Idiot

What happened?
He broke up with me.
Why?
He didn't want to date me anymore.
Idiot.

-Gilmore Girls

Let's talk about poop.

If you don't like talking about poop, this blog post is not going to be for you.

I have twin toddler nieces. We talk about poop pretty openly. But this blog post will not be about toddler poop. This is a blog post where I stop being embarrassed and tell the world what's been going on with my health the past few months.

I've had a pretty shitty time. (Ha, ha. You'll understand that joke in a minute.)

I was diagnosed with IBS a couple of months ago. I was given a medicine. For a while, it worked. Life was great. I ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I actually gained a little bit of weight, so I stopped doing that and went back to my normal diet.

For absolutely no reason whatsoever, a couple of weeks ago my body decided to, excuse my language, totally fuck shit up.

The medicine stopped working. And then my body raged a war on me.

At first, I thought it was a reaction from the flu shot. And then I thought I had the flu. I wasn't vomiting, I didn't have migraines like I did last time I had the flu, and I didn't have any body aches.

The only symptom was diarrhea.

It never stopped. It just got worse.

I tried my best to hide it. I stayed home from work on the bad days. I kept a heating pad on my stomach to help with the cramps. (Someone actually asked me if I was pregnant. No, I am not. There's nothing in my stomach except irritable bowels. Sorry for the disappointing news.)

It's not just the diarrhea that's bad. The stomach cramps were, well, are, insane. I can feel my intestines freaking out about food. The pain never stopped or went away.

In the middle of trying to figure this out medically, I came up with a simple solution all on my own.

I stopped eating.

Eating solid food became a source of anxiety for me. I was ashamed about it, and I didn't want people to realize what was going on in my life.

The pain was mediocre at that point. Not eating is not the long-term solution to this problem, though. My solution was a band aid. I needed something more permanent. Something less stupid.

Oh, shit, I thought. I have to be a grown-up and talk to a doctor about my shit.

This week, I upped my game plan at my doctor's office. I left doctor No. 2's office with a prescription, went to fill it, and walked away when I was told it cost more than $1,000.

I was told to call the drug company. I did. They said they had never experienced the insurance and pharmacy technicality that I was dealing with. I was unique, they said.

They opened a case for me, gave me a case number, and said they'd get back to me in one to three business days.

I appreciate their help. I appreciate that they didn't tell me to buzz off. But telling me to wait three days is like telling me to wait three years. That's a really, really long time when your days involve not eating and running to the bathroom anywhere from 11 to more than 20 times a day.

FYI: That's not normal. Who knew? Apparently I have a severe case of IBS-D.

There is one medicine that can help with this. It's new, two doctors told me.

If anyone reading this blog post can honestly afford medicine that costs $1,000 a month, can we talk? I have a favor to ask you! One that will cost $12,000 a year!

I'll pay you back, if you give me a 0 percent interest loan and a 12,000 year pay off plan.

I parked my butt in doctor No. 1's office the day after I failed to get the medicine. I was not going to leave until I had a solution.

Be strong, I told myself. Stick up for yourself, be firm, and find a solution to this shitty, shitty situation.

I am on vacation from work this week. I spent hours, and I do mean hours, talking on the phone with the drug company, the insurance company, pharmacies, and my doctor's offices.

Sometimes, people were nice to me. Often, I left crying.

-----

One day, I gave up completely for about 20 minutes. I laid down in my bed and I cried. My Pickles Pug snuggled up against me and laid her head on me.

I cried. I wailed. I sobbed.

 I don't even remember the last time I cried that much, that bad.

Sometimes, it feels like the entire world is against you. Sometimes, it feels like people are purposely not helping you.

My mom called me. I was so upset I couldn't talk. I told her I'd call her back.

The lady at the first pharmacy I went to acted like there was a cactus in her panties about this medicine. I fired them immediately and knew I needed a new pharmacy.

There's one pharmacy in town that is not located in a chain store. I went there, in my pajamas, with a tear-stained face and shaky hands. I thought maybe they'd help me.

After 20-minutes of giving up, I decided to not give up and try again.

-----

I gave up more than once.

During one of the times I gave up, my Mom decided to not give up on me. She made a phone call that eventually set the wheels in motion for a solution.

