My Illness Level Has Gone to DefCon Pee-When-I-Cough

There’s this birth control pill that makes you only have four periods a year. You’re welcome. I think it’s intended for women who are just so freaking busy that they can’t be bothered with bodily functions. These are probably the same people who take DriUp tablets so they don’t have to urinate as often, too. Here’s the catch with this God-doesn’t-know-what-He’s-doing-with-our-plumbing-so-we’re-gonna-change-things-up-a-bit pill: it makes you have four periods a year, but it’s the same amount of blood. Read the fine print. So instead of having one period a month, you have three periods all at the same time, once per fiscal quarter. You basically sit in a kiddie pool for a week of your life, four times a year, wallowing in your own filth.

That’s what it’s like when I get sick. Well, without the kiddie pool. But still going with the wallowing in filth, especially since I can’t remember how long it’s been since I brushed my teeth and I might have been wearing this same shirt for three days now.

I never get sick. Ever. My immune system is so good, I could lick shopping carts in the Walmart parking lot and nothing would happen to me. So when I do get sick, it’s probably from bubonic plague or some disease that’s been wiped out in every country on Earth except for three small ones where you still buy your bride after checking her teeth.

But now, it’s happened. I have my tri-annual illness, and this time it’s really trying to kill me. I have self-medicated with hot tea and with whiskey, (not always at the same time, but sometimes) and I invested in a menthol vapor thing for my bedroom. I cough up stuff, I sneeze out stuff, and now, thanks to lack of exercise and the birth of two children, I pee stuff when I cough. I’m just going to go ahead and sit in the kiddie pool and ride this one out.

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This Shirt Means Instant Birth Control

I just got back from another whirlwind trip to NY for my job and I’m pretty fried. That could be why THIS struck me as so inappropriately funny while still being just the saddest thing ever.

Wow. Just...wow.
Wow. Just…wow.

This shirt was actually for sale in the Sky Mall catalog in the seat back on the airplane (go ahead, click that link and see if I’m lying). It’s name is The One Of A Kind Shirt. It retails for between $99 and $299, depending on the size you need, and no, you don’t get to pick the color scheme. It is seriously made from the parts of other shirts, like a Frankenshirt for douche bags who have more money than brains.

The greatest asset this shirt can offer you is total birth control, and I mean, like, somehow even more effective than abstinence. If you even own one of these shirts, let alone were actually wearing it for a night on the town, you will never need to worry about being slapped with a paternity suit after a drunken encounter at a bar because there is no way in hell you fathered a child with anyone. Not even a colorblind, legally blind, vision impaired person. Simply putting ON the shirt causes impotence and hanging the shirt in your closet causes all your sperm to die at once.

In other only vaguely related news, my husband needed to know all kinds of interesting stuff about birth control for church (that’s a whole other blog post), so I helped him look up lots of information on birth control. Turns out, God thinks we’re doing it wrong. If we were  in the Duggar family’s church, we’re twenty-three children short of the goal, but if we were Unitarian, God thinks we’re actually going for overkill by having as many kids as we already have. I started explaining things to him with the basics since I’m a biology teacher, but my husband’s eyes glazed over before I even finished explaining barrier method vs chemical method. I’m just gonna buy him this shirt instead.

Lorca’s Week in Review: Highly Medicated Edition

Amen, Jesus.

Yes, I’m on drugs. Shut up with your sarcasm, these drugs are a new development and no, I haven’t been on drugs all along. I’m taking the injections to make my bone marrow extra super-powery so I can donate next week. Aside from the stinging pain in my butt and the ability to feel my own brain, I haven’t noticed any side effects other than I now list to one side when I walk. The headache and back pain are not only normal, but they’re an awesome excuse to not cook dinner, walk the dog, or clean anything. Best of all, I’m now telling people that the extra thirty pounds I’m carrying are the result of swelling from the medication. I realize it’s not medically possible to gain that much weight since the first dose yesterday, but nobody else needs to know that.

All of the needles and drugs are to get me all set for the donation, and I have to say the scariest part of the trip is going to Tampa. Apparently there’s a hurricane-a-comin’, but even that isn’t really a deal breaker for me. There’s also a Republican-National-Convention-a-comin’, and officials have ordered an evacuation of the city. Let that sink in: the Republicans try to throw a “look at me” fundraising party, and a hurricane is set to wipe it out. Sign. From. GOD.

When I’m not too exhausted from faking an illness or badmouthing the Republicans, I was busy all week doing real grown up stuff. I have a whole new website for my students called WritersOnTheInside.com, and I’d love for you to take a look and tell your friends.

I reviewed a great book for my writing job, and I have to say, Pushing The Limits was a five-star look at life for some screwed up teenagers.

My autism blog took a nap over the weekend while I finish the manuscript for my second autism book, available soon in print and e-reader. There’s only so much autism I can think about at one time.

