Friday, 9 July 2010

Cellphone Douchebag

Last Friday, the Little Hunnydoo and I stopped in at the local Subway for a snack. First in line was a man and his two pree-teen boys who took for-fucking-ever. Behind them was a young chick, then us. Shortly after we joined the line-up, a dork in an expensive black car pulled up and entered the restaurant on his cellphone. He wore a golf shirt and pleated pants and I pegged him immediately as a douchebag. The only question was, how big a douchebag was he?

He hung up and said to Chick, "Hey, how ya bin?"

"Good," she replied without enthusiasm.

"When are we going out?"

"I'm booked up all summer."

"Get out! Serious?"

"People have weddings booked all summer."

Hunnydoo and I got the distinct impression that, while Chick was telling truth, she was also pretty happy to have that excuse to give him.

The father and boys buggered off, Chick placed her order, got her sub and turned to fill her cup from the soda fountain.

At this point, Douchebag called her on her cell phone from less than 20 feet away and said, "Call me sometime."

I looked at him and he flashed me a smile. I gave him one back, a weak, insincere baring of the teeth that clearly said, "YOU'RE A TOOL."

She snubbed him yet again and left.

We got our subs, sat down to eat them and Douchebag ordered four different subs and had to use his cellphone to consult about toppings, even though he had a list in front of him. He didn't speak to the "sandwich artist" except to give him orders. This pisses me off; these people are providing you a service and you ought to give them your attention.

It is my considered opinion that cellphones have made assholes out of us (well, not me, I don't own one and I don't need a tool to bring out my inner shithead). This jerkoff was living proof that technology is not for everyone.


Wednesday, 16 June 2010

Understanding Bryan

As many followers of my blog know, I named my largest ovarian cyst after Bryan Adams. This is because I hate him with a hot, hot heat. It's not just that I hate his music (which I do--I will turn the radio off when he comes on rather than suffer through his cancer-throated grunting and less-than-original songs about lost youth and dead princesses); there is a real and personal story behind my loathing that I might share with you all one day.

Today is not that day, however.

My friend, G., dropped by the house on Monday, bearing in her hands a book she had picked up from the public library, called Uterine Fibroids by Dr. Elizabeth A. Stewart out of John Hopkins University. G. told me she thought of me upon seeing it, and thought I might get some use out of the information contained therein.

She wasn't kidding. Within minutes, I was saying to the Little Hunneydoo, "Yanno what would be amusing? If I changed the phrase 'uterine fibroid' to 'Bryan Adams' while I read this book."

And here I am, dear reader, to share my nuggets of wisdom with you, courtesy of Dr. Stewart.

For example, did you know that more than $2 billion per year is spent in the U.S. on hospitalization costs due to Bryan Adams?

Or that Bryan Adams is the leading cause of hysterectomy in the U.S.?

Some women have some frank questions about this issue. They want to know, "How do I stop Bryan Adams from growing and causing me problems?"

As well as, "How do I prevent having the same problems with Bryan Adams that my mother had?"

Sadly, the only consistent answer the good doctor has for us is "We don't know." But she does reassure us that "the changing importance of women economically has aided the search for better interventions for Bryan Adams." Thank God for that, because she also goes on to report that women with Bryan Adams often report having periods that are painful or heavy (or both). Certainly, he gives me an acute rectal pain, if not a stabbing sensation in the wahoo.

In the final chapter, however, Dr. Stewart admits that "It is unlikely that a 'magic bullet' for Bryan Adams will be found in my lifetime." And that's too bad, because Canada has spent a lot of years apologizing for that lame prick. Both my nation and my ovary are tired of it.

Piss off, Bryan.

Saturday, 20 March 2010

The Sonar Dildo, Take Two

I actually had two ultrasounds this month; the first one was just an abdominal, which doesn't involve the ramming of giant dildos into one's hoohoo. I had the same technician as last time, though, the one I farted for, and I can't be sure, but she might have twitched slightly when she saw that I was her next customer. There was a brief moment when her face registered, "Oh, Fartypants is back," but it was over so quickly, I couldn't be certain.

