Sleep

We are having a wee smattering of sleep issues here at Sam's Stories. I'd like to illustrate it with the following texts between myself and our new babysitter: (I have a post on the babysitter issue, too.) (Not that our babysitter has an issue. I have an issue. Or twelve hundred.)

Sitter: My mom said I'm good to go for Friday.
Sam: Yes!!
Sitter: :) 5 to 7:30?
Sam: Yep! Thanks!
Sitter: No problem.
Sam: Can you text me your address so I can put it in my phone?*
Sitter: Sure. (insert address here) I'm going to your house tomorrow though, right?
Sam: Tomorrow? (at this point I am trying to figure out how to say politely that I had no fucking idea what she is talking about when she is a newish sitter and I don't know her well enough to use the word "fucking" yet) Hmmm....my brain is failing. Do you remember why? When I told you? Dude, I need a decent night of sleep.
Sitter: Haha. You said tomorrow from 5:00 to 7:30.
Sam: Friday! Today is Tuesday, right? I hope.
Sitter: Today is Thursday.
Sam: No way.
Sitter: Yeah.. Lol
Sam: ROFLMAO. I am SO dumb. Sorry!
Sitter: Hahaha no worries. You just need sleep.
Sam: Total FAIL. See you tomorrow then!

So, the combination of traditional holidays stresses, SERIOUS FUCKING FAMILY FAIL, shitty sleeping by one baby and therefore one mama and partially one daddy, and a new phone mean that I have no brain and blogging has failed me. Or I have failed blogging. Whichever. I have had mad, passionate sexor with my phone many times and OMG I lurves it so much. I can read blogs very well with my phone but typing an actual post is not appealing. I might have to get over myself and start blogging on it. I have SO much to say to you all!!


*I got a new phone so I am updating contact information. If you know me in the real world, text me so I can add you. I chose not to do a data transfer so I am starting all new. Like a baby. Or a virgin. Or a baby virgin. EW. All babies should be virgins. Otherwise is just WRONG. Sorry! One should NOT post after taking night time pain meds. No filters. Bad Sam!

Rain, Rain, Go The Fuck Away

Note: It just rained. My body is fucking killing me. I took two darvocets. The following writing I cannot be held responsible for in any way including a lack of spelling skills, grammar issues, run-on sentences, and general fuckery of the English language.

1) Watching Bones and a character just used the term, "bump uglies." Seriously? Did I hear that right? On network television they used bump uglies? Also, spell check says that I spelled "uglies" right the first time but not the second or third and I cannot see the difference. Moving on...

2) Recently I have had a spambot issue on an old post of mine. The first time I was a little irritated, but it reminded me that a lot of my older stuff is still missing pictures from when I was in the teaching credential program and removed all of the photos that showed my darling face. So, put the picture back in and left it at that. Or so I thought. The fucking spambots came and commented again. And again. It seemed a little tacky to me. You see, the post is Posting From Colorado, where I announce that I buried my dad that day and show a picture of me at his grave. Seriously rude, right?

I finally realized that I can close comments on that post alone, did so, and now the problem is over. I think. You might be tempted to recommend that I turn on comment verification, but I already explained my issues with that ridiculousness.

The End

Lazy Assed Blogger

Because I haven't posted this month and I'm a total fucking asshole I am posting an email exchange. Not even new, original material here at Sam's place. However, I have recently returned several emails that were months old, so there's that. And, Egg is six months old today. Can you believe that shit? I'm not sure how it happened, but I have a sitting up baby that interacts with you and plays with eats toys.

In other news, I am house sitting for someone right now. Or animal sitting? Which is the one where you have something furry squirming under your ass making a strangled mewing sound? That one. So the animal I am watching (in his home) is a cat. A terribly lovable cat that I call Rex Roofer. His first name is Rex, and to protect his anonymity I can't tell you his last name. But it isn't Roofer. So Rex Roofer is awesome. He loves me, and purrs and lets me pick him up and cuddle him. He's usually an indoor/outdoor cat, and even when he is outside he comes to me meowing and wanting love.

During this cat sitting gig he is stuck inside. This is pissing him off A LOT. I can tell this by two things: he pissed all over the kitchen rug, and he fucking attacked my left leg tonight when I tried to leave. When I say attacked, I don't mean rubbed up against me purring and meowing with a silky soft touch. I mean he ran up to my leg, grabbed it with his front paws, claws extended and into my flesh while his fucking mouth opened wide and he bit my fucking calf. With his teeth. Drawing a bit of blood in four places if you include the claw marks. Dude. It sucked. I am not wearing shorts over there again. Tomorrow I am wearing an old pair of jeans and possibly bringing Reina with me. Because that bitch hates him.
She sits at the window, waiting for him. When Rex is sighted, she runs from window to window, following him and losing her shit. One night he came up to the front door and I was dumb enough to open it. A white-hot ball of fury named Reina chased poor Rex Roofer's ass down my front walk to the grass and then I'm pretty sure she yelled, "And fucking stay off my lawn, motherfucker!" I'm not sure why she hates him so much, but she's an angry bitch that I wouldn't cross.

