Everything I Like Causes Cancer

Alright, first things first: I am not dying (yet). I do not have a brain tumor or lymphoma. What I have, according to the experts, is a staph infection. On my head. When I asked how in the holy hell this happens I was told that something as simple as a tiny cut or a wonky hair follicle can cause it. I’ve decided I’m going to tell anyone who asks that I got it from a swirly Whiskeymarie gave me in scary bathroom in March. Implausible? SURE! But certainly more entertaining than an ingrown hair.

While I was all jokey-jokey about it yesterday (What? Me? Using humor as a defense mechanism? Inconceivable!), I was pretty scared when I left for the doctor’s office. Given that the majority of your comments on yesterday’s post were adamant that I get my ass to a doctor, STAT, I think you were, too. (I love you for this, by the way. Special thanks to the anonymous spammer who recommended guaranteed cheap Viagra from India. Very helpful, spammer, very helpful indeed.)

Now, even though I make melodramatic jokes on this blog and within my circle of friends, I do not make stupid-ass jokes when interacting with professional people who don’t know and understand me. This is to say that I did not made jokes at the doctor’s office about brain tumors and aneurysms. So when my doctor took my hand and asked me to look him in the eye during the exam? Well, my terror level immediately elevated to RED! And then, very seriously, he said to me, “Lymphoma isn’t painful; staph is. I’m pretty sure this is staph.”

Have I mentioned before that my primary care doctor is odd? He’s a tiny Pentecostal Japanese man and, as if that weren't an odd enough combination, he is also easily embarrassed. The first time I saw him he did a complete physical which, of course, involved the dreaded backless paper gown. Outside the ob/gyn or proctologist, you are usually instructed to leave your unders on. But I don’t wear unders. During that first exam he repeatedly tried to tuck the paper gown into the top of my non-existent unders. I finally had to explain that there were no unders there for the tucking which made his face immediately turn red. I laughed and told him it was no big deal and didn’t bother me but it was clear that it bothered him. My first clue was his obvious discomfort and the fact that he said it did.

Anyways, after he was done scaring the crap out of me yesterday, he sent me to the lab for more tests. He wants to check my antibodies and rule out mono since I’ve been sick so many times already this fall. Have I told you I HATE needles? I hate needles. And this will make the second time I’ve been in the lab to have blood drawn in like a month. The lab tech remembered me from the last time. She remembered me suggesting the hospital house monkeys in the yard outside the lab's windows so patients would have something funny to look at while they are being stabbed and having their life-blood sucked out of them, one small vial at a time. (Okay, maybe I DO make stupid-ass jokes with professional people who don’t know me. Shut it.)

The bottom line of all this is that I am going to live another day. Thanks so much for your concern and offers of assistance. Son of A Thomas even offered to come over and play doctor. Now that I think about it, there is one particulary troublesome lab test my doctor requested that I haven’t yet completed . . .

SOAT? Still want to come over and help? I'll take care of "production" if you'll handle collection and packaging.

One last thing . . . you’re all a crass bunch of sick mother effers for calling dibs on my stuff and requesting an open casket so you can play grabsies with my corpse. I love you.

Something really weird happened today. Like, Biblical weird. Like, I'm still reeling from the weird-weird. I was having a normal day at work, toiling for Uncle Sam, brokering deals and generally making Important Things happen, when in a burst of silliness (I know! So hard to believe!) I opened a new email message and typed, "Are you there God? It's me, Gwen."

And this is where the weird started go down. First, the email vanished. Disappeared. *POOF!* Gone. Just like that, de nada. I checked SENT MAIL and found nothing. I checked DRAFTS, nothing. And then, before I could start emailing y'all to find out which one of you was getting a free ride to the pokey for buggering with a U.S. government computer, I got this reply:

Yes, my child. What may I favor you with today? I know you don't need me to help grow your boobs.

Uh. Huh? Did I? What? Oh, holy crap, did I somehow email God? THE GOD? The man above? Lord and Saviour? Father of all fathers? Person I agreed was an opiate for the masses? Holy crap, I EMAILED GOD. And he made a crack about my boobs. He's real. And I like him. I'll be damned. Or maybe not . . .