That's what great about great parents. Even when you give up on yourself, they never give up on you.

The only reason I got out of bed after sobbing is because, well, if my Mom won't give up on me, I better not give up on me.

The cool thing about my parents is that they're good parents.

I'm lucky.

I was an asshole to them more than once in my life.

I'm sorry for that.

I had my head up my butt.

(Butt reference intentional.)

-----

I waited until the crowd cleared out at the new pharmacy, the one not in a chain store. I went up to the counter, with my insurance card and the drug company discount card in my hand, and calmly asked to speak to a pharmacist.

In my experience, most doctors actually want to help you. Assistants, maybe not so much, but most doctors are good people and will listen.

(Getting to them is sometimes difficult. Let's not talk about that subject.)

The pharmacist that helped me was adorable. She's younger than me, and really tried to help me. I was in my pjs. It was very clear that I had been crying.

She asked me exactly how rough my day had been.

I looked that bad.

She took my information, and said she'd work on it and get back to me.

They called me a couple of times. They gave me a phone number to call, which eventually led to the drug company telling me they'd get back to me...eventually.

I hit another dead end.

A very long, very frustrating day ended with no solution in sight.

-----

The next morning, I woke up and decided to give the first doctor's office a try again.

Admitting you cheated on your doctor is never fun, but it just means that you want a solution and you want to do what's best for your body.

I told her everything. I told her every single shitty detail (see what I did there?!?).

She said she needed to call someone named Justin*. Who is Justin, exactly? I have no idea, but he apparently works for the drug company. This Justin character seemed to be the answer to my problems.

As it turns out, Justin has a lot of power.

Doctor No. 1 told me that I needed to leave her office with a solution. Running to the bathroom 11 times a day is not acceptable, she said.

"We need to get to the bottom of this," she told me.

Snort, I thought. I'll show you the bottom of this!

She left the room to do doctor things.

And I waited.

And I waited.

I played on my phone until my phone died.

When it died (my phone, not my soul), I sat in the exam room and wondered why the fate of my bowels depended on this Justin person.

Justin gets to decide whether I can eat solid food? Great, I thought. My life is in the hands of someone I don't know.

I thought about how much life sucks. I thought about how life isn't fair.

When doctor No. 1 came back into the exam room, I asked her if this was literally the only medicine on the face of the planet I could take.

Yes, she said.

Well...dammit.

I waited for a couple of hours. I could hear her on the phone with this dude, trying to find a solution for me.

It's not like I could get mad for waiting. I mean, it's not like I could say, 'How dare you spend time trying to help me? What are you thinking? Stop it!'

I sat there and waited. I, with a severe case of IBS, waited two hours.

Thankfully, the bathroom was around the corner. People with IBS care about shit like that.

It turns out that Justin is a really great guy. He called the pharmacy, the new one with the adorable, helpful young pharmacist, and blah blah blah, some more stuff happened.

That medicine that I was charged more than $1,000 for the day before?

I got it for free.

-----

That is the short version of the story. If you're wondering, no, I never went to a specialist. I have no appointment set up as of right now.

I fired doctor No. 2.

I told him that I liked him, but that I needed a solution now. Someone else beat him to that. We parted on good terms. He told me to go back to him if I ever needed him.

I said cool. Later, dude. Thanks for the original medicine. You did help me for a couple of months.

And then he asked me if I wanted to keep the specialist appointment that was set up for me. The one that I cried a lot about.

Um, I wasn't aware I ever had an appointment, I told him.

"You mean no one told you about it?"

I have two rules in life.

1. If you call a doctor's office wanting to make an appointment, and the phone call ends and you don't have an appointment, don't walk the other way. RUN THE OTHER WAY.

2. Communication is important. If a doctor can't communicate with their office, with you, or if their office can't communicate with you, that relationship is doomed. RUN THE OTHER WAY. The best doctor in the world can become the worse doctor in the world if their communication skills blow.

I denied the specialist appointment.

If someone says the word specialist to me, I'm going to punch them in the throat.

-----

That's the short version of the story. I have no idea what the future will look like. I was told that this is something you can't cure. It has to be managed, a lot like depression and anxiety.

Sometimes it will be bad. Sometimes it will be good.