Now, for the email exchange that you have been anxiously awaiting for the last two minutes. Unless you're a slow reader. Then ten minutes. Whatever. The first email isn't very funny. But the second is, I promise.

Jenny,

I was reading Good Mom/Bad Mom because I read all of your writing that I can get my greedy little hands on when I noticed that you took a picture of your daughter and niece while at Rosa's. Which is AWESOME because I love Rosa's and had dinner there tonight. Except probably not at your Rosa's because I live in Southern California. You are probably saying, "Big fucking whoop" because there are about 15 Rosa's in Texas. However, there is only ONE Rosa's in California. And I eat there. My baby fucking loves their cups because of the colors and he knows that crack cocaine lives inside them. We call it Diet Coke but he knows better. I have one question for you, if you can answer (please oh please) during your *cough* free time? Okay, never mind. I am a douche canoe. But! I will pose the question and if you should choose to answer, it is up to you. But I will be dying to know the answer and the guilt just may consume you. GUILT! Here it is: Is the ice at YOUR Rosa's as wonderful as the ice at my Rosa's? Because everyone loves it.

Thank you in advance for your awesomeness,

Sam

PS If you were wondering, flexeril does make one loopy and impedes the writing process. Also, I think I should refrain from emailing while relaxed in such a manner.

---

The Response:

I actually traveled 9 hours to get to that Rosa's because I love it so
much and the ice is fucking AMAZING. It's like rabbit poop if the rabbits
were angels.

~Jenny

---

I've never connected rabbit shit to the ice at Rosa's but she got it EXACTLY right. The Bloggess is The man. Or The woman. Whatever. She's so The that she transcends gender.

NINJA!!1!

Chicken and I are going to see Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction tonight, also known as the NINJA tour I've heard. At least that's what all the cool kids (Chicken) are calling it. I'm calling it the OMGNINWTFYAY Tour. Google says that I spelled that wrong. What.Ever. Chicken has gotten into music recently in a way which amazes me. At his age I had a total of two tapes, which I received for my 12th birthday: Mr. Mister and FUCK ME I can't remember the other one right now. Oh yes, Tears For Fears. I was hardcore at 12, yo. Hard fucking core. Chicken has an iPod with a million gigs of space and listens to a million bands and spends much of his free time researching bands and tour date and whatnot. It's adorable I think.

It was Chicken's idea to see NIN and I am so stoked that I am sitting on the toilet as we speak/type/read/whatever with a nervous tummy. Speaking of my tummy, I recently found the lost Poo book and will be getting back to the reading and contest portion of your blogging experience sooner than later. Hurrah! I am also nervous because the last time I was away from Egg for more than an hour or so was on February 28th when I got mah hairs did. According to my grays it is time again, but I am hell-bent on seeing NIN instead. I know that TB is more than capable of taking care of Egg, I've pumped and froze milk enough for a whole day, and everything will be alright. Right? Right. I'm going to pump in the parking lot of the venue because too many hours without mah baybee means BEWBIE EXPLOSION and I am sure none of the cool kids want to see that shit.

Wanna hear a story? Of course you do! When I was 15 or 16 or maybe 17? I heard "Pretty Hate Machine" for the first time. I remember being in my friend's car with the CD cover (it was a CD, right?) and trying desperately to remember the name of it. I was a tiny wee bit totally fucked up you see, and knew that the next day would reveal that I could not fucking recall the name of the band or album. So I looked at the album title and thought to myself, "Bewbies!" except I probably spelled them the traditional way of "boobies" back then. So, bewbies are pretty therefore I would remember that I was thinking of pretty bewbies and that would take me logically to "pretty" and then "pretty hate machine." However, all I remembered was "bewbies" because I suck. The End.

Happy 420!!

While I am not actively celebrating this year, I hope that some day soon Americans can legally do so any day they please.

I Big Fluffy Heart Drugs

I've been given my night meds in an attempt to allow me to sleep through the night. I received fentanyl and demerol for pain, and ambien for sleep. The fentanyl and demerol were delivered via a needle in the meat of my ass cheek. I barely even registered the pain on that one. I am now totally high but lovin' it to pieces. Drugs are my BFF. My goal is to chill all night, snore like a fucking goat, and be ready to rock n roll in the AM. Does this post make any more sense to you than it does to me? Probably not. I'll be reporting in the morning unless something FUN and EXCITING happens, then you'll hear from The Diva of the Redneck. Or me because I'm having fun being loaded and want to share it will all of my peeps.

Did I mention that I LOVE being high? Is so awesome. You must try it sometime. AND!! I am seriously overjoyed that I brought pads to the hospital because I am rockin' my very own undies with my very own favorite pads. WIN.

I am loving my husband very much, and actually the whole wide world right now. You peeps make my high heart happy. I'll check in later if there are any changes or if I'm feeling lucid enough to type. Right now I am having some serious issues typing and getting correct words and shit to come out. GAH! Kids-don't do drugs. They are wasted on you. I want them all for ME ME ME.

