Showing posts with label Shameless. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shameless. Show all posts

Friday, September 6, 2013

Olympians Have to Stick Together

So those of you who read this blog faithfully may recall that a while back I underwent some cardiology tests. My resting heart rate was around 40 BPM, which is normal - for an Olympic caliber athlete. People in extraordinary shape sometimes have a heart rate this low.


Am not an Olympian.

While I am indeed an Olympic whiner about running this treatment marathon, that's as close as I'll ever get to a gold medal. When I became technically disabled, I crowed to my brother that I was going to enter the Special Olympics but he crushed my dreams as always by pointing out that simply being 'special' isn't enough. They are still gifted athletes.

But back to the regular Olympics. I have a good friend and she has a good friend. That friend is named Liz Podominick and you can read about her HERE.

Liz is training for the Olympics. The real ones. For the non-special AND gifted athletes. Liz throws shit. Shit like a discus. And she throws it hard. Olympic hard.

All that throwing requires a dedicated and grueling practice and my friends are throwing a fundraiser in Liz's benefit. Monies raised go to assist with her training and travel costs for competition events. Her training schedule and travel requirements make it nearly impossible to hold down a normal job at this point in her life.

How many of us have the talent to make it to the Olympics?

Of that number, how many then have the dedication, passion and stamina to fight for that dream?

Isn't that worthy of your spare change or your latte money?

If you're in the Twin Cities, join us at her benefit THIS SUNDAY afternoon from 12:30-2:00 PM to meet Liz. Just don't piss her off or she'll hurl you across the room like a shotput.

All Saints Catholic Church’s Murphy Hall
19795 Holyoke Ave
Lakeville MN 55044

If you're outside the area or can't make it, you can still donate:

c/o John and Margie Podominick
17317 Idlewood Way
Lakeville MN 55044

Monday, September 2, 2013

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, September 2nd

10. I'm thankful that the Crazy Mouse didn't fly off its track like it felt it was going to.

9. Also I'm grateful there was a camera trained on us to capture our stunning candid beauty.

8. Mostly, though, I'm relieved I made it through the rides without vomiting on the kids. Stuffing oneself with battered fat and then hurling your body around in violent circles is not recommended for old people. Just saying.

7. I'm thankful that Daisy the kitten has a small bladder so when she peed on my feet while I was sleeping it wasn't as traumatic as if she were, say, a great dane.

6. I bow to the cows who provided the milk that curdled to cheese that was fried at the fair.

5. I'm grateful that I've regained feeling in the finger I crushed this weekend as I probably need all ten of them to be a masseuse.

4. I'm delighting in this new weather that no longer makes my kneecaps sweat.

3. Another bonus of the chill in the air was not having to smell the festering pits of the other 199,999 people at the fair yesterday.

2. While I'm not especially pleased that items from my childhood are sold as 'vintage antiques', I am rather in love with the 1989 Trapper Keeper the BF bought me. I think he wanted to make sure I was the coolest kid on the short bus.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, September 2nd?

1. I'm thankful to the generous gentleman who offered me a dollar as I sat on the curb with my belongings waiting for a ride. I'm choosing to think he was trying to tip me because I was being eco-friendly with my reusable bags because admitting that he clearly thought I was homeless is a touch embarrassing.

Monday, August 5, 2013

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, August 5th

10. I am thankful I have a device that is capable of accessing all known and unclassified information, and that when I'm not using it to look at pictures of cats or argue with strangers, I use it to find my celebrity look-alike. Critical. Also I know now that if I gain weight again I'll resemble Wonder Woman instead of Ross.

9. I'm grateful for almost passing out this weekend since almost is better than "OH, SHIT! I passed out and smacked my face on the dresser." This is called progress.

8. I'm extra glad it was only an almost since I was in public and not at home. This is worthy of two marvels. Also, I'm the boss of this blog so I can bend the rules.

7. Today I am thankful for stirrups because this means they can just call my doctor's appointment an 'annual' instead of a Lyme follow-up. Vaginas are covered. Lyme isn't. Never thought I'd be thankful for a speculum. Who knew?

6. Also I'm hopeful. I have to talk to the doctor about driving. Perhaps 'almost' passing out equals safe driver, versus 'actually' passing out. Right? RIGHT!?

5. I'm so grateful to all the peeps who drive my sorry ass around because who am I kidding? They're totally gonna revoke my license. My awesome friends are all that stand between me and that short bus. #*$%!
This is me. The sentiment.
Not the beard or hairy arms.