In the end, I'm really thankful that nothing is seriously wrong with me. I'm thankful that my only problem at the moment isn't life threatening. It's annoying and it hurts, but it's not the most pain I've ever felt in my life.

It's irritating. I guess that's why the first word of this problem is "irritable."

I guess severe cases like mine can really be this bad.

In a word, it's shitty.

-----

*Justin's name has been changed. I changed it to Justin because the dude's name is a member of *NSYNC. (I'm 31 years old. I'd like to point that out.) Hopefully, I'm beating the Google search, because I'm pretty sure a guy who works as a drug rep doesn't give a shit about a 90s boy band and won't find this story about him when he Googles his name and his occupation.

----

Secretly, I love using the shit references. There has not been a lot of happiness in my life the past two weeks. It's my one way of laughing about this.

I mean...it's just a really shitty situation.

-----

I have one more story about this.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to the sound of rain and thunder.

It was amazing.

I have three Pugs. They did not think it was amazing. They have small brains. In their minds, they think it's okay to poop in the house all day if it's raining.

Even if the rain stops in the morning, they still think it's okay to poop in the house. Even if I don't make them go outside in bad weather, even if I wait until it stops raining to stick them outside, they still think it's raining.

Yesterday, all three of my dogs pooped in the house.

The Pugs and I had a heart-to-heart conversation.

Pugs, I said. Don't you guys think I have enough poop in my life? Do you honestly think I want to deal with your poop, too?

Fyi, lecturing your dogs about IBS doesn't really work.

-----

When I left doctor No. 1's office, I had tears of happiness in my eyes.

This woman just spent two hours talking to a guy about my bowels. This woman actually listened to me. This women gave me a solution.

I went to leave, but I lingered a little.

I turned to her and asked if I could give her a hug.

She opened her arms and smiled.

-----

I wrote 2,000 words about poop.

I win at life.

Idiots and butts

In the end, bad days usually end up being good stories.

-----

The day did not start out promising.

I went to the bank this morning. I honestly thought the bank closed at noon on Saturdays.

I pulled into the parking lot, and there was no line. Sweet!

Then some jerk in a huge vehicle pulled out of their parking spot, cutting me off in the process, and pulled up to the window right by the bank building.

No problem, I thought. I pulled into the second lane.

Whatever the vehicle was doing was not a simple transaction. They talked with the teller for a few minutes. By then, it was nearing 11:30 a.m.

No one offered to help me. I thought maybe there was only one person working the drive through, so I let it go. I buzzed for help.

After a few minutes, I buzzed again.

I thought about driving to the bank's other location, but I couldn't justify the drive just to deposit a whopping $20.

I waited. The other vehicle finally pulled away. The teller looked at me, then closed the blinds in the window.

It was 11:32 a.m., and the bank closed at 11:30 a.m.

I drove away, kind of laughing, and kind of mad. I can't tell you how many times I've had terrible customer service at random businesses this year.

Dozens, it seems.

I thought about switching banks, but then I realized that throwing a fit would not actually change anything.

I will deposit my $20 on Monday, which is way less than that because after the bank debacle, I went to Hobby Lobby to drown my sorrows in shiny glittery crap.

-----

I called my mom in the bank's parking lot, preparing to whine to her, but she didn't answer my call.

Mom, what could you possibly be doing that's more important than the problem I'm having at the moment?

I mean, Jesus.

(I'm joking. Kind of.)

-----

When I did finally get to my Mom and Dad's house, they basically asked me what crawled up my butt and died.

It's not that I'm in a bad mood, I said. It's just that I have this special gift for finding idiots and inviting them into my life.

They laughed.

It's like the more idiotic you are, the more likely you are to live in Monicaland.

(I can have a pity party for no reason if I want to, okay?)

Despite the fact that the world almost ended when I didn't get my way, my day went on. Believe it or not, it actually got better. And by that I mean worse.

-----

While I was having the bank meltdown, I was doing so while wearing a pretty cute pair of leggings. I wasn't trying to impress anyone this morning, so I threw on the BRAND SPANKING NEW leggings on with a hoodie that covers my butt.

Because leggings are not pants, dudes. Somehow I justified going out into public with leggings and a hoodie. Because, who cares?

After I had the bank meltdown, I went into a store and got a drink, and I went to my Mom and Dad's house.

