I love the December HSA Doctor Tour. I’m clearly lying.

So….

I spent my December seeing as many people with advanced degrees in the medical field as possible. How about you? I think you’re lying. Shame on you.

I spent some quality time in the microwave/claustrophobic tube. This was to check the status of my REDACTED. People, send me your contact info and I’ll add you to my HIPAA forms. Until then, I’ve got to keep some mystery here. I seem to adhere to that same philosophy when it comes to my docs. Read on for more on that madness. *eyeroll* Why those poor advanced-degreed people allow me to continue to step foot in their offices is beyond me. But, as I was saying, I did some time in the MRI/torture device due to my “issues” because I’m flawed genetically. If you’ve ever been here, you know that. You’ve read my stuff. I’m all kinds of flawed. You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s flowing through my DNA like a MOFO.

But despite the fact that it might look like I’m going to tell you about all the doctors I’ve visited on my December (maybe November, too?) tour, I’m actually here to tell you (AGAIN!) about how pathologically pathetic I am when it comes to recounting my medical history to these doctors when all they’re trying to do is help me out with the care and feeding of my physical being and tell you that it’s all because of GENETICS!!

My mother is just as bad about the specifics of medical crap. Which means the fault lies entirely with her. Or my Nana. I adored my Nana. And I adore my mother. So, either way the shade I’m throwing here is causing a little heartburn. But hey, it’s not my fault. It’s theirs. And I can live with that heartburn. As I was sitting with my mother who was kind enough to be my +1 for the MRI procedure. As we waited (AND WAITED) for me to get in the microwave and toast myself to a nice degree of “Eh, this sandwich is edible enough, but I’d prefer it a little warmer,” the two of us giggled ourselves silly over our inability to give any doctor a non-fictional accounting of our medical history.

I told my mother that I usually start with a really good energy. I’m upbeat and positive that this time will be different. I’m caffeine-equipped so I know that I can give the physician the appropriate amount of detail. But then the doctor asks something like, “Have you ever had an operation?” I usually start thinking to myself: “Obviously! I have two kids. They were both C’s. Because the first one was bad. Really bad. He was just not progressing. And then it was an emergency C and the epidural didn’t work and the pain when they cut into m….uh, the doc is starING AT ME!!! YES! TWO!” And then the doubt sinks in as I realize that I’ve been under anesthesia so many times that I’ll almost certainly need to ask for some clarification as to what constitutes an operation. I think to myself, “I had a hair baby.” [Ed. Note: People, please, trust. Don’t ask. Google this shit if you must. Dermoid cyst. Ovary. You’re welcome. Wait. No. I’m sorry. That’s the appropriate response.] The point is that I just shouldn’t be consulted on my own health history. I understand. You’re asking yourself either: A. Who in the hell should be consulted if not YOU!?! or B. WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU THAT YOU CAN’T BE IN CHARGE OF YOUR OWN MEDICAL HISTORY?? To you I say, you’re entirely correct. But I’m a different breed of cat. My problem can be summarized in the definition of the word “history” because I feel that my medical history is best left in the past. YMMV.

The moral of the story (so to speak) is that my mother is built similarly and she’s been running around town giving false or incomplete data to her doctors just as I have. And not in a malicious way. In the “I’m trying to help you but I have nothing for you but a vague recollection of something that happened to either me or an acquaintance” way. I’m so entertained by the knowledge that she and I are going to the medical professionals around this town driving them completely mad with our particular brand of ineptitude. It’s pathetic, but if you look at it in the right way, it can be endearing. You might need a really special brand of lenses.

 

TP On, You Crazy Diamond.

