Once upon a time, I made what would prove to be an

extremely bad decision 

about my reproductive health. The consequences of this 

extremely bad decision 

are plaguing me still. Suffice it to say I would recommend condoms made out of 80 grit sandpaper over an IUD, were anyone to ask my opinion on the matter.

At any rate. Antibiotic intervention has once again become necessary. This sucks for a whole host of reasons. Among them:

  • No Drinking – Yeah, that’s right. I’m off the fuckin’ wagon. Wanna make something of it?
  • No Sex – Yeah, that’s right. I’m off the fuckin’ wagon. Wanna make something of it?
  • Gastrointestinal Chaos – Which I had just managed to get under control with concerted effort, probiotics, and better food choices.
  • Motherfucking Thrush – which is a thing usually only the respiratorily desperate and immuno-compromised (also babies) are prone to get. 

But, it turns out

I am a goddamned delicate flower

(pause for laughter)

No, really. I am. Practically the only reason any of this is happening is because I am a delicate flower. If there is a side effect, to any medication, procedure, or medical device I will get them all. And then usually some they didn’t really know about before.

In the case of the IUD it turns out the vast majority of people don’t have these hideous, recurring, life-altering side effects. In fact, only about .16% of users (as in, 1.6 per 1000) do. And of those, basically NONE of them end up in the hospital for 4 days on IV antibiotics. Like I did.

Nor is this, by any means, an isolated phenomenon. Last week I was speaking to my friend, the PharmD, about why I cannot take the only reliable asthma medication I have ever been able to find  because it makes me lose my voice.

(pause for collection plate to circulate to obtain supply of medication for tactical application)

When I mentioned that my M.D. had been baffled by this symptom, my friend said excitedly,

“No! It’s a side effect of that medication. It’s just super rare! You’re totally cool!”

I can’t say I was able to muster his enthusiasm on the subject.

So! I’m on antibiotics. They make me feel like shit, and smell weird, and give me thrush. In addition to this, I also seem to have developed a stye in my eye*! Puffy, tender, swollen, red; all hallmarks of hotness, for sure. Finally, after passing out on the nude beach Sunday, I have a fairly righteous sunburn on my ass. This is healing, and is thus now itchy. As(s) a result, I’ve been walking around all day scratching my butt. 

You know you want me right now. Don’t even act like you don’t.


*And OF FUCKING COURSE it is my good eye, so applying the necessary treatment makes me functionally blind for a while.

1. using words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning; containing or exemplifying irony an ironic novel; an ironic remark.
2. of, pertaining to, or tending to use irony or mockery; ironical
3. coincidental; unexpected: It was ironic that I was seated next to my ex-husband at the dinner.
People misuse this word all the damn time. Notably, and to my eternal annoyance, Alanis Morissette; her contribution to propagating the misapplication of the term deserves, at least, a sound flogging. She’s Canadian and thus properly educated. She should know better.
I had a particularly vexing encounter with abusage of the word just last night. Someone who was displeased I was not paying him the attention he felt he deserved ended the expression of said displeasure with:
“That’s what I call ironic.”
Now, that they believed I was somehow obliged to respond at all, let alone in any particular fashion was bothersome in itself, but that he went on to call my lack of response ironic provoked me to actual crankiness. 
It turns out that irony has a specific threshold of meaning. Despite rampant misconception about the matter it doesn’t simply mean something you find irksome or disappointing. There must be some twist which ties the occurrence back to something else.
For example, if instead I had been pursuing this person relentlessly and finally garnered a response which I then ignored, that would indeed be ironic. Defying his expectation that I would or should respond absent any other influence was simply unsatisfying. Not, in fact, ironic.
And boys, you wanna hang with me? Gird your loins and grab a dictionary. You’ll fare better thereby.

I am feeling it; and how.

I will not explicate the details, but I will say that the most potent feeling I have been coping with in the last few days is this one. That manages to be quite a feat, considering it is in competition with grief, a heart that aches for the woes of my dearest ones, and intense romantic giddiness.

I try not to indulge in the feeling often. To do so is communicated most often as a request to be smited with examples of one’s frailty; to be humbled by force via circumstance. But in the face of what has passed in the last little while, I find I simply cannot rise above, cannot be patient and gracious, cannot do else but feel rage and impotent disgust.