I sat down at their kitchen table, thinking about how terrible my life is, and I wondered what drink  they spilled on the wooden chair.

It was cold!

I lifted my butt up, and felt the chair. There was no liquid, so I sat my butt back down.

That feeling of cold came back. It was then that I realized the cold I was feeling was of my cheek, and not the cheek that's on my face, touching the chair.

As in, bare skin on a chair. As in, there was a hole in my BRAND NEW LEGGINGS.

I covered my butt, told my Mom not to look at my cheeks, and left in a hurry.

I hauled ass back to my house (get the joke?). When I changed clothes, my bad day got worse.

There was not one hole in my leggings. The butt portion of my leggings had six holes that I counted, and we are not talking small holes.

You guys, my butt just claimed another victim. If my butt in those leggings was any holier, it'd need its own church service.

Leggings that cost $7 for a two-pack are not worth it.

Sometimes you get what you pay for.

Sometimes you get a good story out of a bad day.

Thankful

Last week was not a good week in Monicaland.

The universe did not align properly for me. Honestly, nothing really went my way, and I was pretty mad about it.

On Friday night, I was taking a co-worker home after work. I thought I heard something funny, so I pulled over onto a side street.

I don't know much about flat tires, but I know that you're not supposed to drive on them.

I pulled over, got out of my car, and walked around to the other side.

Ah, bummer. That's a flat tire if I've ever seen one.

I did the only thing I know how to do: I called my Dad. And then I called my bff to cancel our walking date.

Bff sent her husband my way, and my Dad was on his way. Meanwhile, I sat in my car on the side of the road, kind of like a bird with a broken wing.

I just kinda sat there, waiting to be rescued.

In my rear view mirror, a white truck pulled up behind me.

There are silver trucks in my life and there are black trucks in my life, but there are no white trucks in my life. On the mean streets of western Kansas, I figured getting out and introducing myself wouldn't bring me anymore trouble.

Farmer Aaron was driving past my car, and saw my tire. He couldn't just drive past and let me sit there, he said.

Oh, sweet.

He pointed to my trunk and told me to pop it open. It took me a second, but I realized he was talking about getting my spare tire out.

You guys, I went to college. I should be smarter than this.

Farmer Aaron is really, really fast at changing tires. He taught me how to do it, and told me to drive slow on my way to get it fixed.

By the time Farmer Aaron left, my Dad and bff's husband showed up.

Getting a flat tire and having a good conversation with a farmer was the best thing that happened to be last week.

I didn't catch his last name, but I want to thank a guy for helping me when he didn't have to. Also, I'd like to thank him for being nice to someone who was not having a good week.

There are still good people in the world, afterall.

Chicken feet

Note: I'm going through blog posts I have waiting to be published. This made me smile. 

It was to be a short trip.

On Saturday, I bought some harnesses for my Pugs. I bought them a size too big, and I and the Pugs didn't really like them.

I threw my shoes on and planned to be gone about 20 minutes to return the harnesses and get my money back.

I parked my car at the store. I didn't even shut my door when I heard a voice behind me.

"Hi Monica."

I turned around and saw the world's cutest toddlers, dressed in black. Like ninjas (they pronounce it ninyas).

A simple shopping trip turned into an hour-long adventure wherein my nieces climbed into a diaper display, put a package of chicken feet into the cart, and screamed in excitement when I put them upside down, threw them into the air, and twirled them around in circles.

I hate it when people's kids run around stores like little monsters. It turns out, if those kids are related to you, it's totally okay for that to happen.

My objective that afternoon was not to shop. I had already done that a few hours earlier. My goal was to make my nieces smile and laugh as much as possible.

I love those little ninyas (toddler speak for ninjas).

How my life is going.

I made a phone call this morning because I couldn't log onto a website.

Said website is very important, and has to do with my health and money.

So I call them up. I tell them that I can't log into the website.

They place me on hold a few times. After about 45 minutes, they get me off of hold.

They tried to log in as me, the guy said, and it didn't work.

Yes. Yes, dude, that is exactly why I called you. I could have, and did, tell you that 45 minutes ago.

Sigh.

Lame-o

The dumbest thing ever is having to take medicine with food, all the while having the side effect of nausea while taking the medication.