4. I'm thankful that the orchestra of bell-ringing in my ears is on low-volume today. Those bastards have been way too loud lately. How rude.

3. I'm grateful for thrift stores - one person's trash is another person's treasure. Yay for $5 furniture!

2. Also, dating is like thrift shopping, isn't it? Now there's a revelation I was not at all prepared for. But I'm still quite thankful.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, August 5th?

1. I'd like to give a shout-out to my kidneys. Over 880 injections and 450 pills and supplements down. You little peanuts deserve a vacation. I suggest you select somewhere beachy. Oh, OK! I'll even come along for the ride, since you insist.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

The Big Gay Kiki

SWF ISO the purrfect outfit for the Big Gay Kiki.

I can only recall one such look but it's no longer 1986, purple Spanx can't contain me these days and also I don't have a crimping iron.

Friday night there's a party to celebrate the kickoff of Pride Weekend and I'm feeling the urge to dress in something ostentatious and wear copius amounts of glitter. As a minority, I don't want to disappear like a wallflower among the colorful boys.

This Lyme-lame broad will only make the preparty to nosh on a rainbow of fruit flavors since I suspect this kiki will migrate downtown. I foresee a sparkly seizure if I hit the actual festival, but I still wanna get decked out for once this summer.

I need a Big Gay Makeover.

Who wants to sprinkle me with fairy dust and false eyelashes? And maybe a double-process blonde rinse so I can test the Fun Theory.

In that manner of first-world problems, I've secured the ingredients to make rainbow pasta salad, but I still need marabou trimmed palazzo pants and a tutu for my sexy fishnet PICC sleeve.
All this to go to a friend's house and giggle which normally requires only sweatpants and a swipe of deodorant because I'm a polite guest.
But there will be Jell-O shots and if I'm going to hurl the rainbow I'd like to look cute before doing so. That way when I'm not invited back next year they can still remember me fondly.
Yeah, she's gross, that one - but did you see her feathered lounge pants?

Monday, April 15, 2013

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, April 15th
10. I am so sadly thankful that out of tragedy miracles are born. A friend of a friend's little boy has cancer and is on the wait list for a new liver. I cannot imagine the pain of praying for a liver to come available when it means another little child died. But one did, and the doctors think this liver might be a match for little Miles. Please pray if you do that, or cross your fingers if you're anti-prayer.
9. I am very grateful that Operation Move the Bro is complete. Also, since their new house is 47,000 square feet, they probably have no reason to ever move again. THANK GOD.
8. I'm also thankful that during Operation Move the Bro I did NOT realize they are going to New Orleans this coming weekend, or I may have punched him.
7. That being said, a large bag of chicory coffee from Cafe du Monde would go a long way toward making me grateful and less punchy-feeling. Hint, hint.
6. I'm thankful for Hopkins Tavern, Patrick Lumby, my cousin Lola and Copycats Media, the latest peeps to donate raffle prizes for the Lyme bennie.
5. I'm really, really grateful that the Sick Saver barf bags are en route. I am ready to put these bags to the test. To everyone who has seen me puke, you'll agree that I'm the perfect candidate to review barf bags for sturdiness.
4. I'm so happy that kids like my horribly ugly stuffed animals. This is why I like children. They don't know yet what's ugly and what's not.
3. I'm thankful for delicious seafood risotto a la Leslie. I'm doubly thankful that it stayed down. Fish puke is some of the worst.
2. I'm grateful to Mark for sharing his muscles on Saturday, since my contribution to moving day consisted of moving three boxes and dusting. Basically when I say I helped, I mean Mark helped. I was there for decoration.
And the number one reasons to marvel over Monday, April 15th?
1. Things happen for a reason. My parents needed someone at their condo today to let in some contractors, so they asked me to spend the day there today. The contractors arrived and guess what? One of the guys has Lyme disease and sees the same doctor I do! He's far further along in treatment and doing pretty well and I cannot explain how grateful I am for the chance to talk with him. He had many of the same problems, including the horrible speech, and he said his stuttering resolved three or four months into treatment. I was blessed to spend some time with him today. He may not have felt the same way as I followed him around peppering him with questions while he tried to work.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, April 1st

10. I am thankful for the drug compressor I got from the Easter bunny. It smooshes all 49 of my (current) daily pills into one little nugget that tastes like chocolate.