Playing it totally suck-up safe, I replied:

I am sure there are other people whose needs are greater than mine. I just wanted to know if you were there.

But nobody talks to me anymore. They're all atheists or humanists now. So really, it's like you went to the deli and there was no one in front of you. You don't have to take a number from the little machine. Whether you need turkey breast or spiritual renewal, I am here.

Well, I suppose I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Did I just call you a horse? Should I have at least capitalized Horse? Do you care about that stuff? You know, all the hommy-glommy that surrounds you?

Also, I could use a soda. [Hey! He offered!] Pepsi. But I'd take an orange if that's all you've got. For some reason I suspect you drink Sunkist orange, like me. Maybe because it's so damnably (See what I did there? Do you like humor?) refreshing.

Oh, you know me. I'm low-maintenance, even for God. I don't need all that capitalization stuff. The way I look at it, if I need that for my ego then I must not be a very secure and powerful God, you know?

I can totally do a Pepsi. Although you should know that I drink Diet Coke. That's the Official Soft Drink of God. What do you think I could get for THAT kind of endorsement? If you ever visit me up here (and I pray to me that you don't for another 40 or 50 years), I'll let you try the soda flavors you guys don't even have on Earth. Orgasmberry Splash, anyone?

It pleases me that you are much like I expected. I bet you're cute, too. Are you allowed to make out? Wanna make out?

Just reading Orgasmberry Splash made my pink parts tingle a little. Good work, G-man. (OH! That makes me wonder if the G-spot is named after you. Is it? I almost asked if you could make it easier to find and then I remembered that things are better when you have to work for them.)

Speaking of endorsements . . . are the Cowboys really God's Team?

Are you Allah and Mohammed and Buddha and Ra and Zeus, too? Or are those different guys?

So many questions! You know, hiding from mankind is something I've always done out of habit, but this is fun. Maybe I'll call a respected journalist and do a sit-down TV interview. Who do you think would be best? A few years ago I'd have said Oprah, but now she's a bit of a wackadoo. Maybe I can get Letterman to give me a whole hour and let me pick the musical guest.

I have been told that I am cute, and I am allowed to make out. After all, I'm God, right? Who is going to tell me what to do? But I must warn you...making out with God is dangerous. Afterwards, no mortal man will satisfy you even a little. I mean, I INVENTED those pink parts. I know how they work better than anyone. So think carefully. And yes, the G-spot is named after me. Because if you find it, you see me and many have been known to call out my name.

I'm so glad you asked me about the Cowboys. They are NOT God's team. I don't care if they DID put a hole in the roof so I can watch. They are sinners and idolators, and they are unworthy before my eyes. The only time I visit the filthy hole they call a stadium is the one game each year when the Eagles visit. They are are pleasing to me.

While we're talking about football, let me make something clear - I DO care about the outcome of football games. Everyone who sees a player thank me and says "God has better things to do" is dead wrong. I mean, it took me seven days to create the universe, and make no mistake, that was hard work. But after that it's just routine maintenance. I have a lot of down time. By the way, I like the Chargers to win the Super Bowl this year. Just a tip from above.

As for whether I am all those guys, yes I am. I like to talk to people in a way they will be receptive to hearing me. Kind of like how Dukakis tried to woo conservatives by sitting in a tank, Kerry tried to get blue collar people by eating a cheesesteak, and Hillary tried to completely hide who she actually is. (Being God, I am much more successful than these train wrecks. Really, Kerry? Swiss cheese?)

It's so great to get all this stuff off my chest!

Would you be willing to be interviewed by a small-time Midwestern blogger who likes to swear and talk about poop? My sources say she has A LOT more questions for you.

Also, I just got up to get a Pepsi - I was even going to pay for it! - and discovered there's no ice in the office fridge. I'm questioning you and your omnipotence.

Do you look like Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski? Because that would be awesome and make me willing to forsake all mortal men. WAIT! I changed my mind. I'm not ready to give up penises just yet, but if you could see your way clear to sending one of those mortal men my way, it'd be super. I'm into cute with a sense of humor, confident but not egomaniacal, thoughtful, not gay, not married . . . whatever you think is best for me within those loose parameters.