How I Utterly Failed As A Parent

Tonight I let Chicken watch the most recent episode of Weeds. The show typically contains the activities of a housewife turned pot dealer and some rather interesting humor but overall nothing terrible. No sex, no nudity, and mostly just raunchy conversation. Although I rarely let Chicken watch adult television I was feeling generous and I knew the show would amuse him.

Holy fuck, people. Let's do a recap of the things that were featured on Weeds this week, shall we? Obviously, this post contains spoilers. Go watch the episode and I'll see you in 1/2 hour, okay? Tonight, in Sam's living room Weeds contained:

• A naked rear view of a man within the first 5 seconds.
• A 17 year old boy fucking and going down on a neighbor lady that has a 10 year old child. Naked rear view of man/boy while eating pussy. No pussy or boobies were visible. In fact, there wasn't even a female ass completely naked. Hmph.
  
• A woman in black lace panties being spanked by a man. Both parties enjoyed the spanking. Later, the woman displays her red/bruised bottom with a grin on her face.
  
• Two children (aged 13 ish, a boy and a girl) looking at nude pictures of the boy's mother (the pictures are 20 years old approx).
• The 13 year old girl is a lesbian and really enjoys the pictures of the boy's mother and leers at the mother the next time she sees her in person.
  
• Later, the 13ish year old boy views the pictures of his mother while in bed and then it is insinuated that he starts to masturbate.
• Two men in bed making out, a king-sized bottle of lube at the bedside (TB says it was king-sized, I had no feeling on the matter).

I am not including the offers of sex, talk of sex, or other nonspecific sexual innuendo. Please note that I am happy that there were non-hetero sex acts/thoughts/etc. going on during the episode. If I had watched it without Chicken my only objection would have been the boy jerking it to the pictures of his mother because that is out of my personal realm of sexual comfort. That being said, HOLY FUCK PEOPLE!! I should also mention that I have no issues with pot and would love to see it legalized in the United States. If I wanted a prescription for medicinal marijuana in California I could obtain one due to my fibromyalgia - according to my rheumatologist.

At the end of the day, I kept watching Weeds with Chicken thinking that it simply could not get worse and wow I was wrong. Today, I failed as a parent. There is always tomorrow to fuck it up equally as well.

Well Shit

Severe lack of sleep plus reducing my Celexa from 40mg per day to 10mg every other day equals fussy and needing to vent Sam. I'm exhausted and frustrated but it is getting better and I am mostly keeping a positive outlook. Please allow me to let off steam without judging too harshly. I would most likely be much happier back on a full dosage of Celexa but I am trying to wean off of it for the health of my unborn child. If my anxiety and depression is too much to function as a person I will increase the medication to a dosage where the cost/benefit analysis makes sense. So bear with me please, I am struggling.

I told my mother today that I am pregnant, and boy was I ever glad that my godmother was there to curb her reaction. My mother's face contorted into the most amazing configurations while she struggled with her reaction to the news. She brought up a few points for me to think about, being that I just woke up one day and realized that SEX CAN MAKE BABIES and ZOMG I'm knocked up and I didn't think about it at all ahead of time. She is concerned about my housing situation and school.

I guess the fact that I just told her that we were purchasing a larger house this year fell out of her brain, so I gently reminded her that we are buying a house this year. Hey! Guess what? We are buying a house this year! Currently we live in a two-bedroom house, and even if we stayed here for a few months after the baby is born it is not as if the baby would sleep in its own room at that point.

As far as the school situation, my mother knows that I barely finished this past semester due to the fibromyalgia and have already seriously considered not returning in the fall for multiple reasons. One of those reasons is that I might home school Chicken for the next two years. I know that I am not physically able to teach full-time at this point, and may never be healthy enough to do so. In addition, I am not going to work full-time with an infant/small child at home. I would not be having another child if our financial situation dictated that I work full-time. Does this mean that we budget like motherfuckers? Hell yeah. Does this mean that my disposable income is really tiny? Yeah. But it is worth it to stay at home and take care of my family.

Speaking of family, after I got home today I realized that I have no more family to tell about my pregnancy. My mother will tell her siblings and they will tell their children but that's about it, folks. No ZOMGWTFBBQ I'm pregnant calls to my family. No OMG CONGRATS WOOT YAY A BABY!! I miss my dad. I miss my Celexa. It does a great job of taking the edge off of shit that hurts.

Chicken ROX

My Chicken went to the park to hang out with some friends that I am a little unsure of at this point. I'll tell you more on that later. But today, I received a phone call from him that there was a 9th grade girl in the park with two twenty-something males and they were smoking pot together. Chicken and his friends were worried about the girl. One of his friends used to know the girl and they didn't know what to do. So Chicken called me for help. *swoon* My kid is awesome. We talked for a few minutes and then I asked him if he wanted me to call the cops. Chicken was relieved and replied, "Yes please!" I called the local police department and they are sending someone out right now.

