Cranky Fibro Girl

Harnessing the healing power of snark

Wherein I Venture Outside Of The House, Interact With Other People, And Actually Have Things To Discuss

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Yesterday we were invited to attend our neighbor’s 50th birthday party which we were looking forward to, because we really like the people who live around us. And of course, any interaction with other people means there’s potential for some good blog fodder. And yesterday was no exception. So here are some of the highlights.

1. Oddest Method Attempted By A Random Partygoer To Try-And Ultimately, Fail-To Impress Me And My Husband

“Yeah, it’s always like that whenever I eat at a restaurant run by the mob.”

2. Meanest Thing Said To Me

(Not surprisingly, #1 and #2 were uttered by the same person.)

Have you ever met one of those people who only ask you questions as a way to talk more about themselves? And who ask their questions in an interrogating, attacking tone just slightly less aggressive than that of Torquemada and The Spanish Inquisition? Someone whose own glory days are clearly w-a-y behind them, but who tries desperately to hold onto them by asking you personal questions solely for the purpose of discounting each and every single thing about you?

Yeah, me too.

My husband and I somehow became involved in a conversation with this person, but he soon wised up and announced that he was going to check out the food, heartlessly sacrificing me to the raging fires of one-upmanship, leaving me to carry on our part of the conversation all alone.

“So, Jenny,” inquired our fellow party guest, “do you work?”

“Yes,” I replied, and then gave my standard elevator speech. “I run my own business tutoring high school kids in Spanish.”

And then this man said something to me that no other person has ever said, in the entire seven years that I’ve been doing this. It was only one word, but it was dripping with disbelief, incomprehension, and disgust: “Why?!”

3. Why I Am Ten Kinds Of Awesome, And Quite Possibly Deserve Some Sort Of Medal

Because I heroically resisted the temptation to answer, “Well, gee, I don’t know? Why did you decide to specialize in being an asshole?“

Revolutions: They’re Not All They’re Cracked Up To Be

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Over the past couple of months, we here in this little piece of Georgia have been experiencing what I can only describe as a bizarre attempt at a coup d’etat. I could totally understand someone attempting to grab power if the end result involved something big, like, say, uncovering buried pirate treasure, or, I don’t know, the chance to become the despotic ruler of your own entire nation. But no, this power struggle-which has now escalated to the level of lawyers, and judges, and mass mailings of PR “spin”-is all about our garbage collection. People are fighting to the death over who has the right to pick up our trash.

I’m not clear on all the details (which probably means that I’m flunking conscious citizenship), but as far as I can tell from my exhaustive reading of 3 whole paragraphs on the Internet, one group of people apparently believed that they had the right to entertain bidding for new contracts, and then awarded a contract to a second group, but then a third group sought a legal injunction on the grounds of, who exactly did that first group think they were, foolishly believing they had the right to exercise control over our solid waste disposal, and now we, the citizens, are very confused. And also, having to spend WAY more time thinking about garbage than we would really like.

All we here in the Ryan household know is that we were happily discarding away, trusting in the services of the company who has faithfully removed our trash every week for the past nine-and-a-half years, when suddenly we received a letter informing us that this service would now be performed by someone entirely new. Someone we hadn’t chosen. Someone who hadn’t consulted with us before making this decision. And, by the way, could we please send them money RIGHT NOW.

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Better Left Unsaid

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Here is a random sampling of conversations I’ve had with people lately regarding my fibromyalgia.

Today At The Dentist

My Hygenist (to the dentist, as he walks into the treatment room): “Well, Jennifer has just been diagnosed with fibromyalgia.”

My Dentist: “Hm. And what about trigeminal neuralgia?”

Me: “Yeah, I’ve got that too.”

My Dentist: “On both sides of your face, or just one side?”

Me: “Just the right side.”

My Dentist (in the tone of someone who has clearly never experienced pain so badly that they ever actively wished for death, but rather thinks the subject is an interesting one for a calm and rational exchange of thoughts): “Isn’t it interesting how the pain only occurs on one side of the face like that?”

Me: heroically mastering my desire to rip his head off and then beat him to death with it, so as to give him a more personal, less theoretical understanding of the pain which we are discussing.

Me (slowly and quietly, so as to ensure my continued self-control): “That’s not the word I would have chosen.””

Last Weekend On The Way To The Grocery Store

Me (explaining to my husband why I am listening to my iPod even though we already have music playing on the car stereo): Sometimes your music hurts my nervous system.”

My Husband: “Cool!!”

Me: “Um, no, it really isn‘t.”

Like-Minded Souls

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I went to a rheumatologist this morning to get some specialized help with all my health stuff, and not surprisingly, they had to draw some blood. This process never goes well for me, because if I am even in the same building as someone who is thinking about picking up a needle and using it on me, all blood flow immediately ceases, and my veins physically depart my body.

