I think I've scared the husband

I am trying so very very hard to be calm, but I'm having a tough time. I have once again been vanquished by the assembly of furniture.

It's not even furniture, really. It's just plastic-coated wire grids that are supposed to fit togather to form cubes in which to store shoes, say, or blankets or-- according to the picture on the box-- a single beach towel, a soccer ball, 2 sweatshirts, 4 books, 1 magazine and a jar of gumballs.

And I have failed miserably in their construction. The little plastic bits that they claim were created expressly for binding these panels together were too small for the job and, when pressure was applied, would fling themselves across the room, scaring the cats and eliciting all sorts of loud and profane curses from me.

It's not supposed to be this hard, the construction of things. It's not like I went to a professional cabinet maker's and insisted they give me the wood to make a Louis XIII ornamental armoir. I got this at the supermarket. The directions are written in pictograms, more or less. This isn't even an IKEA quality furniture puzzle. I should be able to put this together without the need for alcohol, pills and a safe distance between me and other living creatures.

Well, I'm slightly calmer now, having thrown the stuff into the fireplace and stormed up to type out my rage. I'm still pissed, though this font doesn't accurately reflect that.

I'm going downstairs now. The husband has made pasta and my rage *could* be hypoglycemia related. Insulin Emily does have a very low tolerance for things not working.

Hellmouth has closed

Well, poke my eye and call me Jesus! I am healed! The pit in my pit-- which at one point took about 4 inches of stringy gauze-- has officially closed! I was told it would take from 10 to 14 days, but my body decided to pool its resources and focus those proteins and red blood cells on fixing that hole carved out o' me last Wednesday and got it all sewn up (so to speak) in 6.5 days.

Yay, me!

The twice-a-day packings were a pain (literally), certainly, but the best part of the healing? I don't have to wear a monogrammed maxi-pad in my armpit anymore!

Lord, beer me strength

This past Saturday the husband and I worked the Spring Brew and Wine Fest here in micro-brew friendly Portland, Oregon. This was my fourth year working it (so to speak), and apparently that's the only qualification to be tapped for a supervisory position, so I gots me introduced in the orientation, a different colored shirt and an inflated sense of self-importance.

Working at the brewfest is mostly just pouring a couple ounces of beer into a plastic mug and small talk. Supervising at the brewfest is basically spent covering for people who need a break or running around trying to find one of the two guys whose job it was to replace empty kegs (2 guys for 50 breweries in a 60,000 sq foot convention hall? Not. So. Easy.). The floor had been sectioned into 5 zones, each with a cluster of booths.

I have to say it was fun. The part I most enjoy is the pouring, talking to people about beer and whatnot. The good thing about supervising is that you can pour in more than one booth so, you know, there's variety. But you don't get to pour the whole time, and when you're not looking for the keg guys, there really isn't too much to do. It was interesting to see the way different people handled the supervisory "responsibilities".

There were four guys and me. I must have walked around my little island of booths 50 times. I got my people water and rags and ice. I made sure they got a lot of breaks. If I noticed any particular booth was busy, I'd jump in and help pour. Maybe it's the customer service rep in me - I wasn't just going to stand in a corner and wait for people to ask for help. Of the other four, three of the guys would pop by on occasion, bringing ice or towels unasked. They were good guys.

But then there was this one guy.

This guy showed up alone, which should have been warning sign number one. Then, as we were standing up in front of the group having been introduced as supervisors, he mimed what the person in charge was talking about (The leader: "Samples are one token and you should pour up to this line". This is what he does: He holds up 1 finger, then mimes pouring something into a glass. Then he draws a line in the air and points to the mug the leader is holding. Yeah, I know.)

I don't remember his name, but we all remember he was wearing a hat. At least ten times that night, I'd go up to someone in my group and they'd be all

"That guy in the hat just told me there wasn't any more beer.*"

"That guy in the hat said I was pouring too much."

"That guy in the hat is creeping me out."

OK, I said that last one, but it still counts. I don't what the hell he was supposed to be doing. I'm sure he had his own place he needed to be supervising, but he chose to skulk around MY quadrant.

About every 20 minutes he'd sidle up to tell me what I should be doing. That guy needs help. This booth needs ice.

What I should have been doing was kicking him in his presumptuous balls.

* No more beer?!? There were two people who had access to the room with the kegs, and guy with the hat was not one of them. They have a word for people who make shit up like that. It's called fucktard.

Superbug

A new sing along written to commemorate the test results of the culture done on the pus that was extracted from the gigantic abscess that was residing until recently in my right armpit.

(to the tune of "YMCA")



Uh-oh, what's that bump on my arm?
Why's it hurting, giving cause for alarm?
Jesus, more crap causing me harm.
Off I go back to the doctor.