I really don't care if consenting ADULTS smoke pot but I remember being a young girl hanging out with older guys and it is not a path I'd send anyone else down. Also- don't pass a bowl around where my 11-year old and his friends can watch. Okay? Go home and smoke out there. Or sit in your car. Leave the teener girls alone. If they want to smoke pot with their teener friends, so be it. But there is no reason to get little girls high. Well, there is a reason but in the grand ole state of California you have to be 18 to consent motherfucker.

Super Awesome

more graph humor and song chart memes

Lamest Drug Addict EVAR!

I never updated you guys/girls on my great quest to get my drug situation in line with the baby-making situation. How about a list?

Drugs In My Big Ole Drawer of Drugs:

• Vicodin*
• Darvocet*
• Xanax
• Elavil
• Imitrex
• Qvar*
• Albuterol*
• Flonase*
• Celexa
• Cymbalta*
• Tramadol
• Ultram
• Lunesta*
• Skelaxin (sp?--too lazy to walk into my bedroom to check on the spelling)
• ... I know I'll remember something else five minutes after I hit "publish" on this post

The ones marked with an asterisk are daily medications and have been (mostly) for the last year. The doctor I saw wanted me to go down to: Flonase (allergies), Qvar (asthma), Albuterol (asthma) and .... that's it. He also recommended that I go cold turkey and just suck it up through the withdrawal. Well that sounds all good and fine if you're BATSHIT crazy. I made up my own plan: Flonase, Qvar, Albuterol and 1/2 Celexa (20mg) with the intention of going down as low as I can on the celexa without making my family and my brain hate me (more). Celexa has more acceptable side effects than Cymbalta does, and I just happened to have a shitload of it in my drug drawer from when I switched off of it to try out Cymbalta.

Now, for the what the fuck?!? part... I went cold turkey off of the pain and sleep medications. Other than the trouble sleeping (it is part of the fibromyalgia) I haven't noticed any withdrawal. Now how many people end up in rehab after becoming addicted to painkillers? How the fuck is it possible for me to have a gazillion alcoholics in my family and the only thing I've managed to be addicted to in my life is smoking (cigarettes - three years next month smoke free!!). And don't think I haven't tried when I was young and dumb and full of ... yeah. I suppose I should feel lucky but really I feel like a druggie failure. DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!! Maybe I'm developing an addiction to parenthesis. (Notice?)

---

One last thing-there is a new icon on the sidebar for NaComLeavMo. The idea is that for a month you visit XX number of blogs on the participating list and leave XX comments, as well as respond to comments left on your blog. The point is to start/increase conversations on your blog, as opposed to the posting in a vacuum thing. It is also a good way to meet and greet other bloggers. Click on the picture for details about the month of commenting. If you don't know Stirrup Queen, she is the Jewish mother to the internet infertility world. Did you know that I have experience keeping a Kosher kitchen? Yes, I am talented. Remember the year I spent as a nanny for my good friend? Yep, she's Jewish and keeps Kosher so I learned the ropes. I rock.

---

One last thing. I promise. Today I was out getting my eyebrows ripped off waxed and Chicken and his Little Friend found two dogs roaming the neighbor. By the time I got home they had called the owners and followed the dogs all over tarnation to keep them on the sidewalk and out of the street. I got them to hop in my car to keep them in one place until the owner showed up. She was SO happy to get her puppies back, she had been walking all over the neighborhood and park with a bag of lunch meat calling them (??). My Chicken is following in my footsteps with the saving animals thing. Good Chicken! Good Boy! Sit!

Verbal Diarrhea

Dear Reader(s),

Thanks to your fabulous advice and tasty comments (along with a small helping of brains on my part) I have concocted a master plan which is subject to change without notice. Here's the scoop 'o poop:

1. The soonest appointment I was able to make with an ob/gyn was May 7th. According to my complicated calculations involving my fingers and a little cervical mucus (totally kidding!!) I will be WAY past ovulation by then, making this cycle a bust before I even got to enjoy a round of thoroughly deep dicking. And that sucks.

2. The soonest I was able to make an appointment with MY ob/gyn was the end of May. Which meant that by the time I am able to switch medications allegedly given to me on that day I will be past the fertile time of my NEXT cycle. Please remember (for fuck's sake) that this ob/gyn I have only seen once anyway because I moved from San Diego a year ago. My old one was only good for my annual visit and not much else. I fucking hated her a little bit. Another post. Remind me sometime okay?

3. Certain RAD and AWESOME readers mentioned that I probably would not get the drugs I wanted from an ob/gyn even if I went down on him/her and my best bet would be to visit my regular doctor, which of course I left in San Diego. I really need some new doctors, huh? My San Diego doctor (not pussy doctor, just general practice doctor) was also very highly demanded and getting appointments was a pain in the ass which would lead me back to numbers 1 and 2.

4. I have gone to the local Urgent Care a few times since moving to *redacted* and noticed that there was a "normal" doctor in the same office. Meaning EASY! and CLOSE! and in my network so CHEAP! I couldn't remember the name of the place and couldn't be bothered to attempt to find paperwork to get a phone number so I just drove the 1/2 mile to Urgent Care and made an appointment for Monday afternoon. WOOT!!