That ultrasound wasn't at all traumatic, and the results only went on to prove that when it comes to medical concerns, I'm virtually a fucking rockstar. My g.p. tells me I have gallstones and a cyst on my kidney! WOOT! But whereas the radiologists almost always want you to follow up on kidney cysts, this was is of no consequence at all. And so far, the gallstones appear to be silent, so I'm good with that. My understanding of gallstones is that they are hellaciously painful, as in 'lying-on-the-bathroom-floor-crying-for-your-mama" pain. I pass, thanks.

The following week, I had the dreaded transvaginal, to check up on Bryan, the cyst in my left ovary, and the thickness of my cervical lining. This time, I had a different technician who was cheerful and laughed at my jokes and was so pleasant, I considered asking her for "the happy finish". I didn't though, because the whole procedure was just so uncomfortable. This time, the probe looked less like the Olympic torch and more like a Jamaican doobie, only--and I don't know how I missed this the first time--the end of it had, like, the Red Eye of Sauron. And I swear that fuckin' thing winked at me!

Anyway, like last time, I inserted it into my fairy pocket and then the technician started moving it around like she was shifting gears or something. DISCOMFORT! I mean, once I almost sat up and said, "Hey, Dale Earnhardt, that's my vagina, not a transmission, and we're not going off-road here. Take it easy!"

But it was over soon enough and a few days later I was summoned to my g.p.'s office to go over the results. She was thrilled to tell me that, although Bryan was the same size, the uterine lining was a normal thickness and the cyst that had been in my right ovary was gone. Whee! So I told her that the metformin is kicking my ass and giving me indigestion and diarrhea.

"Urgent diarrhea?" she asked.

My first reaction was to reply, "Is there any other kind? I mean, is there indolent diarrhea? How many patients feel the urge and think, 'Oh, diarrhea; it can wait until I'm finished the fucking crossword'?"

But, since she's the one who orders all the tests, I decided not to sass her and said, "You could call it urgent. I prefer to think of it as 'imperative'."

"Sometimes the gallstones can present with those symptoms," she said. "Have you ever had a barium blahblahblahblahblah..."

To be honest, once I heard the word "barium", I just tuned out. My brain shut off.

"You know," I said, when she had stopped talking, "it's not that big a deal. I pop a couple of Zantec and I'm good to go."

"Hmmm..." she said, eyeing me suspiciously. "Suddenly the indigestion isn't so bad, huh?"

"Listen," I said, "my mother lost a good pair of shoes because of a barium enema."

She seemed to sag a little bit on her spine, and J., who had come along for moral support, just sighed and rolled her eyes.

"It's not an enema," the doctor explained. "You swallow it, and it's still chalky and unpleasant, but it's not an enema."

"Does this involve ramming probes into any orifice?"

"No, it's x-rays."

"Okay, I'll do it."

That finished, I wandered off the next week to the gynecologist's office for the biopsy. I was even more nervous about this than the transvaginal sonar dildo. The nurse took my blood pressure (which was slightly elevated, go figure!), and told me to take my pants off and sit on the table. A few minutes later, the specialist came in. I was even further disconcerted, because he looked a lot like my brother, and I wasn't sure how comfortable I was discussing my hoohoo with my male sibling.

Anyway, the specialist said, "Dr. Kasha has indicated that you have a cyst in your ovary and your uterine lining is thick."

"Dr. Kasha," I said emphatically, "is an alarmist."

He seemed to take that well, and went on to tell me that what the radiologist referred to as a large fibroid cyst (i.e. Bryan) is not medically "large" at 3 cm. That's golfball size.

"When I talk about large," he said, "I mean this," and described in the air with his hands an object the size of a turnip.

"Furthermore," he continued, "your uterine lining is well within the range of normal, so we're certainly not looking at cancer."

Whee! So he put me on a birth control pill called "Yaz" (which made me want to break out into "Goodbye Seventies, for some reason), which he says is 90% effective against ovarian and uterine cancers. (Not so much cervical cancer, though, so I still need paps and shit). Also for the first couple of months, I will get my period back.

"Oh, come on!" I snapped. "Serious? I was having a good time until now!"

"I know," he said patiently, "but you only have to do it for the first couple of months. Then you can chose not to have your period again."

