Coping with the Bronchitis Plague of 2015

There’s some sort of lingering coughing illness around this season. I’ve been told it is “acute bronchitis.”  Well, I don’t think it’s very cute. Just about everyone I know has it, even me. I’m starting to think that this is a The Stand scenario, and we will all start dropping dead of Captain Trips soon. I’ve had it for three weeks and my husband is almost at the four-week mark. Over the course of those three weeks, I’ve come up with some tips and tricks to control that nagging cough.

Google “best cough medicine.”

Learn that 9 out of 10 pharmacists use Delsym.

Buy both the daytime and nighttime Delsym formulas.

Note that they don’t work but they do give you the runs. So, you have that going for you, too.

Take Imodium.

Get cranky after being constipated for three days, coughing the whole time.

Wonder what the hell that 10th pharmacist uses.

Try Motrin. Your airways are inflamed, right? Maybe an anti-inflammatory will work.

Hack and gag like a cat to get more snot up after a productive cough. Try not to bring up lunch at the same time.

Drink bourbon to control your cough.

Stop drinking bourbon because the burning makes you cough more.

Switch to vodka.

Add a little orange juice to your vodka because vitamin c.

Snort Nasacort every morning. If you can stop that postnasal drip the grandpa cough will stop, right?

Try a Bloody Mary. You got spiciness, vitamin c, and vodka. This has got to work.

Stop drinking Bloody Marys after you get heartburn.

Take a Tums.

Start coughing and gagging when the Tums powder hits your throat.

Take a nap with a cat.

Kick the cat off of your chest because the fur is making you cough more.

Go to the walk-in clinic.

Take the antibiotics and cough pills the nurse practitioner gives you.

Note that the cough pills are placebos.

Try some of your husband’s “controlled substance” cough syrup he got by going to the real doctor.

Note that the cough medicine does not work and keeps waking you up during the night with acid trip dreams.

Put Vick’s rub on your chest.

Wipe that shit off after you decide you don’t want to smell like your grandfather even if you do cough like him.

Learn to quickly wipe snot and spit from all surfaces from your many volcanic sneezes and coughs.

Eat your weight in chicken soup.

Get so tired of chicken soup that you can’t even watch a Progresso commercial.

Learn that laughing is your enemy. It brings on the death cough and scares your children.

If you wear hearing aids, like I do at 43, take them out. Nothing is worse than amplified coughs and sneezes.

Try cough drops.

Learn that a “cooling sensation” is NOT good during winter.

Pee even when you only have to go a little. You DON’T want to cough with a full bladder.

Just change your underwear if you coughed with a full bladder. Go ahead.

Use at least four pillows so you can sleep in a sitting up position.

Learn to work and take care of your family on no sleep because you are up coughing all night and cannot fucking sleep sitting up. Who suggested this bullshit?

Use a Q-Tip and put Vick’s rub up your nose.

Do an emergency Neti pot session after you are certain you have set your nostrils on fire, a frozen fire, but still a fire.

Order Chinese food because you don’t want to cough on food while you are cooking it.

Eat crab Rangoon and have a big coughing fit from the cream cheese.

Remember dairy products are not your friend.

Just eat your hot and sour soup and silently hate everyone at the table who is enjoying their crab Rangoon.

Take a Sudafed in the hopes that it will somehow end this coughing hell.

Clean out your refrigerator, freezer, pantry, and cabinets after the Sudafed kicks in, coughing the whole time but feeling so energized and focused.

Understand why meth is made with Sudafed.

Feel foggy and cranky when the Sudafed wears off.

Finally, just give up on ever living a cough free life. Curl up on the couch under a blanket and moan, “I’m dying. I’m dying. This has to be Captain Trips or Consumption. Just shoot me.” Or something similar while your family shakes their heads at you and turns the TV louder. Welcome to hell.

This is me, after I officially coughed myself silly.  Well, sillier.

This is me, after I officially coughed myself silly. Well, sillier.

Facebook Zombies and Twitter Whores

It’s OK, you guys. I’m not zombie or slut shaming. I can use these derogatory terms because I fit in both groups. I can also use the words chubby, short, and bitch for the same reason, but that is fodder for another day. Let’s just stick with zombies and whores for now.