It is sometimes deeply satisfying to say “I told you so,” and sometimes, being right is the worst feeling ever. I can think back on knowing what I have known, having my worst suspicions confirmed, and feel only the frustration with not having pushed harder, insisted more firmly, demanded that I be heard.

And only in this aftermath, while I try to sort through what might come along next, do I have a presence of mind to remember that it is far more important now, to do right rather than to be right.

with the surly people behind the counter at my local convenience stores? i’m accustomed to uppity waitstaff, i mean, i am from here. but this phenomenon is new. i am used to my clerk at the plaid being:

  1. drunk, intoxicated, or suffering the long-term effects of previous drunkenness/intoxication
  2. mentally challenged
  3. toothless
  4. persistently curious about my personal life/plans for the evening
  5. some combination of the above

what i am NOT used to is the not-so-subtly snide mien the handful of cashiers i have encountered lately have adopted.

few weeks back friends lyza, emma, & i wandered over to plaid to obtain milk duds for our popcorn. we were enjoying the fine pre-summer evening with a few cocktails, and we had all confirmed via emma’s snazzy personal breathalyzer unit that none of us should attempt to captain a vehicle of any kind, but we were merely enjoying our time together and the prospect of salty carmely chocolatey popcorny goodness. as we approached the counter, the fellow behind it got this look on his face like he thought our behavior could be favorably compared to dental work sans anesthesia. then, when i attempted to engage him in a little friendly banter to reassure him we were harmless, well…

“can i have one of those scratch its? (aside to e&l) these are really fun. (back to cashier) a friend of mine showed me how to do them. we all take turns. (smile)”

“that’s a riveting story”


like, i wasn’t really looking for approval from this guy, but why the snark? we weren’t being unduly rowdy, we were making a sizable purchase, and, if i do say so myself, we are a group of lookers. what the hell?

then today, i go into the 7-11 so i can grab something for lunch. i decide on a clif bar, some trail mix, and a rockstar. my digestions have been a little off kilter of late so i wanted something relatively low key, but cheap and fast. i bring my whatnot to the counter and this guy gives me this look and says

“you know, there’s no FOOD in your food.”

i’m a little taken aback here so i don’t reply immediately. Then:

“well it suits me.”

“why don’t you go get yourself some crackers, or an orange. a sandwich for chrissakes.”

(pause to think of retort, think of one, begin to walk away)

“i will if you promise to shove them up your ass.”

no one saw fit to critique my purchases at freddy’s.

driving up canyon rd today. there’s a speed trap, accordingly, i do not speed. i’m doing 35 thinking about the chores i have remaining and the show i am going to tonight, when i glance in my rearview mirror to see a black Durango EXCEEDINGLY close to my rear end.

i think to myself “what an asshole.”
he stays menacingly close
i think to myself “what the fuck is his problem?”
there is plenty of room to go around me in the left lane
i think to myself “what the hell does he think he is doing

and then he rams me.

its little more than a tap; frankly i can tell by the skill with which he executed the maneuver that he’s probably done it before. i am stunned and frightened by this. and can only think: he did it on purpose. why would he do that??

i’m not going to stop for this person. this was no accident. and i know full well there is a police van about 2/3’s of a mile up canyon (remember that speed trap i was trying to avoid?) and that is where i am headed.

and then, he races around me in the other lane and takes off. he’s a few hundred yards in front of me when he then slows down dramatically and waits for me to come parallel with him. i look over into the SUV with a “what the fuck?” look on my face and he proceeds to smile and wave. he then peels off to the left and disappears up canyon crest.

i am, uselessly, so freaked out that i fail to look for a plate number. i mean, he was in a black durango. how many of those bloody fucking things are there in beaverton anyway? too many to even credit.

proceed next to hysterical, terrified, bewildered sobbing.

call police. without more identifying information, there’s nothing to be done but for the nice officer to say he’s sorry it happened.

Klaus seems mostly unscathed. still have touch up paint from accident in november, so i may make use of that for the handful of small scratches evident on the rear bumper.

call friends for comfort. one suggests park klaus and his distinctive plates somewhere else. when i mention this is impractical the advice is that i get some pepper spray as this happened so close to my house, they might see my car parked there and decide to come pick on me some more. strangely, this idea IS NOT IN ANY WAY COMFORTING!!!!

took myself to pedicure and mexican food as antidote. dancing later.