9. I'm excited that things are getting heated up at Penguin and they're just finalizing the big number they want to write on a napkin and slide smoothly across the table during our meeting next week regarding rights to my second book.

8. I'm grateful that temps will hit fifty degrees this week, as that will ensure I can get a great Norwegian base tan before my trip to meet with the agents at Penguin.

7. I'm relieved to know that both Cordy (neighbor cat) and Gabby (our cat) exhibit signs of vigilant supervision during my convulsions. Both opened eyes long enough to glare at me for interrupting their naps.

6. I'm happy that my stylist will be handling my look for next week. Heroin chic went out a ways back and also I'm not skinny enough to really pull that off. I'm guessing fancy makeup artists can make a haggard Lyme face look like a million bucks. Or at least a Benjamin. Though frankly his hair was terrible.

5. I'm grateful that Penguin is playing the schmooze game with me since I haven't had a spa weekend in ages ever. It's nice of them to treat me to an NYC makeover with a friend while I'm in town. I suppose they just want me to look my best for the author photo.

4. Speaking of author photos, I told them Annie Leibovitz is overkill, but a Penguin gets what a Penguin wants. I know this because I've seen March of the Penguins. Those dudes walk a long-ass way to get what they want, though usually that's food more so than a photo of me.

3. I'm thankful for the two little kittens that were in the Easter basket with my drug compressor. I've named them Spirochete and Cockwad - Spiro and Wad for short. Wad will be the fat one.

2. I'm so happy to be feeling strong and healthy again! I'm ready for this trip! My vitality is luminescent! I'm rarin' to hit the road! I'm ready to march with the Penguins and negotiate my future without so much as a s-s-single stutter!

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, April 1st is....

1. I'm thankful it's April Fool's Day so I can make most of this crap up (except lucky number seven) and give myself a day off from thinking of ten new things that really happened. I'm tired and I'm gonna take a nap instead.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Peeling the Onion

Once again, I find myself at my parents' house, writhing in pain, acting like an asshole.

I promised myself that after my ortho surgery in 2008, I learned my lesson (don't be a psycho monster to your kind, loving and doing-it-because-they-have-no-choice-either caretakers).

Pain and illness peel back the layers of your character like an onion. My onion was REALLY rotten in 2008 and apparently five years of perspective haven't made me a much better person.

(Hmm, perhaps that's why I have to go through this?)

It's only day three of treatment and so far I've experienced many of the things I was warned about. Vomiting. Sobbing. Muscle cramping. Convulsions. Vision problems. Sweating. Chills. If you'd have pointed a gun at my head last night I'd have begged you to pull the trigger. That's how black I felt.

My dad brought me to the hospital this morning to get the blood tests to clear me for my PICC line and while I was waiting, a guy walked into the lab. On crutches. With BOTH of his legs in walking casts.

I couldn't help it.

I looked at him and I started to giggle. Then I just roared. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Now, that's just not FAIR!" I told him. Well, technically what I said was "N-n-n-now th-th-th-that's just n-n-n-n-not f-f-fair!" But whatev.

He broke one leg falling on the ice and then, two weeks later on his crutches, fell and broke the other one. But his character isn't rotten and he was laughing as hard about it as I was.

Then he asked me if I'd like to dance.

So, thank you, Broken-Legs Man, for showing me your onion.

If you can walk on two broken legs, and Mark Weber can tape his guts in, and KF can take care of her cancer-stricken toddler, I can do THIS.

And to my army of caretakers - if when I start to be an asshole, just remind me to keep peeling my onion layers until I find something better inside myself.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

I Yelled at an Old Man Today and I Don't Even Feel Bad

But to be fair, he totally started it.

I'm trying to go for little walks every day, both to get fresh air and to keep my muscles from atrophying into stringy puddles.

When I walk outside, it takes concentration and focus because the sidewalks have patches of ice everywhere and I have the lightning-quick reflexes of a corpse. So I must watch the ground while I walk.

And I must walk slowly.

And yes, my arm and hands were contorting so I probably looked fairly stupid and yes, I limp.

But that is NO reason for an old man to yell at me.

He came up behind me and shouted rudely "Outta my way, you're slowing me down! You're too young to walk like that!"

To which I yelled back "Y-y-y-y-y-ou're too old t-t-t-t-t-to h-h-h-have such sh-sh-sh-shitty m-m-mmanners!"

And then - of course - I cried.