I made dinner last night. It was delicious and I ate it.

Then I gagged and dry-heaved the rest of the night, and struggled to put the food in a container to put in the fridge.

:(

Notice a theme, here?

Do you ever feel like the universe is picking on you?

This week has been a hard week.

Two woe-is-me stories are below.

-----

On Tuesday, I called my pharmacy. I'd like a three-month supply of two medications, please and thank you.

Oh, they said. You're out of re-fills. No problem, I said. I already called my doctor's office, and they told me to call you.

Great, the pharmacy said. We'll have those ready for you tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes, and I walk into the pharmacy to get my medicine. Only...my medicine is nowhere in sight.

Did you get a text message saying your medications are ready?

No, I said. I talked to a real, live human being yesterday. She told me they would be ready.

You didn't get a text message?

No, I did not.

Well, if you don't get a text message that means your medications aren't ready.

...but I talked to a living, breathing person yesterday. I thought they would be ready because I was told my medications would be ready.

Your medications aren't ready unless we text you.

(I would like to bang my head against a wall at this point.)

Oh, they said again. The problem is that you have no refills.

Yes, I do, I said. There's one refill left on one of them, and I called to request a refill on the other yesterday.

But you have to call your doctor's office to do that.

I did. They told me to call you, which I did yesterday.

Oh? Well, how many pills do you have left?

None.

Oh? If you plan ahead better next time, we can mail them to you.

That would be fantastic, except you have never once mailed them to me when I've asked you to.

Oh?

I told them to forget about it, and that I'd fill my prescriptions elsewhere. (I was nice about it and did not yell, scream or cuss. I just gave up and walked away.)

(Giving up and walking away is a theme with health care providers in my life.)

Three minutes later, a message comes over the store's intercom: "Monica Springer to the pharmacy, please."

I turned and looked at my mom. I said something like, "I'm not even sure I want to go back there."

I got a three-month supply of one of my medications in the mail today. Where the three-month supply of my other medication is, I'm not totally sure.

I don't have it in me to fight with them today.

My life would be a lot easier if health care providers did what I asked them to do.

I don't think it's hard.

They do.

-----

Speaking of health care Gods hating me, I requested a copy of my records from my former medical office earlier this year. The exchange that followed took more than a month and requests on my part in person, over the phone, through email and through a snail-mail letter.

(Dudes, I used to be a journalist. If I want records, I'm going to get them.)

I finally got my records when I pointed out, through email/a letter so there would be a paper trail, that hey, it turns out that you are legally required to give me this information.

Those silly laws.

Long story short, that's a HIPAA violation if I ever saw one. I requested my records more than a month before I had an appointment with a new doctor. I received them two business days before my appointment with a new doctor.

I guess I have to give the old office a little bit of credit. I never thought I'd see my records. Ever. I gave up on ever getting them, and I was mentally preparing to tell my new doctor about my past medical history. Which, on this subject, is really, really long and really, really stupid and complicated.

But I did finally get them. When the new doctor read my records, he told me a few things from them that I didn't know. As in, good news. It was a good day in Monicaland that day. I was proud of myself for not giving up.

Anyway, I made a HIPAA complaint. I think laws should be followed. I think people should have access to their medical records. When laws aren't followed, I think there should be consequences.

I got a letter in the mail today. It could be a violation, the letter said, but we're not going to do anything about it.

It took them four or five pages to say that, but they could have summed it up in the above two sentences.

I honestly wasn't expecting anything to happen, but part of me was hoping that someone would stick up for me in the health care world.

That is not the case today. Who knows what surprises tomorrow brings.

You win some and you lose some. Some losses are harder to take than others.

This particular loss stings.

Those records describe what's going on with my body, and what I have to do and don't have to do to fix it.

And for more than a month, I didn't have those records. I had no idea what needed to be done and what didn't need to be done. What person on God's green earth could possibly deny that information to me?

It bothers me. It bothers me a lot.

-----

I need a drink.

On voting

I am not a bleeding heart Liberal.

In college, I was a registered Independent. But the thing that sucks about that is that you can't vote in the primaries. In order to vote in a primary election, you have to choose either red or blue.

After college, I changed to a registered Democrat. I didn't get to pick Barack Obama in the primary election, and I was bummed about that.