5. I have two Rx for my asthma, Albuterol and Qvar. My fibro specialist does not feel comfortable refilling them. Although he'll gladly hand over Rx for vicodin and darvocet like they are yummy for my tummy. I am on the last refill of my Qvar and I will end up in Urgent Care without it. The only solution is to find a regular doctor or a pulmonologist. I try to avoid doctors with specialties. It creeps me out. I'M NOT SPECIAL DAMMIT!!

6. I looked up the medications I really want to keep taking on Safe Fetus (thanks Amanda!) and HOLY FUCK with the extra digits and cleft palate and I just couldn't keep reading any more. Everything there IS scary.

So! I may save this cycle and create a fetus playmate for my knocked up friends. Yay for me. While you are giving me input, I have a specific pregnancy/medication advice request: I want to switch my anti-depressant/anxiety medication to one more baby friendly. I would like to have some information in hand when I go to my appointment on Monday so I can say, "Well my friends inside the computer said..." My current prescription is for 60mg per day of Cymbalta, however I am taking 30mg at this time due to ramping down medications for impending fertilization (please and thank you oh gods of babydom).

The reason for this particular drug is that the fibro pain can be alleviated by the Cymbalta AND I tend to be anxious due in large part to the fibro. Thanks fibro!! I never found the pain relief side to work, however I might have needed to take more than that dosage according to my fibro specialist (one specialist is enough, thank you). Um, where was I? Oh yes. Need drug for anxiety. I have taken: Effexor (FUCK NO!), Celexa (have 3 month supply sitting in drawer), Lexapro, and Wellbutrin (to quit smoking) in the past. The Wellbutrin was horrible - don't give the anxious chick uppers! Any suggestions? Bueller?

I Can Haz Cheeseburger

Like I have nothing better to do, I was at the lolcat place and found this picture in dire need of a caption. So I captioned it. You may now laugh.


moar funny pictures

Squeeeeee!

I AM ALMOST DONE WITH THE SEMESTER.
I HAVE ONE PAPER LEFT TO WRITE.
I APOLOGIZE FOR SHOUTING.
I AM THAT EXCITED.
WHEEE.

Also? On Sunday I am getting on an airplane and going here. I am so super excited I can barely keep myself from peeing a little right now. Oops.

Squee!

Too Hip To Be Square

Does the title make me old? I feel young today, not because I am carefree and flitting about like a happy fairy high on fairy dust but because I am looking at how long I will likely live in pain. I went to the chiropractor today, as I do every week, to get a massage and adjustment. Without the 1/2 hour massage I am so stiff that adjusting me is nearly impossible, and sometimes I am still too stiff afterward to do much good. I asked the chiropractor about my hip pain, I wanted a clue as to when he thought my hip would be happy again. He gave me a 50/50 chance of it being pain-free within a year, and if it is not within a year it will likely never stop hurting.

The pain from my hip is greater than the rest of my pain, so even on days that the FMS is not totally fucking me up the hip is there taunting me. Teddy Bear assures me that we will find a way to fix it, and I want to believe him. I really do. But right now I am having a minor crisis and it is hard to believe in anything.

I have had FMS for at least seven years, but due to the insanity of life I have attempted to ignore it. I did not get an "official" diagnosis until this year. I was hoping that it would just go away, and I was afraid that after seeing doctors and trying this and that and the other I would realize that I was stuck in this body of suck and it would be so fucking hard to deal with, much easier to stick my head in the sand. Damn that sentence was long.

Now I know and I am looking at my life looming before me and wondering how I can take so many years of pain and it exhausts me. I am wallowing in it. Eliza was talking about stages of grief, and I feel like I am just starting to grieve my former life. Like Eliza, I am realizing that my best years of health are gone, and that just sucks so much. Yes, I am lucky. My husband is so wonderful and supportive, my son is a pain in the ass but I love him so much. I have a house and a car and a cat that cuddles with me. I do not have to work.

The problem is that I want to work. I want to be productive and useful to society and to my family. I want to make dinner every night and have the energy to go on dates with my husband, to go out and do something physical (like riding bikes or jogging?) with my son. I want just one day without any pain. I want to do things.

I have decided, with the help of my friends and my husband, to not start the teaching credential program next semester. I just cannot physically do it right now. I will start substitute teaching in January, as often as my body lets me. I am hoping to get a gauge of how much I can do, and right now my gauge is saying that full-time school is not doable. I might decide to start in the fall, but I don't know. I don't know if I will ever be able to teach full-time, I might just substitute when I can. If that is what I ultimately do, what good will a credential do? I am going to talk to my advisor at school and tell her I am withdrawing my application for spring semester.

Although it feels like failure, part of me is so relieved. The thought of school next semester was overwhelming. I love school but my body says "Fuck no!" and I can't attend school without my body. I have even gotten to the point of having to stand in class occasionally. Because my hip screams at me when I sit for too long, and then my FMS screams because standing just takes so much energy. I am well and truly fucked.

I am going to find a shrink this week. I haven't had much luck with shrinks since my favorite one moved to North (or South?) Carolina back in 1999 or 2000, but I have this gaping hole in my schedule and I figure it can't hurt anything.