But the tears aren't even pink anymore and I'm just bored with crying.

He's right. I am too young to walk like this. But I will get better and he'll still be a crotchety old ass.


Put that in your pipe and smoke it, gramps.

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Your Future Looks Cloudy with a Slight Chance of Poop

I need a cleanse in every sense of the word.

As I've been volleyed from doctor to doctor, there's one thing they all have in common. Their favorite pills. They all wanna throw a little spice into the pot.

In addition to trying eat as many whole foods as possible right now, I'm on more medications and supplements right now than seems entirely appropriate.

Alice had one pill to make her large and one to make her small.

I have one to help me sleep, one to prevent breeding, one to prevent vomiting, one to prevent crying, four to prevent muscle spasms, nine to nourish my brain, organs and blood and twenty to make me poop.

Yes. That's what I said.

Twenty pills a day to make me poop. To be fair, they're tiny, herbal and from the acupuncturist and I like them better than the half cup a day of powdered laxative prescribed by GI Dr. Joe previously. 

All these pills are in addition to raw fruit smoothies full of kale, spinach and flax seed.

And Greek yogurt with acidopho-Popeye or whatever the hell it is.

And water, water, water.

I pee every twelve minutes and I poop every twelve days. 


I must have a 30 pound shit tumor inside me that's been growing for years. No wonder I've always been 'heavy for my frame'. My insides feel like a sandbag. 

If there's too much pressure on a levee, it eventually blows, right?

I hope the doctors figure this out before I explode internally and die of sepsis. You know, when Leslie told David Sedaris I wrote a book he drew a picture of it for me. Then he drew a big steaming turd on top of it. Maybe he's less of an asshole and more of a psychic?


I'm gonna die in an explosion of poop.

Monday, February 18, 2013

Monday Marvels

The top ten reasons to marvel this Monday, February 18th

10. I'm thankful that Leslie returns from Texas tonight assuming they find a plane that is 'flyable'. As soon as she boarded the flight, they were told to get back off the plane because it wasn't. I miss her and also her cats barf frequently and violently.

9. I'm grateful to have spent the afternoon today looking at garbage cans with Mama Bird. It was nearly as relaxing the spa day we'd planned. But I'd rather be the one who got canceled on than the one who had emergency surgery so there's that silver lining and also lunch with Mama is always fun. Lunch wasn't from a garbage can, incidentally.

8. Speaking of relaxation, that's what yesterday and today were supposed to be ALL about, so I'm thankful for the pool and hot tub at the hotel for the half hour Mark and I enjoyed them together before they were overrun with howling banshees.

7. Speaking of the howling banshees I'm relieved I wasn't detained. Apparently even when kids are cannon-balling into the hot tub it is not OK to joke to strangers that you wish you could shoot other people's children. It got reeeeealllly quiet (the adults, not kids - duh) so I slunk away before anyone could think I was serious and call the police or the boss of the hotel. All I wanted was to soak my sore muscles in relative peace and I ended up just happy not to be arrested for terroristic threats because I have no filter and we live in the age of Sandy Hook and Columbine. Also I stutter and look scary in a swimsuit.

6. But I'm thankful I don't look as scary in a swimsuit as I did six months ago. I may be ghastly white, but at least I'm a slightly smaller pasty Norwegian than in bathing suits past.

5. I'm grateful that the hotel had a nice hot shower since I shamed myself out of the nice hot tub. Dammit, Tricia.

4. I'm proud to have made it through the past two weeks without smoking rat poison. We're using e-cigs to step down so no ticker tape parade just yet but at least we aren't huffing all the arsenic and other delightful additives.

3. I'm thankful to have made it home safe from our luxury vacation in Richfield. It was twelve miles away and they say most accidents happen close to home and there weren't even any close calls during the ride so yeah, that was good.

2. I'm grateful to you guys who bought books - you paid for that hotel room last night, dudes, and that date night with the hubs. Appreciate it! Too bad you couldn't have come hot tubbing. Then I would've had a posse. Like a gang. And maybe the kids would've been too scared to cannonball at us.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, February 18th?

1. I'm thankful to the hotel staff. Judging by the level of general itchery going on today, I'm guessing the chlorine levels in that place were high enough to kill...well, my skin cells. So I'm certain it killed the pee germs in the pool.  Now I don't feel so bad for peeing on those soccer moms in the hot tub before I got out.

Just kidding.

Or am I????