Oh crap, it sucks I've got M-R-S-A!
They've just confirmed I've got the M-R-S-A!

Man that's just what I need,
Another illness to feed!
Once again I lash out - why me?

No sir, we don't get to share clothes.
I said, too bad - I just spent lots of dough
On new towels and Purel on-the-go.
Now I've got to go wash my hands

That's what you do when you're M-R-S-A
Been diagnosed with fucking M-R-S-A

It's infectious you see,
You do not want a hug.
It's a classified super-bug!

(fading out)

M-R-S-A
It's not so fun when you've got M-R-S-A

I haven't seen the movie and I haven't drunk anyone's milkshake, but believe them when they say There Will Be Blood

Image borrowed from Roman Dirge

So, here's a tip: If you ever find yourself with, say, an abscess and someone suggests that you can "just get that lanced", please note that yes, while you can get that lanced, you should remember that what no one will tell you is that it's fucking PAINFUL and will take more than a MONTH for you to completely recover.

And? Also? You may have to have your spouse--or a roommate or a loved one or just someone you pull off the streets-- stuff your open wound with a thin string of gauze twice daily for two weeks.

Yes, it's as gruesome as it sounds, and you do NOT want to click here to see what it's like.

It's called "packing a wound" and the point is to have the wound heal from the inside out, otherwise you will heal with a big hole ready to be filled with more pus. And while I understand the importance of healing right, it's still blechy and creepy and even though I don't consider myself very sqeamish and I don't have a fear of blood, it's HORRIBLE.

Twice a day-- 6 AM and 9 PM. For two weeks. And next time you see the husband, that'll be DOCTOR husband to you.

I win again

It's not like I had big plans for this weekend. I was going to go to K's house to see an old friend and watch The Six Wives of Henry VIII. And then my armpit mutinied.

Based on my research, I think I may have another chronic thingy. Another syndrome. I got no sleep Friday or Saturday. I had a lump in my right armpit the size of two gumballs melted together and reformed into something that would show up in my armpit.

I have gotten these things before, but this was above and beyond my past experience with painful bumps. My entire right arm was aching (spoiler alert: still is!). My lymph node felt like it was the size of a mid-size rental car. It was excruciating to lie down. I could not be in any position more than 15 seconds before it became unbearable. I finally got to sleep after taking nine vicodin over a two-hour period.

Having just watched that guy on Survivor leave the game with warnings of lymph nodic issues, I decided to go to the emergency room at seven this morning.

And? Even though I was the only one there at the time? It still took 4 hours have the thing drained painfully (though without any noticible change in size, and the four hours included three hours of just waiting). I'm now on frequent doses of extra-strength anitbiotics and I get to figure out exactly when I'm going to apply the warm compress I've been instructed to do 6-8 times a day whilst training a new lawyer for the next two days.

And I don't really feel any better. It's still painful to lie down. The lump is still the size of two gumballs, etc. etc.

My brow may stay permanently furrowed. Hmph.

Way beyond the Valley of the Dolls

(that's me on the right. No, left! Wait...)

I finally saw the therapist again, and she re-evaluated taking me off the deadly rash pills that were also crushing my heart, because she determined that it was not crushing my heart, just maybe possibly making my chest muscles sore.

I'm not sure what part of "my chest muscles are sore" she misconstrued when I told her that over the phone. She knows I don't keep my mussels on my chest, they'll eat through the wood and ruin the doubloons.

They say all good comedians, deep down, are really depressed. I have just proven the reverse. You're welcome.

In addition, because this killer rash pill has to be ramped--

Hang on, I'd just like to interrupt this anecdote with a question: How can a rash in and of itself be deadly? Isn't a rash usually an indicator of something wrong, but not the sole cause of it? Am I wrong? What part of it actually kills? Beware, the Hives of destruction!!!

up before it will really take effect, I needed something to pop when I'm freaking out (oh, it happens more than you think. I just don't really show it. It stays locked away in my pancreas. It's not like I was using that for anything else anyway). So what does she give me?

Anti-pychotics! Oooooh, scary. I'm hoping it will cause the crazy googly eyes you see in cartoons. You know, the Judge Doom-y kind.

It won't, though. I'm on a miniscule amount (25mg. Really crazy people take 400mg four times a day), so all it will do is calm me down.

And increase the strength of my vicodin by 75%, apparently. I can sell what I don't use and use the money for other nefarious activities. Sweet!

What's the opposite of a second opinion?