"Alright," I said reluctantly. "And no surgery? I was kinda hoping to give Bryan his eviction notice and score some time off work."

"No surgery," he said.

So, while there isn't an immediate resolution to the polycystic ovarian syndrome, and the Red Army will invade the summer house again, all in all, NOT HAVING CANCER is great news. And, NO BIOPSY!


Sunday, 28 February 2010

Everybody Just Shut the Fuck Up

Fuck the Olympics and fuck the fucking hockey game. PLEASE.

Wednesday, 27 January 2010

The Sonar Dildo

Well, it's been almost three days now, and I think I've recovered enough from the trauma to talk about it without losing my mind and going off on irrelevant tangents.

The appointment was for 2:15 and the lady from the clinic told me to be there for 2:00 and to make sure my bladder was full. So I hammered back a litre of water in 45 minutes I(I shoulda made it beer) and had J. drive my nervous ass over to the clinic.

And I was nervous. I'd been hearing all kinds of horror stories about the dreaded transvaginal ultrasound. Someone told me they used a speculum to prop you open. Someone else said you inserted the sonar dildo yourself. Others said they would do it for you. One chick told me it was a little probe. Still another made it sound like they were going to insert something the size of a city bus into my va-jay-jay.

My doctor had, the week before, done everything to allay my fears by scrunching up her face and saying, "It's weird."

"Weird" is probably one of those technical terms she trained many years to learn. All I knew was that, by the time 2:00 came around, my bladder was screaming like the claxon on Star Trek when the Romulans are off the starboard bow and my bowel wasn't very happy either. It was making all kinds of weird gurgling noises and I thought I sensed a certain familiar pressure, but since I had to pee so bad my eyes were crossed, it was kinda hard to tell.

I was shown into a dark ultrasound room ("What is this? Mood lighting?" I thought), and the technician asked, "Is your bladder full?" To which I said, "Jesus, YES!"

She did not laugh. She did not even smile. I could tell right away, it was going to be one of those experiences.

She told me to get up on the examination table and lay down on my back. She yanked the waistband of my pants down to my squishy bits like some impatient high school boy and told me to lift up my shirt. My belly was so distended from all the friggin' water that I looked like Snoopy lying on top of his doghouse. Not sexy.

But it's hard to be sexy when your bladder is making sounds like a latex balloon being rubbed, or--waitaminute, is that my bladder? Maybe it's my bowel. Well, anyway, in order to distract myself from the "weirdness" that was moments away, I watched the images on the monitor as the nice warm, gooey paddle (or whatever that thing is called, I should google it but fuck it, I can't be arsed) glided over my Snoopy-belly.

I tried to ask questions, but the technician wasn't interested in establishing a relationship with me. And I'm sure it's safer for her this way: it must be emotionally draining to ram the sonar dildo into the boxes of various women everyday, trying to convince yourself that "each box is special in it's own unique way", only to have those boxes walk out the door at the end of the procedure, never to be seen again. Eventually, you just shut yourself off emotionally, and remind yourself that you're just there to provide a service, just you and the sonar dildo.

And when I say, "I tried to ask questions", of course I mean about what I was seeing on the screen. I wasn't like, "So, do you come here often?" or "Do I know you?" or "How big is your sonar dildo, hawt mama?"

It was more like, "Is that my kidney?"


"That black spot in the centre?"


"Cool. Is that an ovary?"


"Neat. Can I see my fallopian tubes?"


"Oh." Pause. "Is that because I'm not permitted, or--"

"We just can't see them."


So, rebuffed, I just laid there, trying not to piss the table, and hoping that she couldn't hear my gut rumbling like a monster truck engine. When she was finished using her nice warm, gooey paddle to press on my kidneys, she told me to go empty my bladder and, when I came back, to take off my pants and get back up on the table.

Finally, we had come to the horror portion of the show.

Resignedly, but compliantly, I went off to the public washroom and drained my clam. SUCH RELIEF! But, as good as it felt to finally relieve the pressure on my bladder, my joy was shortlived when I realized that my bowel was going to be a Nazi bastard.