Friday, February 8, 2013

How to be Green

My latest labs showed that further vitamin levels are critically low (D, this time, despite having been on supplements for six months). I'm trying hard to cram healthy crap and water down my throat, especially after the damage I did last week with fried chicken and vodka.

The GI specialist suggested I need to have mega-nutrients and also...I need to poop. Often. Not on occasion, like a holiday Christian.

If vitamin D is causing my brain fuses to pop and fire, ought he not prescribe a warm, sunny vacation????? Maybe I could poop more in a treehouse in Belize. You know, get in touch with my inner Jungle Jane.

So in addition to the laxatives and ultra-vitamins he prescribed, I took matters into my own hands. I'd seen recipes lately for some super smoothies and figured it couldn't hurt. Without further ado, I present my recipe for how to be healthy and green.

  • Look for smoothie recipe. Realize I lost it. Decide it can't be that hard to figure out on my own.
  • Gather ingredients.
  • Photograph them for proof that I don't always abuse my body. I realized last week that I only take photos when there are cocktails. I never take pictures of myself holding vegetables.
  • Throw half a bag of spinach, unsweetened soy milk, a few frozen raspberries, powdered laxative, fresh ginger and lemon, fish oil and 50,000 units of vitamin D into blender and press ON.
  • Gag.
  • Inspect the contents which are as thick as mud and grainy as liquid concrete.
  • Gag more and add three ice cubes.
  • Press ON.
  • Inspect the contents which are almost as thick, but growing exponentially in mass as I add ice. Realize the less I add to this blender of slop, the less I have to swallow.
  • Pour into glass.
  • Gag.
  • Wonder again why I can't get my vitamins and exercise from Caribbean sunshine, tropical fruit in my drink and swimming in a pool. FML.
  • Take photo of the pint glass o'horror.
  • Sip tentatively and think to myself, this isn't as horrid as it looks.
  • Drink one quarter of glass before realizing it's exactly as horrid as it looks.
  • Gag.
  • Drink water.
  • Drink one quarter more of glass and try not to gag as the thick sludge slides down my throat can fill in the blank yourself. I can't be held accountable for your gagging.
  • Begin to gag a bit harder.
  • Chug another quarter of the glass and immediately heave and barf it back up.
  • Wonder if it's considered barfing if the smoothie is still the same temperature and consistency.
  • Chug some water and take a timeout.
  • Bitterly wish for that vacation.
  • Valiantly chug (almost all of) the remainder before rinsing the blender and lying down on the bed for a moment with the sweats.
  • Get up, realize I feel fairly not bad. Smile excitedly.
  • Shovel snow for fifteen minutes before deciding I'm going to have a(nother?) stroke so finish only enough of the plow dump to back a car out of the driveway in the event of the zombie apocalypse because I'm definitely not staying here.
  • Take vigorous walk around the block. One block. It's cold. The vitamin D is buried in a snowbank.
  • Remain inside the rest of the day congratulating myself on my accomplishments. Wow! I shoveled, walked, put away laundry, cleaned the cat poop out of the box. Oh, yeah - poop. I didn't do that.
Who wants to join me for round two of laxative smoothies for brunch tomorrow? I'm certain it will taste less horrific the second time and as it turns out, sometimes you should follow a recipe.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Screw Lady Gaga and her Poker Face

Most of life is a gamble and unfortunately I’m a shitty poker player - for many reasons.

First of all, gambling excites me so I tend to go all in. Doesn’t matter what’s in my hand since I really don’t know how to play anyhow. Go big or go home - right, David Thorne?

We played poker for dimes and nickels once with my family for about an hour before Mark deemed me unfit to play and sent me to bed.

My math skills are on par with most first-graders, so I’m not so good at calculating odds. When I buy a PowerBall ticket I always assume I’ll win because, hey – someone will. Why not me? Knowing me, though, if I had the winning ticket I’d put it through the washing machine.

Also it’s been said that perhaps…at times…my face gives away what I’m feeling. Sulking and beaming are not great poker faces. My only shot would be to hide behind an online site like Poker Junkie (Hi, Brian Mosher!), but I’d still have to learn to count. And find pairs.

I could play strip poker in the winter since I wear at least 42 articles of clothing, but I’d still probably be naked first. My only hope would be that the game went on so long I bored the other players into submission.

All my life I’ve hated that my heart doesn’t even bother with my sleeve – it’s right there on my face for the world to see. I’ve wanted to be one of those cool mysterious people, the ones who are unreadable. Still not great with the math but I’m guessing those odds are nearly the same as my winning the PowerBall.