Have you ever had the universe hand you a comedic situation so perfect that you doubt that it’s real? I had this happen to me when I left work today. I looked all around certain that I was the target of an elaborate and really well-executed set-up. See, I looked up to see a man in front of me with a trail of toilet paper hanging out of his pants. Shhhh. It’s not even time to start judging me yet. Shhh shhh shhh! OK. Let me paint the picture. He was in a hurry. I was in a hurry. I started to walk a little slower as I needed to concentrate on looking around for the cameras who were clearly awaiting my reaction because HELLO???? How do you manage to achieve this situation? I’m talking a full 7 (SEVEN!!) squares of TP hanging out of his pants. The breeze being generated from the flapping was making my curls sway 500 feet behind him. I have to think it had to alter his gait in some way. And hadn’t he taken notice of even one of the no doubt multiple smirks he’d surely been gifted with by that point? There wasn’t a bathroom anywhere near us. I kept the emergency vehicle distance between us for a reason I cannot begin to explain. Do your own computations. I wanted to take a picture. Come ON! You would have wanted to as well. I really, really did. And I fought mightily with the little devil sitting on my shoulder, but there was a woman right behind me working the mind jedi magic and boring into my head to scramble my grey matter so I wouldn’t take a picture. I DIDN’T! OK?! So stop. But I also didn’t let him know about the situation. Look, I don’t know. Maybe this was his way of absconding with some extra restroom supplies. An odd method, sure, and only good for one restroom break (JESUS, WHY AM I GOING THERE????!). Anyway, who am I to judge. I guess the bottom line (Yes, bottom. Deal with it.) is that I could have alerted him to the TP tail, but I opted out. The security guard opted differently. Which made me look quite a bit like a dick. Happy Thanksgiving, TP Dude!!

And Happy Thanksgiving to all of you people.

My brain appears to have a doppleganger. That is a scary sentence, you guys.

I believe this [Ed. Note: severely edited and condensed for your sanity] conversation will provide the required evidence to show that my brain has a twin. And that leads me to believe that there are other hosts out there walking around with a grey, squishy skull resident who behaves in the same way as mine and, apparently, Jon’s. Yikes. We are all clearly siblings separated at birth and ruled by our skull residents. Shhh, don’t let them hear us.

Greg, you should probably be weighing in on this one.

JDud:   

I need to capitalize on more of my ideas. I mean, I saw this this morning and was, like, SMH. Brilliant! http://goo.gl/sKOOHD

SScott:

Jesus, man what the hell happened? Why weren’t you on that?

wait your talents should be going in the other direction — liquor prep

picture something similar yet it’s in the bar area

maybe with a dude attached

JDud: 

hmm

SScott:

so he can be all “Yes, sir” and stuff

JDud:   

I’ll call it “It’s 5 o’clock, NOW”

SScott:

See? So, let’s flesh this out.

It’s your clock again – you’ve designed that already

JDud:   

yep

SScott:

The one with the REDACTED Trademarked material

Now, you have Jeeves standing there all official. I’m not sure of his purpose. But I think he needs to be in the mix. Maybe he’s a robot

But he needs to be very subservient

JDud:   

Classic Jeeves would be great but no one is going to get a Wodehouse reference these days.

SScott:

Hmmm – i’d agree – philistines

JDud:   

luddites as well

SScott:

damn this is good stuff I’d like this to be my new job

JDud:   

Them: “What do you do for a living miss?”

You: “Ideas, lots of ideas. For instance, do you have a minibar at home?”

T: “Why, of course not. Why would I need a minibar at my abode?…Wait, that’s amazing!!”

Y: “See. That’s what I do. Bye.”

SScott:

Yeah. It’s starting to look a little thin when it’s typed out like that.

This butt’s for you. Stand down, Social Services.

Anna and I really get into my stories. Well, in my head, she is really getting into them. She shows enthusiasm, but let’s face it. I’m her mother. She’s probably just indulging me. I do love receiving proper appreciation for my creative endeavors, and she knows it. So, she either adores my stories or is silently enduring them. Whatever. I’ve got an audience. I’ve decided to believe that she’s a rapt one.

If Anna and I were questioned about the appropriateness of my stories, I guess we’d both say they are a touch irregular. But then, Anna and I are, ourselves, a touch irregular, so I think it’s about right that one of my recent stories involved a restaurant featuring pickled human feet as its signature dish, and another centered around a group of bears struggling to reform their image after an unfortunate incident whereby one of their overly enthusiastic members gave a hug to a human, crushing every single bone in the poor fellow’s body. When the man sank to the ground in a boneless heap, the bear fell to the ground beside him in a torrent of tears, while the other members of the bear’s clan rolled their eyes and rushed to console their overly dramatic friend. Like I said, slightly irregular plots for stories, but they make sense in the end. Ish.