How many of you are also zombie whores? How many of you are flipping through Facebook, either on your phone or on your computer, maybe at work, looking for that person you hated in high school to see if she’s fatter than you? It can’t be just me. Or maybe I AM your hated fat person.  Like a lot of us, you are probably wasting HOURS every week getting in touch with people you never really cared about in the first place, when you could be doing something you’ve always wanted to do. Social media is an all-consuming time clustersuck. How many times have you stepped away for an hour and returned to 20 notifications. Notifications that someone’s Republican aunt also posted a comment on their Obama meme. Is this life shattering information?

Most of us non-Amish folks are all over social media, posting tidbits about our lives, funny memes, and cat pictures regularly. We like to feel like we are a part of the Internet world. We comment on news stories, or share them to alert our other friends who get their news from the Zuckerberg News Network. When a TV show posts a hash tag phrase, we all jump on it like trained flea-bitten circus dogs. This is not intelligence; this is not the information age. This is the zombie age.

It’s such a problem that there is actually such a thing as Internet addiction. Like, it’s Dr. Drew legit, you guys. There is actually software to monitor your social media usage. This is how bad it has gotten. There’s an app to track app usage. It’s like a 12 step program for geeks and hermits.

Before you get your panties in a bunch and turn on your troll light, actually read what I’ve written. I’m not judging you. I’m judging us, all of us, who waste our time every day on social media. It’s not social anymore. Well, I guess to quote John from the Breakfast Club, it’s demented and sad, but social.

Case in point: me. I am currently writing two novels. By writing two novels, I mean that I’m not writing them, like ever. Instead, I’m just flipping through Facebook looking for that psychotic ex boyfriend to see if he’s bald yet.

I set out to be a novelist, a paperback writer as the Beatles sang. I had it all planned:

  • Write a book.
  • Get an amazing publishing contract.
  • Have the book be hugely popular.
  • Have it made into a movie.
  • Have John Cusack star in the movie.
  • Walk the red carpet with my family and cry tears of joy at the premiere.

Simple, huh?

Instead, I allowed myself to become a third rate blogger and all around social media whore. No offense to the first and second rate bloggers out there. In order to be a writer in this here information age, you have to build a following online. So, whether you want to or not, you have to blog, and get oodles of Facebook likers, and Twitter followers. I’m told I should be building my Pinterest boards like mad, but to be honest, I hate Pinterest with a white hot passion.

I like blog writing; it’s short, sweet, and often fun to do. I just hate the sales pitch song and dance you have to do to be a successful blogger. I am NOT a salesperson. Way back in the day – Miami 1990 – I worked at Macy’s. I was always “in arrears,” meaning I sold so little that I didn’t even earn my hourly rate in commission. A woman once asked me if a dress she was trying on made her look fat. I said yes. NOT A SALESPERSON.

In addition to being a salesperson, being a blogger is like being a fat third-grader trying to get picked for the kickball team. “PICK ME!! Oh read me! READ me! Pick me! Publish me! Love me! Put me on the Today Show!” Blah, blah, blah. I get tired of my own inner fat third grader, never mind everyone else’s. I am looking at you, selfie every day.

While it is cool to have your stuff on the interwebs, the cha ching value is usually low, like zero. In other words, most bloggers, like a lot of creative folks, make diddly squat for their efforts. Every writer’s dream is to be paid to write. So, the blogging world has become crowded, competitive, and common. It seems like EVERYONE is a blogger. When something becomes crowded, competitive and common, I lose interest.

I’m not saying that I’m definitely going to be the next great writer, or actually have a movie made of my book, or that John Cusack even knows who I am, or would sign on for my movie. I’m saying that I have to at least focus more on the writing I love doing, and try to make my dreams come true. So, I can’t sit around all day trying to think of 140-character nonsense. And you shouldn’t either. What are your dreams? Have you achieved them, or have you just found all of your elementary school friends and their siblings? Let’s take a big step away from the internet, and take our brains back.