On the good side of things, after my recent vomit-fest here about my father I feel like the pain of his death has lessened a bit. I know that I will always have times where it comes out of nowhere and kicks my ass, but it feels somewhat healed right now. Just in time for me to complain about feeling like shit.

I starting taking darvocet for the nighttime pain because vicodin keeps me up for hours. It's not the greatest pain killer, but I am stoned enough that I don't really care that I am in pain. And no, I'm not taking it every night. I have to keep the nights I get drunk and blog free so my liver doesn't up and leave me. This sucks. Also, it might be good to note that I am currently enjoying the bliss of darvocet and therefore am not to be held liable for any and all rambling, including overuse of commas and poor grammar and run-on sentences.

Oh, another thing. I am going to be contributing to a web zine soon and I am not sure whether I want to write under my blog name or my real name. Any thoughts?

Pissing In The Wind

I have several posts coming up the pipeline, and since I am fucking tired as all hell I am going to post the easy cut-n-paste one first. A few people (online and IRL) have asked me what the fuck happened with Specialist Douchebag #2 and I did not want to dreg up the horrible badness ever again. However, I needed to write a letter to aforementioned douchebag and his clinic so here it is, edited only to give me a small amount of privacy.

---

Arthritis Center of Riverside
4000 14th Street suite 511
Riverside, CA 92501

October 28, 2007

To Whom It May Concern,

I have been a patient of this medical establishment since April 2007. Last month I met Dr. Franco for the first time. Although he appeared to be an intelligent man, I was thoroughly unhappy with his care. For the sake of brevity, I have composed a bulleted list of my concerns:

• He berated me multiple times for not visiting the clinic frequently enough, even though I attempted to explain that I was merely following the schedule suggested by Dr. Lallande.
• I was kept waiting for more than 2 hours for my scheduled appointment and was told that this was commonplace in Dr. Franco’s practice. As someone who drives an hour each way to reach the office and suffers physical pain from sitting in a chair for an extended period of time I found this to be unacceptable.
• Dr. Franco had obviously never looked at my file before and wasted more of my time attempting to read it as I was (still) sitting there in front of him.
• Dr. Franco accused me of lying when I said that I had been taking medication for my Fibromyalgia continuously since it was prescribed by Dr. Lallande.
• Dr. Franco stated that the medication that I had been purchasing locally was low quality without knowing what I purchased and where, when fact one of the medications that I had purchased locally was the EXACT medication that had been recommended by Dr. Lallande.
• Dr. Franco appeared to be more interested in hearing himself speak than to listen to my concerns. I had to repeat myself several times and in the end I did not feel heard.
• Dr. Franco repeatedly asked me questions that were in my medical file in front of him. I attempted to explain that exact dates were difficult due to “brain fog” caused by the Fibromyalgia and he did not appear to listen.
• Dr. Franco asked me to pull up my shirt so he and the male P.A. that was with him could see my naval piercing. I felt that this request was not appropriate and it made me feel uncomfortable.
• Dr. Franco told me that he was going to prescribe me an antibiotic for a low-level infection and yet forgot to write the prescription.
• I requested that Dr. Franco write a prescription for Celexa (40mg) so that I could continue taking the medication under the supervision of his office. He stated that he would but did not like prescribing this type of medication for someone that he “did not know.” Celexa is not a commonly abused drug, is not a narcotic and is frequently used to help treat Fibromyalgia symptoms.
• While reviewing my file, Dr. Franco noted that the steroid shots I had been receiving were not an appropriate method to treat my condition, even though I had explained that the shot were for a hip problem not related to the Fibromyalgia.
• Dr. Franco forgot to review my open prescriptions and renew the necessary ones. I had to call in & ask when I ran out the next week.
• I requested an overall pain medication that doesn’t keep me awake, and instead was prescribed Lidoderm patches. I tried to explain to him that fibromyalgia means you feel pain EVERYWHERE and not in one specific spot, but he did not listen.
• Dr. Franco eliminated me from possible treatment options without asking if I would be willing to go through them. He assumed that I would not want to come up weekly for shots, even after telling us how fantastic they can be for some people & our interest in the subject.
• When it came time to review my x-rays, it was again obvious that he had never reviewed them. He whizzed through them faster than the nurse could put them up on the board which made me feel uncomfortable and unimportant. I don’t want to come to a specialist just to feel ignored.
• I attempted to get a prescription for a migraine medication as the one previously prescribed by your office (Imitrex) was having unwanted side effects. I tried to explain the type of headache/migraine that I had been suffering from and he was dismissive, saying that without “auras” my headaches were not migraines and that I should consult a neurologist. Auras only occur in 20-30 percent of migraine headaches and are not the sole defining symptom.
• I again tried to discuss the headaches with him and he indicated that the pain caused by not having adequate medication would surely make me go to a neurologist sooner rather than later.
• Overall, this experience was horrid. I had greatly appreciated the skill and demeanor of Dr. Lallande and his staff, while Dr. Franco’s behavior and demeanor were unacceptable. I felt belittled and not listened too. My husband sat in on my appointment, he is a very direct and assertive man, yet felt ignored as well, even though he was constantly asking Dr. Franco questions and trying to redirect the conversation towards my treatment and away from such segues as my naval piercing. I have no interest in seeing Dr. Franco again. If it is necessary to see Dr. Franco to remain a patient at this clinic then I will find another practice.

