I buy pregnancy tests in bulk in order to cut costs? Of course I do. Do people think of me as a lady? Certainly not. But at least I can find solace in the fact that I live in a world where pie is always for breakfast and the only reason I smell like alcohol is because I’ve been shotgunning beer for breakfast. And if considering beer as a breakfast item makes me less of a lady and more of a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous, that’s perfectly fine with me. Lady this, bitch.
HOW TO ACT LIKE A LADY:
Dress Nicely-Easy, pal.... Let’s not try to changes things all at once. I was thinking this would be more of a baby steps situation. It is fairly standard for me to realize, half-way through my work day, that I’ve got a hole in some part of my clothing. I’m known for dressing in rags and honestly, who has time to keep up with the Hollywood trends? Have you encountered a feather extension recently? It’s literally a feather that’s like stapled to your head or something. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I’ve found discarded animal parts in my hair but is that considered fashionable? Nooooo…… Apparently it’s only cool if you paid money for it and no animals were harmed in the process. I could never pull that shit off. Nor can I pull off A-line dresses or anything made out of silk. Or pants. Obviously. Pants and I have never gotten along. If being a lady involves wearing pants, you can count me out. It’s physically impossible
Look Good, Smell Good-I usually smell like cigs and look like hot garbage. There’s a period of about 8 minutes between the time I wake up and the time I’m in my Daewoo. I can’t be expected to wake up 8 minutes earlier just to push my way into the lady category. I have a mullet and have had it for years and no matter what I try to do to get rid of it, it remains. Also, in order to combat my cig smell, I’ve attempted to use anti-bacterical gel which ultimately just has me smelling like alcohol, yet it lacks the alluring charisma that comes from me being actually drunk.
Choose Your Words-How about you suck ma dick?
Ugh, that’s enough. Acting like a lady isn’t for me. Everybody knows that. When I was watching football, at the bar on Sunday, I was screaming at the television and shoveling fries into my mouth when my friend Brian leaned over and said, “You should teach a class on how to never get picked up by men.” He’s right. Listen, does my body size dictate that I’ll never find love in this world? Yes. Do I consider a bucket of fries a meal? Absolutely. (Mmmmm…..fries) Do I buy pregnancy tests in bulk in order to cut costs? Of course I do. Do people think of me as a lady? Certainly not. But at least I can find solace in the fact that I live in a world where pie is always for breakfast and the only reason I smell like alcohol is because I’ve been shotgunning beer for breakfast. And if considering beer as a breakfast item makes me less of a lady and more of a poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous, that’s perfectly fine with me. Lady this, bitch.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
A Rock and 2 Mexicans
I’ve never been very lucky where love is concerned but I AM familiar with matters of the heart. I would even go so far as to call myself a romantic. I believe it is this dreamy romanticism that has always gotten me into trouble. Despite the horrible behavior of several men, I have a knack for glomming on to minutia and storing it away into the “He Loves Me” box. And while I have always been horribly wrong, my misperceptions have often protected me when the truth could not.
Peter and I had been friends for years. We were so close, in fact, that when my boyfriend at the time came home with a cat and I refused to house it, I gave it to Peter. Years later, Peter asked me to watch said cat while he was out of town. Somewhere in there, we made-out.
As usual, I immediately fell in love with Peter and I was sure he was in love with me.
My Perception:
We had already been friends for years so clearly we had a deep, emotional connection.
He asked me to watch his cat which meant that he trusted me.
We made-out which meant he was deeply attracted to me.
The Truth:
People are friends sometimes.
Watching someone’s cat is a bullshit job and most people would gladly have a stranger do it.
Zillions of people make-out with people they don’t know or like, literally every day.
Sadly, I was caught up in my perception and unable to see the truth at that moment. After talking to some girlfriends, they orchestrated a test in which I would be able to precisely determine whether or not Peter was in love with me. I was to invite him to my birthday party and see what he did.
So I did. I threw a bbq that began at 11am. At around 10pm, two Mexican women showed up looking for Peter.
My Perception:
Peter wants me to meet his friends!
The Truth:
Peter likes to bang Mexicans.
My friends were not impressed and tried to point out to me the unreasonableness of the situation but I would not be deterred. At 11pm, Peter showed up...wasted…WITH A PRESENT!!! I was glowing and giggling and could not wait to see what he got me. As I opened the gift, leaves fell out…I dug deeper, and some twigs fell out…then I got to a chocolate bar…and then at the very bottom, I found a pile of rocks. I was laughing hysterically as I thought this was the funniest gift I had ever received and that Peter, who was clearly in love with me, got it specifically for me cause he knew I would understand the hilarity of it all. Cause we just get each other.
Sadly, this didn’t fly with my friends. My friend John pulled me aside and said, “Alison, I know you’re thinking that this is great because he got you a rock and two Mexicans…but he got you A ROCK and TWO MEXICANS.” The way he slowed it down the second time, while holding my arm and glaring at me, made me understand that this was not a good sign. Ultimately, Peter and I never got beyond our first make-out session. He’s married now and last I heard he still has my cat.
Perceptions are tricky. They’re certainly nice to rely on when you don’t want to get bad news from your friends but in the end, it was better to know the truth. Peter stole my cat and he’s a racist.
Peter and I had been friends for years. We were so close, in fact, that when my boyfriend at the time came home with a cat and I refused to house it, I gave it to Peter. Years later, Peter asked me to watch said cat while he was out of town. Somewhere in there, we made-out.
As usual, I immediately fell in love with Peter and I was sure he was in love with me.
My Perception:
We had already been friends for years so clearly we had a deep, emotional connection.
He asked me to watch his cat which meant that he trusted me.
We made-out which meant he was deeply attracted to me.
The Truth:
People are friends sometimes.
Watching someone’s cat is a bullshit job and most people would gladly have a stranger do it.
Zillions of people make-out with people they don’t know or like, literally every day.
Sadly, I was caught up in my perception and unable to see the truth at that moment. After talking to some girlfriends, they orchestrated a test in which I would be able to precisely determine whether or not Peter was in love with me. I was to invite him to my birthday party and see what he did.
So I did. I threw a bbq that began at 11am. At around 10pm, two Mexican women showed up looking for Peter.
My Perception:
Peter wants me to meet his friends!
The Truth:
Peter likes to bang Mexicans.
My friends were not impressed and tried to point out to me the unreasonableness of the situation but I would not be deterred. At 11pm, Peter showed up...wasted…WITH A PRESENT!!! I was glowing and giggling and could not wait to see what he got me. As I opened the gift, leaves fell out…I dug deeper, and some twigs fell out…then I got to a chocolate bar…and then at the very bottom, I found a pile of rocks. I was laughing hysterically as I thought this was the funniest gift I had ever received and that Peter, who was clearly in love with me, got it specifically for me cause he knew I would understand the hilarity of it all. Cause we just get each other.
Sadly, this didn’t fly with my friends. My friend John pulled me aside and said, “Alison, I know you’re thinking that this is great because he got you a rock and two Mexicans…but he got you A ROCK and TWO MEXICANS.” The way he slowed it down the second time, while holding my arm and glaring at me, made me understand that this was not a good sign. Ultimately, Peter and I never got beyond our first make-out session. He’s married now and last I heard he still has my cat.
Perceptions are tricky. They’re certainly nice to rely on when you don’t want to get bad news from your friends but in the end, it was better to know the truth. Peter stole my cat and he’s a racist.
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