Should I get to my point? I should get to my point.

I believe strongly that there should be a relatable butt emoji. [Ed. Note: Shhhhhh, Kimoji people. Shhhhh. I said relatable, not ridiculous.] I believe in this so strongly that I decided I needed to incorporate them into a story for Anna. The story was about the Land of Emojis. This land includes all the emojis that have been “released” to us, but it also includes all of the cool emojis that we have imagined in our minds or seen on Google. Yeah, even those. Yikes. I didn’t include those in my story. You guys should really be ashamed of yourselves. But back to the butt emoji. In the Land of Emojis there are a ton of those guys. Some are wearing hats to identify them as members of various professions, etc. Some of them are wearing expressions to denote various feelings. I’m not suggesting we need all of these guys. I didn’t create them all. Don’t blame the messenger, you guys. But it is a little surprising one hasn’t been approved for use now based on their representation in the Land of Emojis. I, myself, could see many situations where you might want to insert one of the jaunty fellas. For example, if you want to tell someone you think they’re acting like an ass but you mean it in a friendly way? You need the relatable butt emoji, right? Or say, you’ve been acting like a complete freak of nature and you’d like to let someone know you’re aware that you’ve lost your goddamn mind. You send them, “Sorry I’m such a <ass emoji>.” Oh hmmmm. Wrong article, yes? You’d have to use, “Sorry I’m such an <ass emoji>.” There, that’s much better. No reason to make us all get twitchy because my article didn’t match the word version of the emoji. Oh hell. What if you use the word butt instead of ass, or what if your recipient is a butt person? Oh damn, that went entirely wrong. Phrasing, Stephanie. So, now it’s “Sorry I’m such a/an <butt/ass emoji>” Yep. This is pretty much what texting with me is like. And I’m a paratexter. Consult UD (although it’s not terribly popular as a term because none of my contacts has voted yet), and weep with gratitude if I don’t have the ability to text with you. You’re most definitely welcome.

WHOA. What happened there?

I’ve completely lost track of this blog post. And I feel like I should mention that as I was telling the story to Anna I got so into it that I kept imagining all of these butt emoji, and it was so entirely entertaining that the story was quite a disappointment. Considering the enormous potential of the material I had given myself to work with, the story was a real shit show. Yes. I went for the low-hanging fruit.

Coming soon to a theater near you… Or not.

Anna caught Lexi in a state of ennui for 15 minutes and produced a movie trailer that has me “anticipating” the release of the full feature film. And I kid. I think this movie trailer is like so many others when I think to myself after seeing it, “Yeah, I think I can miss that one. I think I’ve got the gist of it.”
[Ed. Note: I just noticed a fluff of Fox’s hair on the carpet in one of the shots. Lexi can be a little tough on the ones she loves.]

Watch this space… 

My friend Jon and I are going to entertain you with stories and confuse you with our segues in our podcast that will be published sometime in the future! Isn’t that so exciting and hilariously unspecific as to the arrival of this thing I’m touting with such a bombastic flourish? I’m going to force the issue by publishing a post that says it’s going to happen. Dear Jon, get your podcast pipes primed. Alliteration, baby! Obviously, I’ll have to talk Jon BACK into participating. And of course, I’ll have to get all of the specifics figured out as far as actually producing the podcast. Which is a touch alarming as I can’t seem to get the damn comments to work on this pathetic blog anymore. They used to work. Now? Yeah, not so much. So yes, a podcast seems totally doable. And Jon and I will have you in tears. Tears of laughter, people. There’s even talk of a third person on the ‘cast. That’s right. Emily has said she might join us. You’re pretty sure this is a thing that is never going to happen, right? And you don’t much care one way or the other, right? Eh, I hear you. Hell, I hadn’t even produced a blog post in two lousy months before day before yesterday. You may have a point.