Sincerely,

Sam I Am, Muthafucker!

Pondering Picnics

I feel like shit. I don't talk about it very much because I try to remain positive and funny and nekkid whenever I can, but holy craptastic I am done. The fibro is kicking my ass up and down and I'm not sure why it is flared up so badly still. I understand that living with the in-laws and job hunt was stressful, but the new house (and did you appreciate the picture I posted of it? No, you didn't! buttholes!) back to school, better finances, possibly new car, possible baby-making in the new year...I should be doing better, right?

But here I am, thinking "How the fuck could I even take care of a baby in this state?" Because the pain is unrelenting and I walk like a zombie I am so stiff and sore. The supplements I take for my brain help, and I am thankful for that. Just now I couldn't remember the word for "zombie" and I asked Teddy Bear "What is the name of the thing that eats brains" and before he answered I remembered it was ZOMBIES! Yay for words.

When I forget to take my brain meds my typing goes to shit. My fingers forget where the letters are, and I type away like normal except the words look like fuckall. How can you forget how to type? I do it every day. I guess it is no different than, "How can you forget the word for 'zombie' when you were just eating brains last week?!"

I've been wandering around the blogosphere lately, and realized that there is something (else) wrong with me and I'm not sure what it is or how to fix it. I have a doctor's appointment on Monday with the Good Specialist so hopefully I can figure some things out with him. For years (or longer? decades?) I have trouble with sensory input. I thought it was simply anxiety, then I thought it was being overly sensitive (hypersensitive?), now I have no clue. Environments that are too "busy" (sight or sound) are totally overwhelming to me. I thought busy stores were overwhelming because PEOPLE! BAD! SCARY! but now I wonder if it is just too much "stuff" for me to handle.

In addition to the sights and sounds, I get too much input from people. It is hard to describe, but when people are feeling something I feel it too. Oh, I have an example: Let's say that you are with two people that are having issues with each other and no one else notices except for you. And you notice it so keenly that they might as well be shouting "I'M TOTALLY PISSED" at each other and it is painful to be around, like a mental assault. Teddy Bear used to think I was totally nuts when I first told him about it, until I started meeting his friends. After we met someone I would describe that person perfectly, with details that I got from the brief meeting. Or one of his family members would say something and I would say "But he/she really means XYZ" and I would be right. Every time.

When Teddy Bear talks to his father about something and then comes to me with the information/advice I can hear his father in his voice. It is creepy when I say "You have been talking to your father" and he says "WTF? Yes, but wtf?" He finally admitted that I just paid more attention, or was more "in tune" with shit that was going on around me. But sometimes I want to make it stop. It is too much for me to handle and maybe that is why my fibro hates me. Maybe I'm internalizing too much input. How can I be blunted to all the stuff I don't need without being blunted to my feelings for my family and ordinary things that I need to notice?

Which leads me to Xanax. I started taking Xanax two-ish years ago knowing that it was very addictive. I have a legal and legitimate prescription, I also took less than was prescribed, I didn't take it to get "wheee" but after two years I knew that my body was addicted and I can't do the baby thing loaded on Xanax. Of course, my environment is much easier to deal with when the Xanax blunts everything. I started to taper slowly off of it and the physical withdrawals sucked (hot/cold flashes, cranky, irritable, BITCHY, overwhelmed) and now I'm done and started back using in emergency, as in "I am going to fucking lose my mind" which I primarily do when I'm PMSing and otherwise I just monitor my situation (stay out of Wal-Mart on the weekends). Sorry for the run-on sentence.

Other than the Celexa, how can I manage the onslaught of sensory stuff? Part of my problem that compounds it is the fibro, which makes many physical, normal sensations (like the feeling of clothing) hurt. Add that to the internal, muscle and joint issues and cluster headaches and I would like to order a new me, please and thank you.

Also, I keep missing Eliza on Gmail chat and it is making me pouty.

The Most Fun I've Had

In a very long time.

The reason why:

• fuck (9x)
• shit (7x)
• fucking (6x)
• corpse (3x)
• dead (2x)
• shitty (1x)

I was at this blog and she complained of her rated G blog and I thought to myself, "Self, this is probably a stupid thing that doesn't know what the fuck it is talking about" and dammit if I wasn't wrong.

Drugs, Life and Rest in Peace

It seems like I've been talking a lot about drugs lately. To some, it may seem that I'm a proponent of massive drug use for recreational fun and games. Actually, I'm not. I'm a proponent of drug use for recreation just like some people will have a beer or three with friends. Things like an occasional vicodin or smoking a bowl are fine with me. I see no difference between that and alcohol. They're all drugs, only some are more socially acceptable.