I do not vote for Democrats just because they're Democrats.

I will sing this to anyone who will listen, but I will vote for Jerry Moran any day. I talked with him many a times as a reporter, and he always treated me kindly and with respect.

He did not show up in a Blackhawk helicopter when a Kansas town was destroyed by a tornado. He drove in quietly, dodged the national media circus, talked to me, a local reporter, then went about his business.

If he ran for president, I would vote for him in a heartbeat. I, a registered Democrat, would stick a Moran poster in my front yard. I would change my party affiliation to vote for him in the primary.

I stayed far, far away from politics this year. I did not watch any presidential debates. I didn't click on news stories.

In 2008, I had to pay attention, because I was a newspaper reporter.

When President Obama was inaugurated, I watched him and his wife dance on a hospital waiting room television. I was covering a story about a women who was flown to the Mayo Clinic with a disease that eventually ended up being named after her. (When she was flown home to die a year later, I was there, too.)

This time around, this election, I am not a newspaper reporter. I don't have to pay attention to both sides, and I choose not to.

I knew, with 100 percent of my being, that I do not live in a country where Donald Trump would be elected president.

Well...oops.

On election night, I had a hankering that he would win Florida pretty early in the night. I considered the race over around 11 p.m., and went to sleep knowing that my candidate wasn't likely to win.

I started Googling Trump's stance on things.

Abortion. Against, expect in the cause of rape, incest, or if the mother's life is in danger.

Just because I'm a Democrat does not mean I'm "for abortion." I am not "for abortion."

I don't think abortion should be used as a form of birth control. Ever.

Here's where I get hung up, though. I don't think it's my job to tell another woman what to do with her body.

In a hypothetical world where abortion is only legal in cases of rape, who gets to decide if a woman is raped? A large portion of rapes are not reported to law enforcement. If a woman doesn't want to raise her rapist's child, does she have to go in front of a judge to get an abortion? A jury?

Who gets to decide that? More over, who actually wants to decide that?

(For what it's worth, no, a woman's body doesn't have ways of "shutting that down." Let's not even go there.)

Immigration. Trump says he'll deport illegal aliens who have committed crimes in this country.

Well, that's better than deporting everyone who is here illegally, I suppose.

But what crimes are worth deportation? Is not paying child support considered a crime? If so, does deporting someone to a third-world country really going to solve the problem of the mother not getting money from the father (or vice versa)?

No, it doesn't solve that.

It doesn't actually solve a problem. It just creates another problem.

Speaking of problems, I find it really hard to believe Trump is going to mess up health care more than it's already messed up.

Maybe he'll actually do something to fix it? I have no idea, but I don't think it can get any worse than it is right now. (Knock on wood)

I did not vote for him, but I have no choice but to support him.

I shared a photo on Facebook the day after the election: Wanting someone to fail at the presidency is like wanting the pilot to crash a plane that we're all on.

Maybe he'll be a great president.

I think he deserves that chance.

Pugs and bugs.

The other night, it was around 8 p.m., and I was spent.

I told the Pugs to go to bed...and then I realized they were already in bed.

I crawled into bed, yawned, laid down and went to shut my lamp off beside my bed. And then I saw it. There were bugs crawling all over my ceiling.

Now, I'm not overly sensitive to bugs. I don't mind bugs outside. But bugs are not allowed inside of my house. If you are a bug in my house, you die.

I don't own a flyswatter. Even if I did, it wouldn't have helped me, because my ceilings are 10-feet tall.

I am, on a good day with shoes on, five feet, three inches tall.

Do they make a fly swatter that's five feet long?!?

I decided the solution to the problem involved shoes, a ladder, and a mop. I did manage to kill all of the lady bug things, and I eventually found and flushed all of the corpses.

In the middle of climbing on ladders, cussing, and throwing shoes, my FitBit buzzed because I had reached my step goal.

Of course I thought it was a bug buzzing on my wrist, and I freaked out.

I also accidentally tried to kill a piece of dust on the wall. It turns out, dust doesn't die. It just kinda floats around until you figure out it's dust and not a bug.

My dogs were traumatized. Two slept in the living room that night. The only dog that slept with me was the blind dog, who had no idea what was going on.

Pugs and bugs, I tell you. Pugs and bugs.