Cat on computer

Even my cat is online!



Cats Seeking Dog’s Death

Hello Humans and Felines Out There,

Andre here. I need your help in making my New Year’s Resolution a reality. As you know from reading the pet resolutions, I would like to see Sophie’s demise in 2015. I have never liked the dog because in addition to having the intelligence of snail dung, she is loud, smelly, and stupid.

By loud, I mean she interrupts naps with her incessant barking at absolutely nothing. I think the poor dear hallucinates. We have a church and a graveyard behind our home, and sometimes humans walk, either alone or with other stupid dogs, through the graveyard. I find this rather morbid, but whatever. As long as they don’t bring the canines in my home I have no quarrels with them.

Great Dane Lab

The stupid creature eats snow! Snow is not food.

Sophie, the creature’s given name is smelly because she eats her own excrement. Mother is even annoyed by it. What kind of cretin does this? Mother supplies us with two meals and two snacks daily. How much more does she need? It gives her horrible breath and she refuses to lick the mouthwash bottle like I do.

She also eats other non-food items, like the baseboards, chair legs, and cat toys. I’m not a toy playing kind of cat, but my sister Boo is, which is helpful

My sister Boo's "medicine." ©DankDepot

My sister Boo’s “medicine.”

I have enlisted my sister’s help with the demise of this dog. Boo loves a good catnip mouse. She truly is a stoner, as you humans say. So, I have her toss cat pot mice downstairs for big and stupid. The big, ignorant dog falls right into my trap. She EATS them. Does the creature have no sense? The first time she ate an entire mouse, which had enough pot in it to last Boo for at least 6 months, I thought she would perish. I watched. I hoped. I followed her around with a gleam in my eye to witness her suffering.

And sadly, nothing happened. Sophie galloped around the living room like a horse with a lobotomy, and tossed the mouse around. She tried to engage Lola, small and yippy, in this asinine game. Lola declined, as for a dog she is not that stupid. She IS rather yippy, but I will put up with that as she is the only one who has seniority over me in this home.

Thus far, the horse dog has survived.  But don’t you fret, dear reader; I will keep trying to end this creature. You have my word as a feline and a gentleman.


Note from Picabo (Boo Boo): My name is not Boo; It’s Picabo. And, I use mice medicinally. I’m not a stoner. That is so insulting. Also, Let’s get this straight right now; I did not throw the mouse down to Sophie to kill her. I was merely taking a break from my catnip and I wanted her to hold it for me for a while. I am not homicidal like my brother, though I would not miss the huge creature if she left us.

Note from Sophie: Hey you guys, Mean Kitty wrote this but I can’t quite read all of it because he uses fancy words. He likes to pretend he is from that other place with the kings and queens and the guys who wear food cans as clothes and ride horses. Can you tell me what he said in the comment section?

The heinous creature disturbs my naps.  She shall perish for this!

The huge,  heinous creature disturbs my naps. She shall perish for this!

Sports Haters Super Bowl Activities

I realize that I could be deported for saying this but I can’t hold back any more. I hate sports. I find sports so boring that I once brought a stack of magazines with me to the World Series. My husband at the time was, and probably still is, a big baseball fan. So, since the series was being played in our hometown, he got tickets for TWO GAMES for us and some family and friends. I went to the first game, with magazines, and sold my ticket to the other game. Needless to say, I never watch the Super Bowl. Since most people here in the USA do watch the big game, I have made a list of fun things to do for those of us who are not interested in the inflation status of Brady’s balls.

Shopping:  Depending on where you live, the mall may be closed by kick off time. Don’t let that stop you. You still have the meaningless, rambly sports shows that start like 23 hours before kick off. People will be home watching those while they pre-beer for the game. Also, big box places like Walmart and Target will be open late. Get out there and enjoy the fact that you will be able to cartwheel your way from the snack section to the electronics department, in your pajamas, without ending up on Youtube.

Eating Out:  As long as you avoid wing places and all of the girls in tiny shorts and half shirt places, so I guess just wing places, you should be able to get a table ANYWHERE. Go over to that swanky place in town that is always booked. Heck, you could probably get a table at Cinderella’s Castle in Disney World. Enjoy some unfried food without hot sauce.