So, back I went to the dimly lit ultrasound room, dropped my drawers and got up on the table. She was back moments later, and appeared at my ankles, brandishing something about the size of the Olympic torch.

Immediately, my body cramped like a fist. My box sent a message, special hot-shot courier service to my brain: "You're fuckin' kidding, right?"

Brain: "Uh, stand by for further developments."

The technician said, "I'm gonna need you to insert this."

Box to Brain: "UPDATE! She's not fuckin' around!"

Brain: "Uh...hold on...we', shit..."

My bowel, out of nerves, started jumping up and down like a Jack Russell Terrier.

"Actually, maybe you could do it," I suggested.

She gave me a look as if to say, You wish, honey, but said, "Give it a shot. Only the tip needs to go in."

I gave her a look that said, Yeah, right. That's what they all say.

So. I sat up, grabbed the dildo cam and, just as I was weirdly penetrating my pissflaps with the Olympic torch while a complete stranger watched (and not for $3.99 a minute this time), I farted.

It was the finest moment of my adult life.

"Sorry," I said.

"It's okay," she replied.

At that moment, several thoughts occurred to me. On one hand, I thought, "Splendid. Can you explain that to my wife? She doesn't think it's okay." And on the other hand, I also thought, "Oh, good, cuz there's more. LOT'S more."

But instead, I sank back in utter humiliation, betrayed by my treacherous colon, and she proceeded to move the dildo cam around like I was some kind of popsicle and the exam table was a giant mouth. There was considerable pressure on my pelvic bone and it was, as the doctor had promised, "weird". I concentrated mostly on breathing and trying to relax.

It seemed to take forever, because the technician couldn't get a good look at my left ovary. Apparently, it's camera shy. Or maybe it had heard the messages sent to my brain from my box and was hiding out behind my liver, waiting for the dildo cam to leave. I pictured it peeking out from behind the appendix like a homeowner on a Sunday morning when the Jehovah's Witnesses come knocking: "Are they gone? No, don't go look, they'll see! Then they'll never leave!"

"Can you tilt your hips?" the technician asked.

It's not easy tilting your hips with the CN Tower stuck in your twat, and your asshole threatening to unleash a Weapon of Ass Destruction, but I did what I could. It wasn't enough, though and she had to remove the dildo cam (insert cork popping sound here) and go back to using the nice warm, gooey paddle thing. But not before she reamed me good.

Eventually, she got the Sears Family Portrait series of Mama Uterus and the two Ovary Girls that she wanted, and said, taking off her gloves, "Your doctor should have the results in a couple of days. Have a great day."

And that was that.

Next on Gynacology Weekly, a Pap Smear and Internal Exam!

Saturday, 23 January 2010

Even Sweeter Piss

On Tuesday of this week, I had a meeting with the Chronic Disease nurse and my doctor, who wanted to talk to me about the diabetes and results of the blood work I had done last week.

So the Chronic Disease Nurse was very helpful and gave me all kinds of interesting and necessary information about what to eat and how much and what to avoid and what will help, etcetera etcetera, and I was feeling all relaxed and comfortable and "Yeah, I can do this! I'm gonna make diabetes my bitch!"

And then she said, "And an important part of all this is checking your blood sugar levels."

Immediately, I was suspicious. Blood sugar levels? Doesn't that involve blood? Which is properly and typically stored in the body? And to test it, don't you need to somehow get it out?

Well, yes, in fact you do. She gave me this machine, which is like carrying around a pocket vampire, and showed me how to inflict a wound on myself so as to check out the sugar levels. NOT IMPRESSED, PEOPLE! When she first brought out the lancing device, I thought, "NO FUCKIN' WAY!" In my mind, this thing took on the proportions of a railway spike, and the way life likes to kick me in the junk every so often, I was convinced I would hit a massive artery in my finger and bleed out in seconds.

Following this disheartening interview, I then progressed to meeting with my doctor. You know, the one who gave me diabetes, fatty liver disease and polycystic ovarian syndrome to start with. Yeah, I wanted to see her like Joan of Arc wanted to see a match. Anyway, she proceeded to tell me that my cholesterol is also high, but she's giving me three months before she prescribes drugs for it. So then I told her that I've been doing some of my own research on PCOS, and I'm pretty sure that's what she gave me (she smirked--a sure sign of guilt), and with regard to treatment, can't we just haul the old things out? After all, it's not like I'm using them.