Stuff you need vs. stuff you don't need

My kitchen and my life are slowly looking like normal again.

Last night, I moved my jars of sugar, flour, and brown sugar to the kitchen counter top. They had been sitting on a chair in my dining room for the past week.

The curtains were actually hung in the kitchen, instead of sitting on my couch.

The cabinet doors are not on yet. It turns out, paint doesn't dry particularly fast on days when it's 50 degrees out, 80 percent humidity and rainy.

That means that for the next few days, I will be able to see every single thing in my cabinets. My silverware, wooden spoons and other utensils are sitting in a cardboard box in the middle of my kitchen.

But let's talk about the glass jars that I've collected over the past year.

I knew I had a glass jar hoarding problem, but I didn't realize how bad it was until this week.

I had two large grocery bags full of glass jars, only I didn't have them stored in one spot. They were in a cabinet here, a cabinet there, and underneath the sink. Some were in the bathroom.

I thought of using them as center pieces. For what exactly, I'm not sure. But they were pretty! They were interesting shapes! And, I was going to re-use them and change the planet by not throwing them away!

I thought I'd get on Pinterest and find a use for them.

I'm happy to report that I did find a use for them. Yesterday, I took them to the recycling center.

I do not need two grocery bags full of empty glass jars. What I do need is more kitchen storage space and less junk.

That space will probably be used for something more practical, like storing canning jars that I can actually use.

Tomorrow night's low is 33. I've got tomatoes to pick, freeze, and can eventually.

Having however many empty glass jars from store bought products will not help me can. What will help me is watching an episode of Hoarders and realizing that I have to get my life together.

(Ps, all is well and normal in the stomach/colon/intestines front. I downed pizza last night for dinner. I might have even had a piece for breakfast this morning. I love food. Not being able to eat solid food is not a problem I want to ever have in my life again.)

I do need to go through my kitchen and find more items to donate...like the cat butt keyring holder I took off my kitchen cabinets.

It didn't make the cut.

Googling shit

In Googling my medicine, it seems as though my antibiotic also treats anthrax and the plague.

I guess I'm covered, you know, just in case.

Being mad at myself for eating food is not a solution to my problem.

I have a special talent for finding flaws in the health care industry.

I realized that this week. More than once, I gave up, climbed into bed and cried.

Maybe the word 'cried' is an understatement. I sobbed. I wailed. I acted like a toddler who was given a blue plate when she wanted a pink plate (true story).

I have a really long blog post detailing my latest health ordeal, but I think I'm going to sit on it a while before I publish it. It takes time to get over health stuff.

It takes time to heal.

The short story is that there is no appointment with a specialist. I fired doctor No. 2, went back to doctor No. 1, explained the situation to her, and she worked her ass off to find a same-day solution for me.

I don't want to scream success just yet. I did finally get the medicine I need, and for that I'm thankful.

That medicine has some wicked side effects, and I'm still figuring out how to take it without feeling like poop afterward.

Am I being too vague?

Maybe I'll start from the beginning. Well, it's more like the middle.

(I want to stick my tongue out too, The Raven)
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The most frustrating thing in the world is knowing that you have something wrong with your body, and knowing that the person you're talking to about it doesn't really care.

This has happened to me more than once this year.

My latest health ordeal ended up being a severe case of IBS, plus maybe some colitis thrown in there just for the fun of it.

The solution was an antibiotic, a steroid, and a really freaking expensive bottle of medicine that I ended up getting for free.

The symptoms worsened two weeks ago. Last week, I just gave up eating.

Earlier this week, I had a banana and two grapes. That was what I had to eat the whole day.

I felt guilty for eating that because it wrecked havoc on my stomach. I knew it wouldn't agree with me, and I knew I would have a bad day because of it.

I should have known better, I thought.

Okay...I'm criticizing myself for eating a banana. This problem needs to be solved. Being mad at myself for eating food is not a solution to my problem.

I went to the doctor a lot this week. At each appointment, I saw my weight drop more, and more, and more, until finally I just sat in a doctor's office and refused to move until I got an answer.

When she did finally give me a solution, I hugged her. For once this week, I cried because I was happy.

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The thing that I don't think doctors understand is that they have the ability to change someone's life. Whether they care enough to do it is another story.