A few posts back I showed a picture of my prescription drug stash. Although 5% of me thinks "FABULOUS! PAINKILLERS! WHEEEEE!" the rest of me is saddened. I take Rx drugs for my asthma, my allergies, my anxiety/depression, my pain, my energy level and to sleep. Most of it is FMS-related. If I could pop a vicodin or tramadol to get a buzz once in a while I would be happy as a clam at high tide. Which, if you are curious, is the full expression. "Happy as a clam" by itself has no meaning, but a clam at high tide is a happy one, indeed. (Clam digging is done at low tide) Back to my story.

I don't take vicodin or tramadol or anything else at this point in my life to get high. I take them to function and I hate it. I've added some natural vitamins and supplements in the hopes of reducing the more harmful drugs, but at this point there are layers and layers of drugs and side effects and drugs to counter the side effects and sometimes at night I wonder to myself, "Am I lost in all this? Who am I, really? Without any drugs, who is Sam?"

A major part of the problem is that I'm in a bad place right now mentally. I've been out of work since the beginning of March. While Chicken loves me being at home and I love being there when he walks home from school, not working equals not paying off the debt I have accrued. And... no babies for Sam until my debt is greatly reduced. What? That tick-tock you just heard? That was my biological clock telling me my next birthday is number 34.

Also, Teddy Bear and I are heading to Grand Junction, Colorado in three weeks to bury my father. Before he died, we talked about his wishes and he wanted to be cremated and buried in the Veteran's State Cemetery in his home town. Although I could have let the funeral home ship his cremains to Colorado, I wanted to bring him myself. I want to visit his home town and hopefully meet cousins that I didn't know existed. I find myself a year and a half after his death picking out a headstone and making arrangements and it's all so horrible.

Which leads back to the drugs. FMS is very, extremely, terribly linked to your state of mind. Stress and depression worsen symptoms, which worsen depression, which creates a downward cycle of suckage. I want off the meds, I want a job, I want to stop crying over my father. I want to take a vicodin to go WHEEEE!! and not to stop the throbbing pain. I want a baby. Is there a world where all those things can happen? I hope so.

PS Funny post below. Sorry for the melancholy.

Well Shit

Note:
This post is not responsible for either grammar or spelling issues. My hands and brain are sucking today.

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I was talking to a certain scrapper person yesterday and she mentioned reading my blog and the funny!! and laughing!!! and WOW!! and then I realized that lately my blog sucks. I mean, I knew that my blog was sucking and depressing (reflecting the blog owner maybe?) but I really thought about it and decided that if I avoid my blog because it sucks then maybe I should either write something or walk away. And we all know that I can't walk away because it's Sam's Stories dammit and there is no life without the Stories or the Sam.

I am frequently accused of turning everyday shit into a Sam's Story in real life and while people laugh and laugh (and cry and beg for me to stop being so great and wonderful) they yell "Just get to the fucking point!" (occasionally or VERY OFTEN) What I am trying to get across is that Sam's Stories are just me. I tell stories, hands waving and hips thrusting without any rhythm just to make my story entertaining. I speak to entertain, that is my goal 90% of the time when I open my mouth. The problem is that when I mix my speaking with painkillers. The equation goes something like this:

painkillers + Sam = slightly hyper with a fervent NEED to talk + little or no filters

Let's talk about Vicodin and Tramadol, my current fighters of pain and suffering. There are two distinct groups of people that take Vicodin, and about Tramadol I know only of my own, limited experience so we'll ignore it for now. The people that take Vicodin are either trying to stop pain or get high. High as in hazy and fuzzy and happy and warm and the world is good, good, good. Wheeee! Vicodin! (That's why, Essie! You're SUPPOSED to feel that way, it's called DOING DRUGS)

Back to me and my experience with Vicodin, which bears no resemblance to the previous paragraph. I talk and talk and talk and I cannot fucking shut up. If I am alone I will talk to animals or myself. The worst part is that I'm high (speedy high, not stoned high) and I want to talk and do things and I seem to have lost internal filtering mechanisms.

For those of you that are scratching your noggins right now, a filtering mechanism would stop one from saying each of the following things in a large group of scrapbookers that are strangers in tight quarters and very many are older women:

• This crazy menopausal woman was there!
• Don't you remember the CRAZY MENOPAUSAL WOMAN?
• When my husband plays certain video games in bed it reminds me of him beating off and I slightly lose my sex drive.
• Oh, your husband, too?
• We call my cats' assholes pink star fruit.
• Anything about anal sex. I'm sure the two or three or twelve of us discussing it were okay, but the rest of the room could have lived without it.

There was much, much more and supposedly I greatly amused my VERY new scrappin' friends but the rest of the room? They would have appreciated a little better filtering on my part. Am I long-winded yet? No? Good. So I was hoping the new pain warrior, Tramadol would be a better friend. A calm, filtered friend. Oh no. Not a bit. So now I have to go back to the doctor and ask for a painkiller that doesn't make me tell inappropriate stories out loud in front of strangers while wanting to clean and work and DO!! all sorts of things. I want to be calm and quiet and pain free. Is that too much to ask?