To which she replied, "Well, that's something you can discuss with the gynacologist."


Yeah, because she's sending me for an inter-uterine biopsy. BIOPSY. Isn't that where they take stuff out of you with no intention of putting it back? Well, naturally, my brain went to the darkest, bleakest area available and conjured up images of my hoohoo being probed by some medieval instrument the size of a firehose. J., who went with me to this appointment, started to laugh because she knew exactly what I was thinking, which went something like this:


Lemme sketch it out for you, folks: over the next few weeks/months, I have scheduled two pelvic ultrasounds, one pap smear and internal exam, one abdominal ultrasound and a uterine biopsy. With the very real potential of a hysterectomy. WTF? My pregnant sister doesn't have this many people peering up her cooch! What am I, some kind of finger puppet? By the time I am finished, half of the province will have been in my snatch! I should institute a cover charge.

Anyway, I'm now up to my full daily dose of metformin, started paying more attention to what I eat and started yoga last night. And I'm taking my blood sugar levels regularly; the lancets have decreased in size from a railway spike and are more like a finishing nail, but it is still highly counter-intuitive to draw blood on yourself. Of course, the first night I had it, I wanted to 'hurry up and get used to it" and spent a long time poking myself in various fingers trying to figure out where the best places were to do it and how deep the lancet needed to go, so it was a lot of, "CLICK! OW!CLICK! OW!"

My first set of pelvic ultrasounds are scheduled for Monday. This is the one where they stick the sonar dildo up my cooter.

Wow. Can't wait.

Friday, 22 January 2010

Sweet Piss

I opened my schedule book last week and looked over my To Do list. And there next to "Milk" and "Bread" and "Dr. Appt" was "Get diabetes".

So I went off to my Doctor's appointment, because she wanted to go over the results of the blood tests I had the week before. Did I forget to mention the blood tests? I did. I probably also forgot to mention that I have a new doctor now, because the other one, Norman, was something of a tool. So, yeah, I have a new G.P. who is really, really thorough. She not only sent me for blood tests, but also ordered an ECG and wanted me to whiz in a cup. And then she booked a physical and two ultrasounds. WTF?

And I'll tell you, those blood tests were fuckin' AWFUL. I have really low blood pressure and I'm FAT, so the technicians (yes, two of them were required!) had difficulty finding a vein. They ended up taking blood out of the back of my hands, and, because my b.p. is so low, the veins would just stop flowing before they got enough to do tests on. I had two puncture wounds in each hand; I looked like the victim of an incompetent vampire.

Anyway, the doctor wanted to see me before my physical in early February, and when she got me into the exam room, she told me that I have Type II diabetes. SCORE! I am *such* an over-achiever! Not only that, my thyroid is borderline, I show signs of having fatty liver disease and I'm not menopausal, so there is no good reason why my uterus has decided to stop shedding its lining every month. How's that for starters? HIGH FIVES!

She's putting me on metformin, which she says is really hard on the G.I tract and may cause nausea, vomitting and diarrhea (to which Janet says, "How will you know?" LOL @ her when I SHIT THE BED!).

The metformin is supposed to make me more sensitive to my insulin, as apparently I have been a jerk to my it, and it blabbed everything to the doctor during the bloodtests. When I got in the car after the appointment, I said, "Oh, sorry, insulin; have I been INSENSITIVE? Have I been ignoring you? Does my liver feel overworked? Whatever! I'm going for a beer!"(I was careful not to actually go for a beer, though, cuz honestly, you don't want to piss off your internal organs.)

On the positive side, I understand that the urine of diabetics is quite sweet, so I'm thinking of marketing my pee as pop. It'll look (and taste) like Mountain Dew. Swear.

As well, the metformin is supposed to help with weight loss, and that's a positive thing, because being diabetic and untreated is probably why Weight Watchers didn't work for me while I was going. Once the metformin gets into my system, I'll have to try it again, and see if I have more success with it.If I have as much success getting well as I have getting sick, I'll be running marathons in no time!