(No picture today - blogger is being pooey)

My therapist has joined with that neuro-psych doctor to reveal to me that one of the main stressors in my life is my job. I don't know how much I'll be paying for my 2 visits to the neuro-psych doctor-- she who is "out-of-plan" and therefore subject to a $1,000 deductible-- but I'm pretty sure I could have told her that over the phone. Or by telegraph. Or in a greeting card. I don't think I needed 6 hours of tests and a second mortgage on my tabby to tell me that.

So, while we were discussing this Big Reveal last week, N-P doc asked what my *realistic* ideal job is, and I realized that what I have now is close to where I think my talents lead me. I thought I liked to be helpful, I thought I liked teaching people things, I used to be able to present myself pretty well in a public speaking setting. And yet? Those are the same things that drive me crazy now. I forget my train of thought so easily now that it makes my help desk duties and training sessions really painful.

*******************

There isn't much that will make this entry any different than any other "I hate my job" screed you'll find all over the internet so sorry this isn't too interesting. So, in light of the fact that about 3 hours have passed since I wrote those previous paragraphs, instead I will talk about

What Happens Now that I'm Back from Walgreen's

So, I just got back and I bought very mundane things: Some low-dose aspirin, the chewable kind that tastes like orange so I can chew my pill with my mouth open like a child; Revlon ColorSilk permanent hair color #54; some Russell Stover cream eggs (vanilla and maple cream); some Cadbury Cream Eggs for the husband; and some Arrid Extra Dry.

Nothing too fancy. And yet when I got home, I still wanted to rip everything out of its packaging and revel in its new stuff-ness.

I'm pretty sure my new deodorant high won't wear off for at least a couple days.

Pep boys pills, Beverly sills...oh boy. Oh boy. Uh-oh. Uh-oh.

When last we spoke, I was rambling about being depressed about my diagnosis of being depressed. After the neuro-psych diagnosed me as *really* depressed, my therapist suggested I try a mood stabilizer. At first I was optimistic, and then I was angry, then confused, then sleepy, then all the other dwarves and finally, after another 30 seconds, I figured it may be a good idea.

“I have a great mood stabilizer that I have many patients on,” she said. “It’s cheap and it has no side effects. Well, except for the possible deadly skin rash.”

But who’s ever said I’m not a risk taker? I decided to give it a try.

Because of this possible deadly skin rash, they start you out real slow, with 2 weeks at 12.5 mg, then two weeks at 25mg, then two weeks at 50mg, etc etc. After 3 days, I noticed that my chest felt like I had slept with 2 tons of something really heavy on it. I calmly called my therapist, on the off-chance that this was a bad sign. She called back and said that it sounded like it was affecting my heart in a bad way and that yes, it was most likely a really bad sign. She suggested that I stop taking it to see if the chest pain went away.

So now I am for all intents and purposes unmedicated and that is making me even more depressed and anxious. I’ve left 3 messages for her to call me back and get me something STAT. I’m freaking out enough that I’m using my vicodin as my anxiety drug. Not cool.

I am just about ready to demand Xanax by name. work is stressful enough that I don’t have time to ramp up to something. I need drugs. I need them NOW.

There are those who will wish you good morning. If it is a good morning, which I doubt.

For a while now I've been feeling like my brain has been non-cooperative. I can't remember a time when my memory has been worse (not to mention my jokes). Someone will say something and I'll think of a witty comeback or apropos pop culture reference, but I'll forget an important name or catchphrase before I'm able to say it.

As someone who prides herself on being on the witty end of the peanut gallery, you cannot imagine how troublesome this is. It's affecting my entire life: I don't call up friends, I haven't written a journal entry since November, I flake on a lot of extra-curricular activities for no reason.

So, I went to a neuro-psych and took a bunch of tests that included tests on memory, sequencing, facial recognition, math, spelling, grammar, hand-eye coordination. I felt bad taking it because it seemed clear to me that these tests were for people who had been in horrible car accidents, like in that movie The Lookout where the kid from 3rd Rock from the Sun was really fucked up.

(Good movie, btw.)

Anyway, my test results not only showed that I had no damage to my brain, but also that I was "very gifted" and in the "top 6%" of whatever. And you know what?

I took that to mean that, once again, I was not living up to my potential.


That also means that my memory loss is due to "uncontrolled depression and anxiety". In other words, it's all in my head.

Awesome.

Second Verse, as Dull as the First

If you're here, you may have gotten here from http://mnvnjnsn.diaryland.com/. I've left diaryland because everyone I know is on blogger.

It's a bandwagon thing, I can't pretend otherwise.

I think I might have more to talk about, now that my neuropsych tests have proven I'm gifted and I'm massively depressed, the latter being almost a prerequisite for blogs, right? Let's see if I'm gifted enough to update this. At all.