This weekend, though, I realized it’s OK to have your heart on your face sometimes. It was a gamble when Mark and I headed for St. Cloud and I wasn’t so confident about the odds.

But I saw his heart on his face as well. I guess we might both be lousy poker players, but maybe that’s OK. In my game of poker, a pair of hearts beat a royal flush any day.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Dear Diary

When we were 30, my girlfriend found her junior high diary. Over cocktails, we read it aloud, quite literally rolling with laughter.

The entire diary can be summed up here:

Dear Diary, I think I like Mike. But Rob is cute too, but I don't know because Jeff was smiling at me during passing time and I heard he likes Jenny but the way he looked at me makes me think he probably likes me so I wonder if I should like him instead. But Mike is SO hot. I just don't know what to do.

Now I'm keeping a diary, but not about boys. I have to record what I'm doing/feeling for the whole 48 hours I'm wearing the holter heart monitor. Then the cardiologist will read my diary while comparing it to my heart rate during those noted times. I'm guessing he'll pour a cocktail, too, because this is not nearly as scintillating reading as Sarah's diary.

I've decided to share my diary with you, dear readers. Go get a drink. I insist.

1/9/13 3:30 PM
Ate toast and drank V8.

1/9/13 4:50 PM
Argued with husband.

1/9/13 5:30 PM
Ate dinner.

1/9/13 6-6:30 PM
Petted cat.

1/9/13 7 PM
Took Klonopin for muscle cramps.

1/9/13 8:30 PM
Went to bed.

1/10/13 9:55 AM
Wake up. Try to poop. Epic fail.

1/10/13 10:00 AM
Drink V8, eat toast.

1/10/13 10:10 AM
Stub toe, stutter obscenities. Cry.

1/10/13 10:20 AM
Walk to coffee shop two blocks away. OK, fine - one block. But two blocks sound like I exerted myself more.

1/10/13 11:30 AM
Return from two one block walk and lay down to rest.

1/10/13 1:00 PM
Draft 'why you fire me' email to my boss, who I guess is now my ex-boss.

1/10/13 1:30-2 PM
Light housework. Took out garbage and vacuumed.

1/10/13 2-4 PM

1/10/13 5:20 PM
Eat pot roast and carrots.

1/10/13 6:05 PM
Vomit pot roast and carrots.

1/10/13 7:15 PM
Play board game with husband. He won.

1/10/13 8:15 PM
Husband lures me to bedroom with promise of a back massage

1/10/13 8:19 PM
Backrub turns into marital relations because, and I quote, my husband 'wants to have sex with a robot'. He suggests that I mark this period in the diary as 'running up and down stairs'. He's quite confident, that one, and really wants to know what my heart rate was during this time. I told him not to get his hopes up since they had to give me a shot of atropine in the hospital to get my heart rate above 100, even while I was cycling full speed.

1/10/13 8:35 PM
Replace electrode pads on all my lead wires now that Mark has smushed them all loose.

1/10/13 9:00 PM
Tuck all my wires into various layers of jammies and go to bed.

1/11/13 3:30 AM
Wake up to charley horses in calves. Writhe in pain. Get up to pee and knock monitor out of jammies. Panic and wait to be electrocuted when it lands in the toilet. It misses and I live. Do stretching exercises in the dark living room to loosen cramps. Cry.

1/11/13 4:30 AM
Husband gets up to go to work and asks me what the hell I'm doing on the couch. Go back to bed.

1/11/13 7:00 AM
Wake up. Poop. Go back to bed.

1/11/13 9:30 AM
Get ass out of bed for realsies. Drink V8 and scratch as hard as I can around all the electrode patches. Wonder if I can stand the itching for one more day. Kiss the cat. Eat yogurt.

1/11/13 10:00 AM
Took Klonopin for muscle cramping and translated this diary for your reading pleasure.

1/11/13 10:01 AM
Realized my life is even more pathetic than I thought.

1/11/13 10:30 AM
Back to bed.

But I still have several more hours to go with the holter, so who knows? Maybe something will happen to make this diary half as entertaining as Sarah's. I'd hold my breath, but with a heart rate this low, that might be the end of my diary.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

My First Giveaway of 2013!

