Thursday, November 03, 2005

By Thursday she was better

Even I, Princess Crankypants ruler of Crabbytowne, her Royal Highness of Snippyville, and the raven-haired favorite daughter of Poutyburg, cannot be a depressed mess 24/7. The last couple of days have been relatively asshole-free, until this afternoon, but I'm only slightly warm over that one. One Ativan with a diet Dr. Pepper chaser and I'll be right as rain. And tonight is a fresh episode of Survivor, so I have that going for me. Not to mention I've been on fiah with the funny. Cracking my shit up, I is.

After a retardedly disastrous appointment at my GP's office on Monday, I wanted nothing to do with anyone resembling anything in a white coat. Not a doctor. Not a gay mechanic. Not the cute butcher at my market. I know I was all bawling and shit but I was wearing a scratchy germ-infested blue gown open up the back and it barely fucking fit. Shoving more drugs down my gullet is not what I was after. And I meant it when I said no 15 fucking times in a row. Jaysus.

I managed to look beyond the idiots I keep encountering and took a gamble to find someone who might be able to help. Even just a little. I called my company's mental health line and got an authorization number for the whopping 3 free visits they allow. We're apparently on the sitcom plan for resolving problem's. All of your life's issues handled in 23 minutes plus commercials and a free laugh track. So. Stupid.

Anyway, I called the first name listed since he was close to my office, had expertise in my particular afflictions (being koo-koo), and answered the phone himself. He was cool and calm and could get me in this week. I went to his office yesterday and opened the door with trepidation. I think I've made a mistake by not talking to a professional about my adventures in cancer-land these last 2 years but I just couldn't handle one more commitment of the doctoring kind. Or the financial drain. But now it's time. Sigh.

There were 2 girls behind the glass and neither acknowledged my presence. Oh shit, I thought, here we go again. One finally turned towards me and I was quickly told to have a seat and my head shrinker would be out in a minute. I managed to not saying anything snotty after being ignored, although I really wanted to bean the smarmy girl who saw me walk in with a jolly rancher from the candy bowl.

Doc. G. appeared from the hallway with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. He looked sort of like a throw-back from the 70's, judging by his feathered hair and office decor, but no matter. If he can help me get my head straightened out I don't care if he lives in a van down by the river.

We spoke easily for an hour. Our conversation peppered with nonconsequential subjects having nothing to do with my constant and pending anxiety attacks or my general hate for everything, although that was covered too. Just wait until we talk about my mother!

He also mentioned that he's a puppy raiser for a local assistance dog program and could arrange things so I have appointments when the puppy is in the office, if that was OK with me. God damn, dude, why don't you just offer me a chocolate IV drip and Johnny Depps penis while you're at it. With this kind of therapy he won't even have to be in the damn room.

I was only able to briefly mention my idea of taking a leave from my job (he's familiar with my company and its uncanny ability to turn their employees into angry mutants), but we'll talk about it next week. Or at least I'll try to blurt a few words out inbetween kissing all over that puppy! He seemed supportive considering the stress I've been under and I think almost said "no shit" a couple of times, but not in the no shit I know that way but no shit you're stressed you poor girl let me call my old friend Johnny Depp right now!

I don't think I've given myself enough credit for spending the last 7 months walking around not knowing if I have cancer growing in my neck and what my fate will be. I nearly lost my mind waiting the 2 days for word after my biopsy in the beginning of all this mess, I guess I thought waiting for another scan 6 months after that bad scan last March wouldn't be a big deal. Um, yea, WRONG.

I compared being diagnosed with cancer to being an innocent victim in a bank robbery. The kind where the robber grabs you and holds the business end of a gun to your head for 3 days while his accomplice negotiates with authorities. You spend what seems like an eternity not knowing if your brains are going to become part of the industrial art on the walls or if you'll walk out fairly intact. Then left with the uncertainty that you might not ever again sleep through the night without a nightmare that wakes you up soaking wet and gasping for air.

These last 7 months have been more like being a prisoner in a third-world country. Or at least I keep picturing that bad movie with Clare Danes where she and her friend get popped for smuggling heroin and end up in a hell hole prison for women in Laos or somewhere. Sort of the same, sort of not. But the anxiety never ends.