Thursday, 7 January 2010

Friends Don't Let Friends Drink and Blog

I've gotta hurry up and post this blog before J. comes down here and demands to use the computer. She has to feed her all-consuming addiction for games on Facebook. She's an avid Farmville junkie and is also a rapidly-rising Mafia king (queen?) pin. She talks a lot lately about whacking some cop and finding stashes of get-away vehicles and how she needs just a few more machine pistols. I'm hoping it's a game, anyway. If the door gets kicked in at midnight and I find myself pulled out of bed and slammed up against the wall with a SWAT weapon in my spine, I'll know better, I guess.

Anyway, I had every intention of coming home tonight from work and doing some work on the book (as per my New Year's Resolution), but I made the mistake of having a (sizeable) martini, and now I'm too loaded to do anything worthwhile. I can't write for shit (this post is proof of that), I can't paint, and reading is pointless, too, since my attention span is fucked. I'm deep into Margaret Atwood's new novel The Year of the Flood, and, as much as I'd like to keep going on it, I just know that if I try right now, I would forget the beginning of the sentence by the time I read the end of the sentence, and I would spend the next few hours until bedtime, reading and re-reading the same friggin' sentence.

(Some of you would say, "That's like reading Atwood without the benefit of a martini", to which I say, "Don't be hatin'!" I heart Marge. I'd like to get to know her well enough to call her Peggy.)

Luckily, before I got too blitzed, I managed to get caught up on my favourite blogs. I have really pared back in my blogs as of the New Year. I used to have a number of them that I would go to, but now I just have a select few. They are in the sidebar, if you're interested, and I urge you to give them a look, as they are terrifically funny in a way I wish that I was funny.

I used to read Dooce, but I have to be honest: that kid, Leta? Gave me the friggin' creeps. And while Heather is far more engaging and funny and insightful than your typical mommy blog, in the end, it just couldn't hold my attention any longer.

I also read ScaryDuck for a long time. Brilliantly clever man, especially his salacious posts as diarist Samuel Pepys. I stopped reading him recently because (okay, this is really honest now), I didn't feel really welcome when I made a comment. I'm sure it was just me projecting all my junior high anxieties onto this poor man's blog, but I always felt like the unpopular kid trying to fit in with the popular kids when I posted there. Also? Scary is a devoted Arsenal man, and my brother-in-law is all about the Hotspurs, and if he ever found out I was consorting with the enemy, he would divorce my pregnant sister, forcing her to hang around the nearest chipper van, trading blowjobs for free meals. Or something.

Have I mentioned that my sister is up the stump and expecting her first child? Maybe I did. Then again, I get confused between what I've posted on Facebook and what I've included in my blog. Goddamn, Facebook has made things complicated, hasn't it? And that's ironic, because theoretically, Facebook should be easier, beause there's none of the anonymity or subterfuge we habitually use in blogs in order to enjoy the (deceptive) luxury of almost total honesty. But on Facebook, you're all out there with your real name and your potential for constant status updates and pictures and omigawd, it's just really too transparent sometimes. It makes me long to crawl back under my blog-rock and hide.

Have you ever noticed that your thighs get really heavy when you're drunk? And your feet are really, really far away.

Anyway, I gotta go. J. is here now, and she wants to check online for cheap flights to Britain. And I gotta go drain my clam.

Sunday, 3 January 2010

The Nail Bag

She'd do you, and then wear slacks I think I can say with confidence that our New Year's party was a smashing success. There was music, drink, a shit ton of food, laughter and conversation.

At one point, we even took an informal poll of our guests to see who they would rather nail: Aunt You want some pancakes? I getchoo some pancakes!Jemima or Bea Arthur? Surprisingly, most people (regardless of gender and/or sexual preference) went with Aunt Jemima. I found this disturbing on a number of levels, not the least of which was that several of those polled described Aunt Jemima in terms of the bottle of syrup. Also, she was fictional, so what does that say about my friends that they would rather have sexual relations with a bottle of fake maple syrup than a real person?