From now until noon January 2nd,
you can enter to win the 2013 custom copy of
Confessions of a Recovering Cynic,
along with a  MYSTERY PRIZE!!
 - Leave a comment on this post that you want the mystery prize
- Like the Tershbango page
- Leave a comment on Tershbango page: "I want the mystery prize"
- Share the giveaway info on Facebook
 - Follow Tershbango on Twitter
 - Tweet @Tershbango: "I want the mystery prize"
 - Retweet the giveaway info
Today at noon I selected a random
winner from all the entrants.

Misty Mae Haislip-Mason


Monday, December 24, 2012

The Santabomber

I've been Santabombing and it's so much fun.

Except I have to do it silently, which I fear may make it a touch creepy. Yet it's definitely less creepy than if I speak, since I get very excited while Santabombing.

Let me explain.

The world needs laughter and kindness, most especially after recent events. In honor of the 26 beautiful lights that were snuffed out in Connecticut, my goal is to Santabomb 26 strangers before Christmas day. I only have seven left to go.

See, I wrapped up copies my book with notes from Santa. Dunno what you did, but I was told to give this to you. Ho ho hope you don't sue me if you find my humor offensive.

I want to make 26 people laugh. Even if it's at me the weirdo and not the book. Whatev.

I've been giving them out a handful at a time in various places, and I do it stealthily like Batman. Except I'm too slow to be stealthy so instead I just walk up to people, set the gift on the table next to them (coffee shops, stores, restaurants) and turn away.

Sadly we live in a world where people react with immediate suspicion at being handed anything for free, and a 'quick explanation' out of my mouth would take an ow-ow-ow-hour and a ha-ha-ha-half and probably just make them wet themselves a little with nerves.

So I walk out and get on with my day.

And ho-ho-hope that somewhere, someone who got Santabombed, is reading my book right now and maybe - just maybe - getting a much-needed laugh during this stressful season in a sad mean world.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

12 Reasons to Buy My Book on 12-12-12

1. If the world ends today, you can say you helped a starving artist on your last day on earth. Literally. Apparently my blood is malnourished. I live in third world West St. Paul. (WTF?)

2. I am super lucky. Like, creepy lucky. Healer witches find me in tiny backwoods towns. So if you buy my book on such as auspicious date, certainly you too will be showered in good luck. Just this week I'm so lucky we only had dead animal parts left on our doorstep once.

3. I support independent artists, too. Many of the gifts I'm giving this holiday are handmade by friends from all over the world. It's a pretty cool feeling connecting with someone twelve zillion miles away over something one of you creates.

4. I'm fairly certain you'll laugh at least twelve times whilst reading the book so your worst case scenario is about a buck a yuck.

5. It's just twelve days until Christmas Eve. Give Santa a hand, will ya? The man is obese and that rosacea whiskey nose can't take the cold much longer. He's old, dude.

6. My book is like a helpful twelve-step program on how not to live your life. It should probably be handed out in colleges during freshman orientation along with the condoms and pepper spray keychains.

7. The book has about 24 pictures in it, probably half of which are entertaining, so that's twelve funny pictures as a bonus in addition to all the words.

8. It's set in 12 pt type with spacing that makes it easy on the eyes. This means my book can appeal to readers age 18 to 120. Anyone older than that would probably be a world record holder for age and might die of a stroke reading one of the stories. I can't have that kind of weight on my shoulders.

9. There are probably at least twelve stories in there shameful enough to make you feel smug about yourself and your own (suddenly seeming) wise life choices.

10. At least twelve people unrelated to me have read it and reported back to me positively.

11. For ONE DAY ONLY, until midnight tonight, books are $12 + $1.20 shipping in the US, for orders placed through PayPal. (See upper right corner!)

And the twelfth reason to buy my book on 12-12-12?

12. Tomorrow I will select a random winner from everyone who leaves a comment on this post that isn't a troll leaving links to sites about Bear Grylls, the Malaysian economy or sex toys. This lucky winner will receive the customized 12-12-12 End of the World Stick Figure Edition of my book. It's like Christmas and your birthday rolled up into one, with New Year's Eve frosting. Actually it's just a free copy with a stick figure I drew on it, but you can say it's custom. Or limited edition. Or whatever sounds coolest.

Friday, December 7, 2012


Today is my seven year anniversary of not getting married in Las Vegas.

While a Vegas wedding may have been the first red flag, the second ought to have been scheduling a wedding on the anniversary of a tragic national disaster.