Revenge Texting:  You know those friends who ALWAYS text you at night when you are trying to watch your shows? Text those people NOW. Call them if they don’t answer texts. When they answer, with sports commentary and cheering blaring in the background, ask them, “Whatcha doin?” Call them back when they hang up on you. Keep texting and calling. DOOOO ITTT!!

Power Walking:  If you live somewhere that is not a frozen hellhole (I’m looking at you, Midwest and Northeast), go for a walk. NO ONE will be outside. You won’t have any awkward impromptu chats about the weather or run into that new neighbor who walks his cat on a sparkly harness. Just you, Mother Nature, and obscenities shouted from houses where people are cheering for the losing team. Peace and quiet.

Facebooking: You know your football-watching friends will still be on Facebook during the game. How else are they going to talk smack about Ballgate with a bazillion other sports fans? Here is your chance to mess with them. Post things like, “Did number 14 really just rip his pants THERE?” It will drive them nuts (pun intended) to think they missed whatever the heck number 14 did, assuming there is a number 14. The DVR people will rewind the game and look for number 14’s crotch.

Assuming I’m not the only football hating American, some of you out there should enjoy these activities. Feel free to pass it on to other weirdoes like me. There’s got to be other things to do on Super Bowl afternoon and evening. What else should we add to the list? Does anyone else have any good ideas? Post them in the comments. I would love to hear from you.

I would rather watch this than football.

I would rather watch this than football.

Keep your Vagina to Yourself!

A long time ago, say five or ten years ago, people didn’t talk about their genitals to anyone except their lovers, super BFF’s, and doctors. And that was just fine and dandy. Now, with social media, and blogging in particular, people LOVE to write about various organs, bodily fluids, and of course, their fun time parts.

Vaginas are a hot topic in the blogging world, and vajayjay posts are a regular newsfeed item these days. There must be some sort of audience for this topic. We suggest it is other women who live to talk about their tampon holders. So not us. We don’t want to read about your, or anyone’s, cooter, and we will gladly tell you why.

It is so common. At first, it was new, exciting, and oh so brave to write about menstrual highways and baby factories, but, like tattoos and quinoa, it got old. REALLY OLD. What was once so cutting edge is now BORING. Almost every woman over 30 has had her snatch waxed. It hurts. You cry. We all get it. Sharon Stone made all subsequent crotch shots irrelevant in 1992. Twenty-three years later, it’s time to get off that train.

It messes with our Internet searches. We don’t want to do a late night desperate Google search for UTI symptoms, or other crotch concerns and find your stupid ass blog.

It scares old people. My grandma asked what a “landing strip” is. As her main source of news is now Facebook, it is safe to assume that the mimsy oversharing has clearly gone too far.

You are fucking with our food. If we are sans a lunch date, we may glance at Facebook and blog posts while eating. It is never pleasant to read about your sick spooge storer while chowing down on some lobster bisque. And, we love food. Please stop referring to our vaginas as “meat curtains,” “tacos,” and anything else we would’ve liked to have for dinner before we read your vag article.

And today with the vaginal steaming! Thank you, Gwyneth Paltrow, for once again inundating the world with your vapid, useless fucking advice on how to freshen our loins. Do us all a favor and go consciously uncouple yourself from your damn Goop blog and steam some broccoli and soybeans instead of your vag.

One word – Awkward The blogging world is a small one. As bloggers, we may meet other bloggers at a conference and not be able to listen to your presentation on extending Facebook reach because we will just be thinking about your plucked porcupine pussy.

We already get pounded with all things vagina on in the media. There are endless Poise pads promos and douche dialogues. We don’t need to hear about your cooch canal too. Thank you for listening.

P.S. This anti-vagina tirade was brought to you by DTH and Lisa R. Petty. You’re welcome.

Thinning the Herd One Keyless Ignition at a Time

Like the typical American, I get my news from a screen, and usually while eating. Ever the multitasker, I was watching the Today Show during breakfast  when I learned of an alarming health hazard that all Americans need to be aware of – keyless ignition. Yes. People are dying because of keyless ignition systems in their cars. How does this happen? I’m glad you asked.