Mind you, their preference for Aunt Jemima might be influenced by the fact that Bea Arthur's been dead for a couple of months now. Neverthless, she still gets my vote, because I figure we could always sing show tunes together, maybe achieve our simultaneous climax with "Hello, Dolly!" or something. And I could always roll off of her at the end, sighing, "That old compromisin', enterprisin', anything but tranquilizing, right-on-Maude!"

On the other hand, as one friend pointed out, Aunt Jemima would probably make you breakfast in the morning.

Friday, 1 January 2010

The Usual New Year's Shit

So, once again, I stand optimistically on the verge of a sparkling, brand spanking New Year and wonder, "What the hell am I going to do with the next 365 days allotted to me on this planet?"

And I can only say, "I don't fuckin' know."

I only have one New Year's Resolution this year. I'm gonna try and finish writing my book so that by December of 2010, I can ask people whose writing I respect and admire to read the goddamn thing and give me some valid feedback. There's nothing like writing to make you feel all Multiple Personality Syndrome. It's a solitary activity, so while you're banging out the words on the keyboard with passion and precision, it's easy to convince yourself that what you're writing is so fucking brilliant, you must be the unacknowledged love child of Margaret Atwood and Jeannette Winterson. Then, you get writer's block or you read something awesome by your friend who just won the Three-Day Novel Contest, and her first draft is so gob-smackingly engaging and well-written that suddenly you realize that you really have Downs Sydrome and your manuscript is nothing more than "I want a corndog" written over and over on construction paper in crayon.

But what the hell--I'm gonna finish it and see what happens because, honey, if Anne Rice can still get published with her tales of Jebus the Ultimate Vampire, then there must also be a market for the vapid ramblings of the Downs-stricken.

That's the only resolution that I have concretly formed in my consciousness right now. I had originally planned to lose weight this year by going on one of those LCDs (Low Calorie Diets), but I recently switched G.P.'s because I lost faith in the old one.

Me: I have chronic pain. The Celebrex doesn't appear to be working at all.
Him: Take more!

The new G.P. is female, very attentive, thorough, and not at all convinced that the LCD is the best way to go. Having had a consultation with her last month, she's sending me for all these tests. I haven't menstruated in about two years and she seems to think that that's a little early, so she's sending me for a whole battery of tests, including bloodwork, an EKG and a frigging ultrasound. She wants to know if my cervical walls have thickened, to which I say, "Honey, I weigh over 200 pounds: everything on me has fuckin' thickened."

Now, I've never had an ultrasound, but I understand that the external type requires me to drink a lot of water (although I'm fairly confident that beer would do the trick, too), some jelly smeared on my fish-white belly ("Jelly Belly"--that would be my name if I sang the blues) and then some kind of weird Star Trek imaging paddle. I'm good with this, and would actually like to see my Fallopian tubes, cuz I'm fascinated by the idea of having orchid-like structures in my innards.

But then J. tells me about this other procedure called a trans-vaginal ultrasound, which doesn't sound nearly as benevolent. First of all, it doesn't sound like a medical thing to me, it sounds more like a railway in Monopoly: "Go take a ride on the TransVaginal Ultrasound!" Secondly, there was no mention of water/beer. Thirdly, it seems that what they do is stick a wand in your squish mitten and they get an image of your insides by reading the sound waves that bounce back.

I'm inclined to think that someone is having me on, because what I envision in my head is some technician getting me into the stirrups and then putting a boom box speaker in my vag and blasting some ACDC up there (probably "Thunderstruck" or "Hell's Bells"). Reading the images seems to require sonar, so I then imagine that they hold a specially trained bat near my cooch and get him to describe what he sees ("It's a cave! No, wait--there's the Edmund Fitzgerald!").

So, naturally, I'm kinda hoping it's the first procedure rather than the latter.

Anyway, I have a question. Actually, I have several, but I'll stick to the one for right now. It's mother-fucking cold outside right now, which sucks, but inside the house it is 18 degrees Celcius. Now, if this was June and not January, 18 degrees would be plenty warm. But we're all pissing and moaning because it's cold in the house, and J. has turned up the heat. We're also in our jammies and bathrobes. Now, why, if 18 degrees is jim dandy in June, is it not sufficient indoors in January?

I don't get it.