Oh The Douchebaggery

My infinite love and kisses.

Hopefully aforementioned love and kisses are enough to remind you of my moon crater-deep admiration for you, as I have no actual gifts to give.

MMuuahhh!

Or the walking dead leather-people, as it turns out.

Thank god.
I despise the claw-fisted pilate'er that is Madonna.

Don't get me wrong...I went through a period (as most 80's era pre-teen girls were wont to do) where all of my fashions were dictated by Ms. Blonde Reptilian. I mean ambition...who? what?

Don't get me started about my first trip to an actual Broadway show.

I arrived wearing a mesh sweater with only a lace belt, matching fingerless gloves, and an awful case of Material Girl.

There was a time.
There was a place.

It's called the eighties. Early MTV, guys!.

Point is, Madonna had her day.

Long live Madonna!

But her corpse has got to realize that it ain't gonna' happen again.

The salad days are OVER!

Oooh, I get heated up over Madge.

Now she's in legal ramblings with the government of Malawi.
Lay Ninja-style law on her ass already!

Snap!
I smell alliteration.
Sorry.

All these esses (shut it--- spell check! it's a word!), and m's?

Oh yeah. Madonna blows a mighty hard trumpet of suck-dom.

And she has been attempting to basically kidnap Malawian baby girl Mercy for over 5 months now.

I am lil' Georgie Washington!

I cannot tell a lie!

I have been praying for this adoption to fall flat...

Not because I think this child deserves to be raised by a father who clearly wants her, or because the alternative is being forced to live with Jesus Luz' next corpse bride..

But because that lil' baby stole my name!

I had it first, and, I know.....
that once the Bride of Frankenstein has her gnarly mitts on it...

Shoot!

All bets are off.

I had a harrowing day.

Now, don't get me wrong, I really do try to avoid the woe is me's...but, shit!

Give a sista' a break!

Let me start out by saying that I don't sleep all that much.

Somebody call the fire department because my synapses are aflame!

Lemme break it down to brass tacks...
I have slept a total of four hours in the past three days.

Am I tired?

Yes! God.

I could stand to take a Rumpelstiltskin sized nap right about now.

But I have too much on my mind.

So I am cranky and just disagreeable to the world.

Therefore, when I rouse myself from my zombie state in order to make it to my doctor's appointment, I am already angry as all get out.

I don't do the doctor appointment thing unless I have a valid reason.

I could get into my history with doctors and its penultimate resulting of my severe hypochondria but, truth is, the facts here are stranger than fiction.

I swear to Jehu! My schnauzer could give me a more accurate diagnosis for the collective ills I have suffered than most of the pill-peddlers I have seen.

And she's soft to the touch. Like cotton candy!

So I am already apprehensive when I walked in today.

I made the appointment a month ago after I had gotten a worrisome sunburn..the second of such in as many years.

I worry not just because of the aforementioned hypochondria, but also because I am damn white.
Irish white.
I burn and then freckle.

Other words I will never get that coveted Ms.Hawaiian Tropic sash I always longed for.

Hold me?

So I face my fears.

I make an appointment.

And because the medical system in general sucks and clearly wants to torture the irrational part of my brain that not only tells me that I have a definitive case of skin cancer, but also, possibly lupus, most likely diphtheria, perchance smallpox---

I have to wait a month to see the doctor.

So today I go in.

I am prepared for the worst.

My sorry ass...
And yes! my ass was involved!

The good doc asked permission to see my butt...I'm like okay...I'm all Coppertone babied out---I prepare for a full body check, homies.

I'm bathed and lotioned. Par for the course, yes?

But you know when I felt a hint of resignation about allowing her to access my ass?

When I realized she also asked if she could take off my shoes to examine my feet.

I said, "Sure"!
You're the doctor.
And she spread my toes.
Yessss.

That thought definitely reared it's ugly head when I realized that what she did to the piggy who went to market and the piggy who stayed home was actually happening to the left and the right cheeks of my posterior.

I didn't expect that.

Nor did I expect her to keep dropping all of her instruments on the floor followed by exclamations of, "Oh! I don't know what's wrong with me today!'

Three times I counted.

And once she put the rubber gloves on it was like a Howie Mandell act.
The shit kept popping off her hands---and all this sideshow kept saying was, "Oops".