But, but, but. I won't give up. Even when I want to. I won't. I might be at the end of my rope and someone's pissing down the threads, but I haven't dropped yet. And one day I'll figure out the right combination for the kind of catharses I need. And let's just keep Johnny Depp's penis on the list for now, alright? I know I can work that in somewhere.

In order to keep myself from going fetal, I make an effort to let myself be entertained, spoil myself with certain luxuries, and take the time to have some quality me-time every day. Since my last post was such a fucking bummer, I thought I'd share. Maybe we can make this a regular thing. What do you think?

The Funny

Laughter is the best medicine, blah blah, yes we know. I think a big fat valium is the best medicine sometimes, but I must admit, I love to laugh and it does send out those good endorphins pumping through my brain. (See you stupid cunt doctor, I don't need more drugs I just need more funny. Stupid bitch). If you haven't caught any episodes of the American version of The Office, I highly recommend that you do that right damn now.

I simply adored the British version and a pox on those limey bastards for only churing out 2 season's worth. This shit is comedy gold. Both of them. Rent the DVD's for the episodes made over the big pond and please, I beg of you, start watching The Office on NBC, Tuesday nights, or fucking record it. I didn't have high hopes for a remake but I was wrong wrong wrong. This weeks episode had whitey and I laughing so hard last night (see, I recorded it) that we nearly choked on our burritos. Literal screaming occured.

Also, if you haven't caught onto this yet, please swing by I've mentioned it before and it's been on my side-bar for awhile now, but I just can't get enough. Watch your spleen, seriously, you might damage it from the laughing. And crap, I need to send my pictures in because you know I stacked some shit up on my cats for that site. Ha.

The Luxury

I'm a makeup freak. I'm a die-hard M.A.C. fan and only use a few different high-end brands for things. I'm not a slave to department store brands but after being on the planet for 38 years and spending a great deal of those buying crap at the drugstore, you have to admit, the nicer stuff is better. In most cases. And if you're anything like me, an oversensitive freak inside and out, you can't mess around with cheap shit when it comes to your skin.

One thing I'd heard about a long time ago but could never justify was this. We are all so bombarded with choices and choices and more choices. Who the hell knows what's the best of anything? But let me tell you, if you're one the majority that shaves your legs, and do not live in France, then I can't applaud this Sweet Satin Shave cream enough. It's pricey, but the jar is huge. You can make it last a loooooooooong time.

It doesn't smell the greatest, but the consistancy is nothing like I've ever put on my body before. It's not greasy but it moisturizes your legs better than any lotion I've tried, and I hate lotion. It makes your legs smooth as a baby's butt and I swear my leg hair doesn't grow back as fast. Go get some or order it online. The whole Benefit line is pretty cool too. Just spend the fucking money. You'll thank me.

The Me Time

Almost every night without fail, I turn off the TV and pick up a book. I do this for 3 reasons. To enjoy reading, which I do, to let my brain relax, and to fall asleep. It's about my favorite time of the day and I've found myself turning off the idiot box earlier and earlier so I can dive into one of my books. Problem is, I have reading narcolepsy and sometimes I can't get past 2 pages without snoring. Then I wake up at 4 in the morning. Wide awake. Fun!

I just finished a book that I was given a couple of years ago and now I'm positively kicking myself for not reading it sooner. I had no idea it was in the same genre of Sedaris and Burroughs. A Girl Named Zippy is another book of memoirs written with an artistic flare, sharp wit and incredible recall. I'll admit that when I've read all 3 of these authors I questioned their ability to remember whatever happened on the third Thursday in 1973, but if you can get beyond that then you'll really enjoy the read.

Zippy is a spitfire and the author manages to put an unexpected twist to her stories over and over. And her imagination is enviable. I was jealous and in awe of her writing talent and completely entertained throughout. She manages to write the entire book in a child's voice without being contrite. The style was a little quirky, but I always admire anyone who breaks the rules and gets away with it. This was a breath of fresh air and I suggest you put this one on your book list. Laugh outloud funny.

OK, kids. That's all I've got today. Time to go home and squeeze the cats. And that's is not a euphemism for sex, although it would be funny. I'm on FIAH!

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