Push this before you get out of the damn car!

Push this before you get out of the damn car!

Let’s follow the typical American driver on his way home from work. We’ll call him Sam since there is enough criticism of female drivers in the world. Anyway, Sam gets in his car and drives home from work, where he likely sat at a desk and stared at a screen all day while sucking down liquid candy described as “coffee.” At the end of the day, Sam packed up his laptop and BlackBerry, hopped in the car to talk via his car’s Bluetooth system, oh and drive, because nobody JUST drives anymore. Sam had important life-altering conversations to have that simply could not wait until he was not driving. So, Sam makes the commute, changing lanes without paying attention because the phone conversations take Sam’s attention from, well, driving. After nearly getting into five accidents, Sam arrives home. He pulls into the garage while turning off the radio and answering another call. As Sam gets out of the car, he grabs the laptop bag and the BlackBerry and continues talking. The garage door closes as Sam walks into the house. Sam is glad to be home and changes into sweat pants and an old t-shirt, and opens a beer. Sam settles in for an evening of overeating and TV watching — Olympic events in the USA. He does not have a wife or children, and lives with his dog. While he is sitting on the couch, Sam dies of carbon monoxide poisoning, along with the dog, because he forgot to hit the “off” button before exiting the car.

Sam’s funeral is small, but those who are there talk about what a wonderful person Sam was and how, at 28, he was too young to die. Everyone is horrified that these keyless ignition systems are so dangerous. Most people agree that they should be outlawed because they are so dangerous. Sam’s Aunt Martha contacts the local TV news station and they do a story about the horrors of keyless ignitions.

Blaming keyless ignitions for Sam’s death is like blaming a rock band for someone committing suicide. Oh wait, this has been done too, more than once. I’m not sure about the rest of the world, but here in the good ol’ USA we are always looking for someone or something to blame. If we are fat, we blame fast food. If we are depressed, we blame music. If someone dies because they can’t focus on properly handling a very heavy metal object, like a car, then, it must be the car’s fault.

Sam was an idiot, and he was not alone. There are quite a few idiots in the world and they usually procreate, a lot, or run for a political office. The scary thing is that Sam is not the only person to die from forgetting to turn off an ignition. It made national news. This is frightening, and it makes me wonder what stupid thing people will begin dropping dead from next. Visions of our own future Idiocracy keep me awake at night.

Disclaimer: I originally published this on my old Salon blog a few years ago.  Sam is not based on a real person that I actually know, but there are tons of Sams out there.  Watch out for them.

8 Ways to Communicate Better

Like a lot of people who stare at screens all day, I prefer quick, clear communication. My husband tells me that I have a PhD in straight forward, and I tend to agree. I wish everyone had the same degree, but most have not mastered simple communication rules.

I should be able to do everything with Siri.

I should be able to do everything with Siri.

Case in point, I needed to make a dermatologist’s appointment, so I looked at their web page. My primary doctor’s web page has an option to make appointments online, as nature intended. I figured the dermatologist office would be the same. Nope. So, as though I were living a hundred years ago, I called the doctor’s office. Of course, as is the custom, a robot answered the phone and I had to push 3 to make an appointment, which took me straight to a voicemail message where I was told to expect a call back in 48 hours. WHAT? They never called back, so I emailed the office. They answered my email with a “call us to make an appointment.” I gave up and chose another doctor.

Why the heck do they have email? And why have voicemail if you don’t return calls. It’s like I’m living in a Genesis song. After this experience, and others like it, I decided that a little refresher course on communication in the Internet age was necessary, and here it is.