I would love to be interviewed by you, I mean a small-time Midwestern blogger. That will give me street cred. After all, I'm a God of the people.

Silly child...it is not my omnipotence you should question. You should be asking yourself whether I wanted there to be ice in the fridge. I just blew your mind, didn't I? I tend to do that.

I do not look like Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski. I can make myself look like anything I want, but I do not wish to look like that. I'm God, I can't be running around slacking off in a bathrobe and existing in an inexplicably popular movie all the time. I prefer to look like Kurt Russell. Or maybe George Clooney if I'm going somewhere fancy.

As for your request, I will do my best. But it's pretty hard to find a guy like that who is not gay or married, even for me. But I'm glad to see your parameters are loose, that will help. Anything loose will help, frankly.

"Anything loose will help, frankly." Ha! I had almost forgotten about Mary Magdalene. How long did you two date? Is she the Holy Grail or is Dan Brown demented?

You know, nobody is going to believe this, but he got everything EXACTLY RIGHT. When I read it, I was like "What the fuck? How did this guy get all this information?" Then I realized he had probably come up with it completely independently and didn't even know he was right. So I figured I'd gently persuade some hipsters to trash it and let them do my dirty work.

Mary Magdalene? Oh, her grail is holy all right. She does shit that would turn Paris Hilton's hair white. We went out for a little while, but frankly, you can't keep that up. She's the kind of crazy where it's fun to date her for a couple of weeks and then you find yourself not picking up when she calls and making up excuses like you "have a lot of work to do."

Oh, God, you're a stitch! Listen, I'm sure you've got things to do so I will let you go but before I do my friend wants to know if you are a PC or a Mac . . .

All computers are equal in the eyes of God. Except those piece of shit HPs.

Hahaha! This was a lot of fun and very enlightening. Can I email you again some day?

Anytime, baby! It's lonely at the top.

So yeah, I've got some sort of back-of-the-wardrobe loophole in my laptop*, which is equal parts awesome and freaky. Got any questions for God, monkeys?

* I don't really have a laptop but I loved the alliteration of "loophole in my laptop" so much that I lied. In a blog post quoting God. I should ask him about hell next time.

I thought about this earlier, figured you'd all make do so didn't say anything, and then finally concluded that this picture is kind of small, meaning it has little room for words.

I'm about to say something that won't likely make me very popular but I have to say it: I finally saw Slumdog Millionaire and hated it.  I thought it was terrible.  I was not entertained but rather heartbroken and ended up with two more wrinkles from grimacing the entire time.  That is not fun.  Boooooooooo.  And yes, I understand that a movie is "good" when it elicits powerful emotions but I say, "Boooo, I want my Sunday night back, please."

On a scale of one to grrrrrrrrrrr, today was grrrrrrrrrrr.  I can't say if the people I encountered were as stupid as I perceived them to be, but I still wanted to verbally assault them all, one by one, slowly, with surgical precision.

March 2000.
One week in Ireland.
Two girls.
Hostels and public transportation.
(At least until the strike.)










We made do, taking a daytrip to Blarney Castle and Cobh with a couple other hostelers, one of whom had a car.

There's really nothing I can add to this.

I fell in love with the town Cobh (pronounced "Cove") as soon as I laid eyes on it. It has the very interesting distinction of being the last port of call for the Titanic before it went into open water and also being where the Germans sunk the Lusitania, a passenger ship, in WWI. Together, the number one and number two most famous passenger ship disasters. Weird, no? The museums were fantastic.

Whoa.

In a couple hours I am driving up to Alton, IL to pick up my mom and take her to lunch for her birthday.  We haven't spoken since June of last year.  I wasn't invited to Thanksgiving; I wasn't invited to Christmas.  (With our family it is entirely possible that nothing was done but I was neither consulted nor advised if that was the case.)

So this post was supposed to be about which of these seven things is true but I stopped over at Suze's on my way to writing that up and she had some cool, glittery clip art.  I like shiny things so I clicked on her fancy image to check out the other offerings.  This is what I found:

Don't blame me when this image pops into your brain over Thanksgiving dinner, blame Suze.