And, no - we didn't schedule a Pearl Harbor day wedding for discounts - there weren't any. I had to work around X's packed schedule of hunting, fishing, baseball, football, boys night and basketball seasons.

Mere weeks before the wedding, though, X decided that a marriage would greatly impede the aforementioned seasons and left me. With a planned-out, scheduled and mostly paid-for and nonrefundable wedding. In Vegas.

So after throwing his belonging in garbage bags over the balcony for his friends to pick up (and no - I didn't pee in the bags, despite the emphatic suggestion of a friend who shall remain nameless), we set off for Vegas.

The trip was paid for, might as well party, right?



Drinking in Las Vegas on the night of your collapsed wedding is a minefield. A minefield of boobs you will flash, gay men you will cry on and also kiss, and outrunning the police.

Do you know how drunk you have to be to have the police called on you in Las Vegas!?
  • Drunk enough to believe you can sing Alanis Morrissette karaoke
  • Drunk enough to believe that just one more Red Bull vodka is what you need
  • Drunk enough to believe the worlds deserve to see your boobs (incidentally and unfortunately, the world included my brother, who informed me that if I didn't put those things away immediately, he had a right hook with my name on it)
There's more to the story (there always is), but I won't rat out the others. Suffice to say we were a hammered and motley crew and sometime after 4 AM, police were called.

We raced out of the Subway where The Incident took place (I know, right? Subway. Gross.) and in an act of divine intervention (or more probably a wink from Lady Luck) we got away in the crowd.

I then inserted a $100 bill into a slot machine and hit max bet twice. Gone.

It wasn't a nickel slot, it was a five-dollar slot. I couldn't read.

My friend put me to bed and in the morning I woke up curiously thirsty and delighted to see a paper Subway cup on the nightstand. Who went there? I'd have to thank them because I sure needed a drink.

I picked up the cup and took a hearty slug of warm vodka laced with flat fountain Diet Pepsi. I can't recall for certain now, it's been seven years, but I think I made it to the bathroom.

Friday, October 19, 2012

The Cat Ate My Qi

I try to meditate during acupuncture because squirming isn't recommended when you're full of needles.

I use a mantra because I remember from meditation classes how important that is. See, that guy's nutsack isn't all I took away from my time at the Minneapolis Zen Center.

Inhale: Blessings In
Exhale: Poisons Out

Generally I get through three or four inhalations before being distracted by the heat lamp or an itch on the tip of my nose. But I am trying.

After each session I feel completely wrung out and yesterday I burrowed into bed immediately for a nap. Gabby had already commandeered my pillow so I head-butted my way in and she curled around me like a shrimp.

A shrimp with a tongue.

A shrimp with a tongue and an obsessive-compulsive licking fetish.

I passed out, sandpaper massage and all and woke to a raw forehead. Only then did I realize.


All the poison out exhalations, and here she was licking the exact spot of my unicorn needle, the one that for some reason always zings like an electric shock going in.

Oh, great.

The cat is going to start stuttering and losing her equilibrium and bitching about muscle spasms all the time.

This place isn't big enough for two mildly retarded invalids. Mark's gonna run for the hills.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Oh, My Aching....Ass

My butt hurts but I'm a married woman now so I won't show you a picture because my husband frowns upon it. Instead I'll show you an unrelated picture of matzo balls in a delicious bowl of soup.

As if my sexy new stutter weren't enough, my muscles seem to be doing the electric slide without my input lately. They twist and ache and seize up in cramps. For the past two days it's been my butt and the backs of my thighs. At one point the muscle contractions were so intense I couldn't breathe.

Acupuncture doesn't hurt if you remain still but during yesterday's treatment my body started a sort of rolling muscle spasm. This is not pleasant or recommended whilst housing 70+ needles in your backside.

Mama Bird is my chauffeur and PR rep and she watched my session out of curiosity. Afterward she informed me that the needles in my arse were inserted at least a couple of inches and that the muscles seizing made them pop back out halfway like I was trying to eject them with my buttcheeks. This is not at all relevant to my caboose hurting so much but it's funny, yes?

In the past 48 hours my butt has been fondled by my husband and mother, the chiropractor, the acupuncturist and Charley the Jackass Horse.

It's a cool sunny Saturday in September, perfect for a hayride or an apple orchard, right? Not for me, thanks. I'll be right here at home massaging my battered rear end and praying Charley has been scared off by my needle-launching butt.

Go ahead, laugh.

I would if it were you.
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