Free of charge, I present you with Rules for Communication in the 21st Century:

  1. Answer your email. I can’t tell you how many times I have waited days or weeks for a reply to a simple email. If I ignored someone for 3 days, or more, I’d be fired.
  2. Reply to the person in the same mode of communication. If someone texts you, text back. If someone emails you, use that handy dandy reply button. Do not call someone in response to an email or text.
  3. In fact, just DON’T call anyone. Phones are not for phoning anymore. I’m sure the telephone was a huge deal in Alexander Graham Bell’s time. Now, it is just annoying. It is a device used by telemarketers and people who have not mastered Facebook, email, or texting. I can’t think of a time when the phone has not been an intrusion. It’s loud and demanding. You can hear everyone’s background noise on it, too. If I want to hear Darth Vader breathing, I will watch Star Wars.
  4. If you are a business, make sure your web site is actually useful. There is no need to order or pay for anything over the phone. If you own a business and your web site is not set up to accept payments, open a Pay Pal account. If you own a business and have no idea what I am talking about you need to be drop kicked into the new millennium.
  5. Warn People before you visit. For the love of all that is holy, DO NOT just show up at someone’s house. Dropping by was rude in the 80’s, and I’m pretty sure it’s punishable by death now. If I’m not expecting you, I won’t answer the door. Text first. Don’t call. Text.
  6. Learn how to spell! You are not writing a song for Prince; you are communicating with other educated human beings. I will climb through the interwebs and jack slap you if you send me nonsense like, “R U going 2.”
  7. USE your out of office reply. If you will not be checking or replying to email, set up an out of office reply telling people how to reach you. If the answer is they CAN’T reach you for a while, that is fine, too, just tell them. Include a date when they can expect a reply.
  8. USE your voicemail announcement. If you can’t answer the phone, tell callers that. Direct them to the best way to contact you rather than just tell them you’ll call them back. Because if you’re like the kind folks at the dermatologist’s office, you won’t really call anyone back.

It seems so simple, but communication is a struggle for a lot of people. Times they are a changing. The telephone is not just for talking. We can communicate in a number of ways. Learning to use them all effectively can save you time and aggravation, mostly aggravation.

Did I miss any?  Please add your tips for better communication in the comments section.  I love hearing from you.

This post originally appeared on the Huffington Post.

Promises from the Petty Pets

Hi Light Square People!!

Great Dane Black Lab

It’s me, Sophie.

It’s Sophie. Mama is kind of sick and taking a nap, so I was able to grab the light square and tell you guys what’s been going on. I haven’t been allowed to write in a super long time. So, there’s kind of a lot to say. Plus, my sisters and brother want to tell you what their New Year’s resolutions are. Resolutions are like promises you make to yourself in January, and then you just totally break all your promises in like February or something. Anyway, before I do any of that I gotta tell you why I only have one furry brother now instead of two.

This is not easy to say, but Morris crossed the rainbow bridge a few days before eat a bunch of turkey and pie day. He seemed normal except for he was making some noises like he had a bad tummy ache. I was kind of keeping my eye on him, and I helped Mama find him in the laundry room when she was trying to figure out where the noises were coming from. Mama took him to the doctor, and he kept Morris in the hospital for two days. The doctor did like all kinds of pokey and camera tests on Morris and then figured out he had cancer EVERYWHERE. He even had cancer in his heart and it was prolly what was making him make that noise and be kind of lazy and stuff. So, Mama and Daddy decided to help Morris cross the rainbow bridge so he wouldn’t have that ouchy heart and tummy anymore. The doctor gave Morris a shot and he was gone. I miss my nice kitty brother but I’m glad he’s not hurting anymore.

This is Morris, a little before he crossed the rainbow bridge.

This is Morris, a little before he crossed the rainbow bridge. He was nice.

So, that’s why only my two sisters and my one brother, Mean Kitty Andre, are going to write their resolutions. Morris’ resolution is prolly just to sleep on a cloud and eat lots of food. That’s what mine would be if I lived over the rainbow bridge.

But I’m still here in my house, so here are my resolutions.

  • I will eat less poop.
  • Actually, I will just eat food because other stuff could kill me.
  • I will be calmer to the kitties. They don’t like to play with me.
  • I won’t sniff Boo Boo’s butt because she runs away when I do that.




Lola, at attention.