I went to a lot of appointments this week.

In the end, one doctor and one pharmacist listened to me and took me seriously. The other people collected my money, told me to see someone else about the problem, and sent me out the door.

The health care system is broken.

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If I was in charge of the world, I would make one law. I would make it against the law for a doctor's office to deny an appointment to someone in pain.

This has happened to me three times this year. I don't mean to sound like a brat, but each time it happened to me I was right -- there was something wrong with my body that only a doctor could fix.

It baffles my mind that someone with a high school diploma (receptionist) has the ability to control whether a person in pain is seen or not.

I tried to explain that to one doctor's office this year. Hint: It didn't work out so well. It turns out that you can't fix stupid.

That experience made me have a new policy in my life.  If I call a doctor's office wanting to make an appointment, and the call ends and I don't have an appointment, I fire that office immediately.

Take my advice, guys. It's a waste of time to try and fix stupid. Just find someone else to go to. Don't try to fix the system.

It's not fixable.

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I started this blog post off with the intent to write something precise and on point.

Now I'm not entirely sure what my point is, except that I'm tired of being sick and tired.

I'm thankful that my problem really just ended up being irritating. It's not serious, and it's not life threatening.

I'm thankful that I got ahold of this medicine, and I'm thankful for the people who helped me get it.

I'm thankful that the pharmacist I talked to in my pjs while I was crying actually listened to my problem instead of shoving me out the door like everyone else did.

I'm thankful for my doctor (nurse practitioner technically, but she did more for me than any doctor did, so I officially give her the title of doctor on thishereblogpost).

I wish every doctor wanted to change every patient's life for the better at every single appointment.

I wish.

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I'm thankful, but I'm also mad.

I'm mad that I wasted time and money on people who didn't help me.

I'm mad that the specialist appointment that was to take a "couple of days" never materialized.

I'm mad that the first pharmacy I went to didn't try to help me.

I'm mad that I was denied an appointment when I needed it.

What makes me livid, though, is that this has happened to me multiple times this year.

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I have a tradition of quoting The Bloggess in my health posts.

That tradition continues with this amazing post she made in 2013, called Where I am Right Now. Her words have gotten me through some tough nights.

And more upsetting is the fact that I still feel exactly as exhausted as I did before we started the treatment, so God knows if this will even work or if it’ll just be another bullet-point in my list-of-shit-that’s-wrong-with-me. 

I should be happy that things weren’t worse, and relieved that I have the resources to diagnose and maybe fix the problems, but today I’m just sick and tired of being sick and tired, and I can’t find a way to end this paragraph.

Grandma did a bad, bad thing.

The twins slept over at my house on Saturday.

When they woke up Sunday morning, it was kind of chaotic in my house. The twins were in bed, looking at each other and giggling.

My blind dog told me they were awake. Said blind dog is sensitive to sounds, and I guess two little giggling girls sounds like trouble to her.

I got the blind dog and the dumb dog outside. The smart dog stayed inside and refused to move an inch towards the back door.

Fine, smart dog. You can stay inside for a while. You don't have to go outside to potty right away.

The twins got up. I fed them breakfast, and then we listened to some music.

The girls went in my bathroom at some point, and didn't close the door. I went in to check on things, and I noticed the bathroom was a little stinky.

I didn't think much of it, and I shut the door. A little while later, I went in the bathroom to investigate. I found a Pug poop kind of, sort of hidden in a corner of the bathroom. The Pug that was inside is a fan of finding 'hidden' spots in my house to poop.

Penny Pug saw a door open that isn't usually open, and the opportunity to poop in a new place was practically handed to her on a silver platter.

The girls told me something about the bathroom, but I didn't really understand what they were saying.

I asked them who pooped on my bathroom floor.

They both had the same exact response: "Gamma."

"Gamma" means "Grandma" in toddler speak. I asked them again. Girls, who pooped on my bathroom floor?

"Gamma."

You're telling me that Grandma broke into my house overnight, walked through the bedroom you guys were sleeping in without waking you up, pooped on my bathroom floor, then left without being seen?

The girls: "Yes."

That Grandma. She's pretty sneaky!

:)

I know 100 percent that it was a Penny Pug poop. I love the fact that the girls aren't exactly the most reliable witnesses, haha.