malpractice makes perfect

So, that was the quickest trip down the Lyrica path that I think anyone’s ever taken.

Little adverse reaction, there.

Fortunately, I didn’t hurt anyone, including myself.

But I came damned close to reaching through the phone and ripping out the throat of a client, which is generally frowned upon, according to the company handbook.

It seems so incongruous. Lyrica is such a pretty, fluid name. Savella wasn’t a bad name, either, come to that. Neither should have done such ugly things to me.

Anyway, I have to build back up to my old dosage of Neurontin, which is an ugly name, but all it ever did was make me stupid. Stupid and harmless I can handle.

I also took a needless trip to the endocrinologist, in that the lab sent her the results from the rheumatologist, who is seriously hot, tall, and Irish, so I tend to pay closer attention to him than to my short, North African, female endocrinologist, and, oh, sorry, got sidetracked by the tall Irishness yet again.


Oh, right.

Lab fucked up.

I had to go get stuck again, and I can see the endocrinologist in a couple of weeks, by which time the lab should have figured out that I am not some craycray maso chick who likes getting stuck for shits ‘n’ giggles.

I only do it ‘cos my various and sundry doctors are craycray sado chicks (and, in the case of Tall Hot Irish, pricks).

Speaking of getting stuck, my epidural got postponed until further notice, on account of a drug recall.

What the blue fuckity-fuck, as my grandfather never said, partly because he didn’t use that kind of language, but mostly because he was colorblind.

Also, I would like to thank anyone and everyone who has contributed to my not getting evicted (yes, That Man of Mine is a big fat loser temporarily unemployed at the moment) and also the kind soul who donated to me a packet of much unnecessary but incredibly delicious Candy Corn Oreos, and whose brilliant idea was that, I would very much like to know.

I believe I will just say “fuck it” and do a meme next week. However, I did write this whole post on my Android (thank you again, GolfBrother), and I think that ought to count for something.


drinking: ice water
listening to: Pat Benatar, Wuthering Heights
my vote: without getting all political, i ain’t voting for anyone with a vendetta against muppets

the best laid plans …

… of, what? I give less than a shit about mice, and less even than that about most men.

The best laid plans of penguins, then.


Last week, the GolfBrother came to visit.

My plan was to hold off my update till Thursday night of last week, to give me a chance to hear whatever news he had, which could only bulk up the incredible lack of substance (not to be confused with it being gossamer or ethereal or whatever; it ain’t that interesting) that is my blog.

However, the boy (and I shouldn’t say “boy” when he’ll be forty next month) handed me an entirely too-cute gift bag (selected by That Woman of His, and I really need to stop with the parentheses, except that they’re punctuation custom-made for an all-over-the-damned-place mind like my own).

Inside said gift bag was a piece of holy-crap-awesome electronicness that has not yet changed my life, but is working on it.

What I’ve got is a Nexus 7 Android. A tiny, portable computer, bigger than a phone, no keys. You have to tap on the screen.

Which is clever and cool, and ensures I will never, as I do with most other keyboards, get the letters stuck because of eating everything-bagels whilst typing.

On the other hand are shaky arthritis-y fingers, and whilst I was typing away at a blog last week, telling you all of this, I tapped the wrong part of my tiny little screen, and that post disappeared from the living faster than Dermot Mulroney slamming into the tree and crashing down all the branches to the ground in The Grey.

I am sorry; I know you don’t want to hear One More Fucking Word about my Pretend-Irish-Boyfriend™ Liam Neeson, but, really, everyone in the world needs to see The Grey, excepting, probably, The Mom, for whom it would be too bloody and violent.

The rest of you, though. Hop to it. It’s on Netflix now.

As to what else is going on, JK Rowling’s new book for grown-ups gets released today, unless you want the electronic version for the e-reader in your Android, or your Kindle app (also on your Android), in which case, you’ve got to wait till tomorrow.

Well, shit. I waited longer than that for HP 6, didn’t I?

My pain doctor took me off the Neurontin; the reason being that she knows I’m a writer (or try to be) and that I would really like to hang on my remaining brain cells for as long as I can manage.

The good news is that she’s finally trying me on Lyrica; the bad news is HOLY SHIT THAT IS SOME EXPENSIVE DRUGOSITY RIGHT THERE.

And no generic, of course.

I may wind up trading the brain cells for restarting the Neurontin. It fits my budget, or lack thereof, better.

My mind was ever so full of funny last week, before being distracted by the Gift of the GolfBrother:

Dear Dr. Phil —

Dina Lohan is not a fraud. Her assholery is absolutely genuine.


Golf “And What is Your Doctoral Degree In, Again?” Widow


Dear Creepy Guy in the Break Room —

Totally understood that commercial, even before you explained it to me.


Golf “How Did You Notice That the Dog Ate the Car Remote and Not Notice My Wedding Rings?” Widow

PS Not on your best day.

PPS Seriously, no.

PPPS No. Ew. Hell no.


Dear Debby Boone —

So, Lifestyle Lift “turns back the clock,” eh?

Can it bring us back to a time when you were relevant?


Golf “Sell That Shit to Your Dad; He Looks Like Beef-Freaking-Jerky” Widow


Actually, that was not so much “full of funny” as it was “three bits of inanity too long to Tweet.”

Oh, just deal with it.

Tags: ;

drinking: ice water
listening to: Death Note soundtrack, Light’s Theme
gordon gee’s neckwear budget: nope — i’ve checked; still don’t give a fuck