As you know, I am a trained agent who was assigned to protect this family. Currently, I do not have adequate backup. The fluffy cat, Andre, is a fierce fighter, but he is just out for himself. Unfortunately, it is necessary that I use big and stupid, I mean Sophie, as my second in command. So, my only resolution is that I will train Sophie to be proper backup so I can secure this home.


Boo Boo

seductive cat

Cheese makes me happy.

  • I will travel to the store and purchase my own Boar’s Head white American cheese since mother cannot be troubled to buy it.
  • I will also stop running from the horse dog so she will stop chasing me.
  • I will try to poop only in the litter box unless my bowels won’t cooperate.



I'm watching the dog.

I’m watching the dog.

  • I will kill the big stupid dog. Um, I mean. No. I’m not a murderer.
  • I will insist that mother feed me tuna every day. I do let her use my pictures all over her computer without paying me.
  • I will take more naps in sunny spots on the carpet.
  • I will find and keep my own home.


Sophie here, again. Wow. I think Andre was talking about me, except I’m not stupid. I am big and I am a dog, though. Anyway, those are our resolutions. So, what are yours? Leave us a comment and tell us what promises you made to yourself for the New Year, and if you are keeping them.

Macrobid and Sexism Suck

Any pill that looks like a bee will sting you. Remember that.

Any pill that looks like a bee will sting you. Remember that.

What a frigging week I’ve had. Let me start with Monday. I woke up with a bladder infection. Well, everyone knows that it is torture to actually go to the doctor with this lovely illness. You have to call the office and get an appointment. WAIT for your appointment. Drive to the office. WAIT in the waiting room. Pee in a cup. WAIT for the doctor to give you a prescription. Drive to the pharmacy. WAIT for your prescription. I don’t wait well when I am feeling fine. If I have a burning bladder and I have to pee every 4.2 seconds, I REALLY don’t wait well. So, I used the handy dandy Teledoc service that comes with my insurance. It’s super cool. You log into Teledoc and a real doctor calls you. You tell him or her your symptoms and he or she calls in a prescription. They won’t call in narcotics or, you know, stuff like that. They will call in antibiotics. This particular doctor called in Macrobid for me and I had it within 30 minutes of talking to him. I was so happy.

On Tuesday, my husband woke up looking like a lop-sided chipmunk. Seriously. He had a painful, swollen cheek. I thought for sure I was going to have to fly out to LA and punch anti-vax queen Jenny McCarthy in the face because I was certain it was mumps. It turns out that my husband had an infected salivary gland. He was basically given a prescription for Lemon Heads. Seriously, the doctor told him to eat a bunch of sour candy so he would salivate more. I still might punch Jenny, just for the heck of it.

Throughout the week, it really felt like I was getting better. I mean, I was a little nauseated from the Macrobid, but other than that my urinary symptoms seemed to be going away. Of course, just because the universe hates me, I got my period on Thursday, a week early. I already had a bladder infection and assorted stomach issues from the antibiotics. Why not throw in cramps and pads?

Friday night, I noticed some neck and back pain, but I just wrote it off to the fact that I had been a giant couch potato all week. I work from home anyway, so I’m not especially active during the workday. While I do have an exercise bike desk, I have to stay still to do most of my work. Sitting still makes my upper back ache. So, I took some Motrin and went to bed.

Saturday morning kicked me in the ass like never before. I woke up after having neck, head, and back pains during the night. I felt icky, so I took my temperature. 102. Holy shit. Both my husband and my good friend told me it was probably the flu, and to ask for Tamiflu. So, I requested a call from Teledoc again. This doctor told me to go to the ER because it sounded like nephritis and I might need IV antibiotics. You can Google that, like I did, but it’s basically a scary infection of the kidneys. Rock on. So, my husband took me to the ER. I shivered the whole way because, of course, it was cold and rainy, and I had a fever, and I was scared out of my mind. Score.

Let’s skip ahead to the sexism because I’m certain that is more interesting than anything else I have written. You guys are probably thinking, “Did the doctor talk down to Lisa because she is a little, short, chubby woman?” Nope. I was not the victim of sexism. Let me explain.

I don't have the mumps. That's just my chubby face.  A MAN put in that IV port.