Peeps, If you are involved in any kind of medical examination, especially one where you are sitting prone, naked, but for a life size dinner napkin, and the person in charge of your welfare says, " Oops", run for the motherfucking hills.

I wish I did.

Instead I let her circle (in sharpie) parts of my body that she later forgot she circled, call a white spot on my chest "weird", stab a needle into a wound I got last week (and before the lab results were back, write me a script).

I despise the power that I have given doctors over my perceived sense of well being.

I took a walk with a friend tonight and was telling him about all of the horror stories I have lived on account of M.D.'s.

He was laughing, and by the end, I was too.

Because if you think about it too hard, as I often do, you give these totally fallible creatures the right to dictate what may or may not determine your demise.

I came to the conclusion that the doctor I saw today was either a psychiatric patient/actress on leave from the Rocky Horror Picture show or just plain drunk.

My guess is the latter.

P.S. If you have a skin condition you want checked out, email me and I will tell you who to avoid.

And not in a "Wow dude, that ollie was sick" kind of way.

I was watching my local news, like the upright citizen that I am, when they featured a story about some pin-headed hatemongers who decided it was their duty to rally outside a local high school.

Their message?

I won't even repeat it because it was so thoroughly reprehensible.

I tried to find a video link but was unable.

So you gotta' get the info the old fashioned way.
Read this crap.

http://newsblog.projo.com/2009/05/hundreds-protes.html

Oh and, I have been feeling hugely nostalgic for the south lately...
and go on, haterade drinkers!

Bring it!

But the one thing I have come to discover about the north is how thinly people veil their hatred.
It's gross.
Stop it now.

At least in the south people put on an air of propriety.
Even if they are just two steps away from a walk-on role in the next Jim Varney vehicle.
(pronounced vee-hickle).

So, while I have been looking on Craigslist for jobs in North Carolina and just generally being angry about my town....I am feeling completely overwhelmed with admiration for the local student stockade that took on these blowhards.


Also, they got the usually mum Catholic Diocese to come out in support of said stockade.

Go Rhode Island!

Also, Happy Birthday Michael!

Read your blog.

Happy also birthday to Jennie R., Telly, and Patrick.

Shoot!

It's an auspicious day!

I like to think I am smarter than thou.

Not gonna' brag....

Oh Yes! I will!

I had two champ years...89-91

First, I won the Junior Spelling Bee Tournament in Central Florida.
Then I got first chair in the Florida Youth Symphony.

Flute, bitches!!!

I don't have any awesome stories about band camp.
Never went.
I got turned off when we were required, as members, to wear uniforms.

We were the Vikings.
It was Florida.
It was fucking hot.

It was awful enough that to be a band member you were required to wear orange and white polyester mid-summer, and---as Vikings, we were also supposed to wear a solid white helmet with horns.

Suck much?

Let me answer my own question..
Yes, indeed it sucked.
Enough that I quit the flute forever.

I also quit the spelling game after my first total loss.

It soooo blew for me.

I didn't get into athletics until college.

All I had were half-assed attempts at mind sport.

I always wanted a trophy.
My Bro and sis had a full wall.

Point is, I am sleepless and watching the National Spelling Bee and cursing at perfectly cute little geniuses.

Thunder, you have been stolen.

Not to you, of course...

I can't quit you, silly!

Nah...
I got me a summer job at the beach.
Yes, I know.

I am bathing in sugar sprinkles and marshmallows right about now.

Life is sweet.

Never worry, friends.
I have been told that even the nether regions of R.I. are capable of fielding these newfangled communiques we call "internet postings".

I will never leave you in the lurch.
I'm like a pristine bald eagle whose utmost duty it is to feed her noble chicks...

Only instead of vomiting in your mouth I will do it via your computer screen.

Mmmm...

Taste that?

It's the truth.

I know you never read this blog because you disapprove of my French...

But in the off-chance that ya' find it...
You are rad.

RAD

And if you put up with my antics for a lil' bit longer, I promise I will pay you back in full for all the faith and support.

I promise you that you will receive no I.O.U. coupons on your next B-day.

Only legit, tangible, presents are on your horizon.

Fabrege eggs, Tiffany diamonds, trips to St. Bart's...

20% off coupon to Pizzeria Uno.

Just like the Trumps!

I love you, mom.