I pinned a whole bunch of funny crap on Pinterest, but it turned out to be mostly stuff that laughs at the bad grammar habits of others.

On these blogs I read, all kinds of crazy took place:

This one guy with inappropriate footwear learned a life lesson from a fat woman on a bicycle.

I found out about a science fiction/fantasy online book club and I think they might card me at the door if I try to get in.

A harsh look at the reality of sucky musicals.

Wish me luck as I head into the land of “No Birth Control for Women” and “Gays Are Gonna Burn But Us Money-Grubbing Adulterers Are Gonna Be Just Fine.” Have a great week!

Please, Please, PLEASE Can I Be A Drug Dealer?

Stop it, she's not actually doing lines of coke. That's ground up birth control pills, about $600 worth on the street.

I made the mistake of choosing “public school teacher” and “author” as career paths without marrying a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon first. That basically means I’m doomed to a lifetime of driving a nine-year-old minivan and vacationing in places whose historic landmarks date all the way back to 1985. But never fear, I am ever the intrepid opportunist and I have found a whole new source of income.

I’m going to be a drug dealer.

I’m really, really scared of people who look like thugs and I’m the biggest chicken when it comes to doing something I was told not to do and then getting in trouble for it, plus I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to crack and I almost flunked chemistry so I probably shouldn’t try to cook meth. Fortunately, I got the bestest idea EVER from our own government and now I’m going to be So. Fucking. Rich.

I’m going to stock up on birth control pills and sell them on the black market when our government finally finishes those last few inches and gets its collective head the rest of the way up its ass.

Yes, like any good carpetbagger, I’m going to make my fortune off the backs of the people who are about to be royally screwed over by the government. I will conduct business in bus station bathroom stalls where I pop out and sell illegal Depo-Provera shots. I’ll be that person who says, “Psst,” in a loud whisper then beckons you over to the trunk of my car (mini-van…sigh) by jerking my head at you and asking you if you wanna taste. Of Lo-Ovral.

And just like all those mail order Canadian Viagra websites, I’m gonna make a fortune. I’ll be the person that you all know when you tell each other you “know a guy.” And you will pay me whatever I ask because I can get the good stuff, the really high quality pharmaceutical grade stuff that will actually keep you from getting pregnant. Not only that, even when you’re done paying me you’ll never really be done paying me because then I will OWN you for buying drugs from me. I can make you be my bitch because you’re addicted to only having two kids.

Wait. This stopped being funny about a paragraph-and-a-half ago. Because it’s gonna happen. But at least I’m gonna get in on the ground floor.

The Spite Baby

This kid is just scary looking. And expensive looking. There's no way she has 20/20 vision with those eyes.

I try really hard not to discuss politics on this blog because I simply don’t know what I’m talking about. I try to also leave religion out of it, too, but that’s just because I know full-well that my religion is better than your religion, so there’s no need to brag about how awesome my religion is because that would be just rubbing it in your face. (By the way, I’m Catholic. The un-Rick Santorum kind.)

But sometimes there’s something going on in politics that is both so angering that I have to think about it and so confusing that I at least have to read what the internet had to say about it. Apparently, and I could be confused by the facts on this one, we don’t have enough babies in America.

I realize China has grown into a super-human country where they have so many people the borders literally can’t hold them all, and I don’t actually think the government is trying to compete by making our citizens have as many babies as they have in China, but something’s not adding up. Our government is arguing over whether or not my health insurance has to cover birth control, but I don’t think everybody’s thought this through.

Has anyone done the math on a few years’ worth of birth control versus providing health insurance for a baby from its pre-pop-out days all the way through its college graduation? I don’t think they have, so if the government makes me have a baby I’m going to make sure that I give birth to the anti-Christ, just for the fun of it.

I don’t mean that I’m going to be neglectful or teach the child cruelty. I mean, it is actually going to BE Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t really know how I’m going to bring that to pass just yet, but if anyone can give birth to a medically evil human being, I can.

More importantly, this baby is going to be the most expensive child my health insurance company has ever met. It will have every three month check-up. I will take it to the emergency room for every sniffle and fever higher than 98 degrees. I will have it tested for every disease and medical condition known to medical science. I’ll have it tested for diseases that don’t even exist in this country, and a few diseases that only occur in animals. The child will have orthodontia, glasses, and corrective shoes (I realize that will make my child a target for bullying at school, but he’ll be okay once he figures out that he’s the anti-Christ.). I will buy the prescription-only children’s vitamins instead of Flintstones. Did you know you can even get a prescription for WATER? Yes, my child will drink only the Rx water and the doctor who wrote the prescription and the pharmacy who sold it to me will all send their bills to my health insurance provider.

It would be a whole lot cheaper if the health insurance providers just shut up and covered my documented medical condition: hyperfertility, or the ability to get pregnant while doing normal activity (well, okay, normal grown up activity…and define “normal.”). The providers should be required to cover the treatment because it’s a really real medical condition. After all, you just read about it on the internet.