I don’t have the mumps. That’s just my chubby face. A MAN put in that IV port.

I used to be a sexist. By used to be, I mean up until Saturday. I was never a “daddies are dumb” sexist. My sexism was very focused. Before my most recent ER trip, I did not trust male nurses or phlebotomists. I have had many experiences where men could just not find my veins and ended up poking me numerous times. So, imagine my horror when not one, but two young men had to poke me with needles. This hospital’s policy is to get two different “sticks” for all blood work. I’m not sure why and I didn’t think to ask because I felt like I was lost in a Stephen King novel. I mean, this was my nightmare – men with needles. TWO of them. Everyone knows women are better with needles. Well, every asshole like me knows that. I feel like a younger Archie Bunker with a vagina. Sorry, guys!

Here is the shocker, ladies and gentlemen. The fellas both only stuck me once. They found my veins quickly and both did not even leave a bruise. I now have faith in male blood takers. Again, I’m so sorry I doubted you fellas.

So, after the doctor got back all of my lab work, she discussed it with me and really explained things. She is the best ER doctor I have ever had. She told me, basically, Macrobid sucks. The doctor did not actually say that. She explained that Macrobid doesn’t actually kill bacteria. It just keeps more bacteria from growing. Well, when someone has a bladder infection, you should probably give him or her something that will kill the damn bacteria. I mean, I’m not a doctor and I don’t play one on TV, but seriously, kill the damn bacteria. Why the hell does anyone prescribe Macrobid? I was sent home with a prescription for a different antibiotic, Cipro, which I have to take for 10 days. So, I’m hoping with the lack of alcohol and coffee (both no nos when you have a bladder infection) and the stomach issues from the antibiotics that maybe I will lose weight. I’m always looking for the bright side.

So, how was your week?


Spammers KNOW me!

I used to think that telemarketers and spammers just picked their victims, um, customers randomly. I pictured them sitting in a humid office in a third world country with flies buzzing around their 1998 Dell computers. Since the computers are so slow, I imagined them opening huge phone books and just closing their eyes and pointing, saying, “Yes, Lisa Petty. Let’s try to get her social security number by pretending to be the IRS.” Really though, telemarketers are super intelligent. They have been doing their research and they know EXACTLY the type of person I am.

For example, they know that:

  • I’m a man.
  • I have erectile dysfunction.
  • I’m unhappy with the size of my penis.
  • I speak French.
  • I’m looking for a prostitute.
  • I’m actually going to enter in another payment option even though my Netflix and Amazon are attached to a DIFFERENT email account with a DIFFERENT name.
  • I’m not familiar with the existence of computer viruses.
  • I speak and read broken English.
  • I have a friend named John who may be in trouble in a foreign country.
  • I’m looking for a great deal on travel.
  • I’m a Republican.
  • I care to donate money to any political party.
  • When it comes to clicking random links, I’m like a cat chasing a laser light.
  • I want to have sex four times a night.
  • I’m Asian and I read whatever language they write in. I’m still not sure what exactly that was.
  • I want a deal on designer sunglasses more than I want to breathe.
  • I’m old and in danger of falling.
  • My credit is horrible.
  • I give a shit about what Dr. Oz recommends.
  • I fear that I may be in trouble with the IRS.
  • I NEED to refinance my house more than I need food or water.
  • I like to receive lots of coupons in the mail.
  • I actually use coupons.
  • I’m single, and I am either Christian, Jewish, or both.  (waves at Christian singles and J-Date.)
  • I believe that the cure for everything is in some random tropical fruit that I couldn’t possibly get at the grocery store.
  • I desperately need Jesus in my life.
  • I would ever in a million years want an NRA membership.
  • My oxygen was cut off at birth, or I have taken a lot of blows to the head because I lack all reasoning skills and I will just buy whatever line of bullshit they are feeding me.

Well, that last one really covers ALL of them. I should have just started there.   So, did I miss anything? Do you receive a lot of spam, either by email, snail mail, or phone? Do you have any tips for dealing with junk phone calls and mail? Let me hear from you in the comment section.

Smammers make me feel like this.

Smammers make me feel like this.



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