I made sure to explain this-in-detail-to the guy who was about to stick me, hoping that he would pick up on my extremely-loud-though-unspoken message of, “Please don’t hurt me!”

He listened sympathetically to my tales of woe, slipped the needle in so easily that I didn’t even feel it, and then replied,

“Yeah, well, some people suck.”

I LOVE him!

Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of Happiness

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In a few months I will turn 36, and I have realized that it is time for me to make some important decisions in my life.

Namely, I have decided to change my political affiliation to Any Party That Does Not Hold Primary Elections In The Middle Of The Summer. Because if I have to answer the phone and listen to one more awkward and uncomfortable pre-recorded message asking me for my vote, on top of the Unidentified Yet Extremely Painful Ear Inflammation, as well as the fact that someone (I’m looking at you, Pip!) barfed all over my left Birkenstock last night, then I really don’t think I can be held accountable for my actions.

So please, Gwinnett County Republican Party members, STOP! FUCKING! CALLING! ME!

Because apparently you haven’t yet gotten the memo on this, but I don’t actually base my voting decisions on A Candidate’s Ability To Annoy The Shit Out Of Me Before They’ve Even Been Elected To Office.

But you can rest assured that if I did, you would all be winners.

Why I Should Probably Not Be Invited To Your Next Party

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These days when I’m not on Facebook, I’m over on Ravelry.com, “a knit and crochet community”, seeing as how knitting is my new obsession dearest love.

The other day as I was perusing the message boards I came upon a thread asking the intriguing question, “Has anyone knit the Clapotis?”

Naturally every time I saw this, the only thing I could think was, “That sounds like an extremely painful STD.”

Which was fine to think, but then an important gateway guarding the flow of action between my brain and my fingers broke down, and I actually wrote that on the message board.

(Important Side Note: For which I totally blame the Prednisone. Or actually, the fact that I’m slowly getting off of it. And my system is punishing me for taking away its PRE-SSSHHHUUUSSS!!, because without it I am Cranky McBitchyPants, but as soon as I take my ever-decreasing dose I am In Love With The Entire World. Well, except for the part that projectile-vomits all over the hallway and then wants to sit in my lap. That part’s a little hard to take no matter what I’m on.)

And let me tell you something. Apparently, The Clapotis? Is no laughing matter. Because except for explaining exactly what a Clapotis is (“a wide scarf/small shawl knitted on the bias with columns of dropped stitches that make waves on the purl side of the fabric”, in case you were wondering), no one has written anything else on this thread. And not only that-I’ve managed to shut down communication on the entire board.

Apparently I need to be a little more careful the next time I Use My Powers.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

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A little while ago my husband and I played host to an out-of-town friend of ours. He had a layover in Atlanta, so we picked him up from the airport and hung out together for a few hours.

This friend has recently come out, and so we spent a lot of time talking about the issues he is facing, the effect all of this is having on his relationships, and how he appreciates having friends like us who are willing to talk about this with him.

After we’d hit all the relevant historical sites (read: IKEA) we were trying to decide where to go next.

“How about the Botanical Gardens?” suggested my husband.

“Ooh, great!” I agreed.

“Um, why are we going to a garden again,” asked our friend.

“Because we like to look at flowers,” I replied.

“Oh, geez!,” our friend retorted. “You guys are gay!”

Peace, love, and understanding, man. That’s what we are all about here.

Ladies And Gentlemen, I Think We Have A Winner

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So this week I started piano lessons again for the first time in 4 years. I was a little (or maybe a LOT) anxious, because my last attempt at piano lessons really didn’t go that well.

So I met my new teacher, stumbled through the lesson, and then afterwards-INTENSELY relieved to have made it through all the sucking-we exchanged contact information.

“If you ever need to get in touch with me, I have a cell phone number that only my students have,” he told me as I was writing my check.

“Ooh, like the Bat Phone!” I exclaimed.

“Exactly”, he said, smiling, and so already he was miles ahead of my previous teacher.

Then he handed me his card, and as I looked at it I thought, “Yep, I think this is gonna work out just fine.”

dennis

Things That Make You Say, “What?!”: Other People

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Recently I was informed by a person of my acquaintance that, in fact, they “did not believe” that I actually wake up 53 times an hour when I sleep unaided by my CPAP machine.

I was totally distracted for the rest of the day, because I was completely unable to comprehend how that person could have possibly interpreted this as an issue of belief.

Now, sure, if I had said something like, “Whenever I sleep I am awoken once a minute by tiny, winged elves who flutter down and tap me lightly on the forehead while simultaneously ringing The Golden Chime Of Enlightenment in order that I may uplink to the Mother Ship,” I can totally understand them not believing that. Because everyone knows that this process involves tiny, winged Cyborgs, not elves.

But seriously, there were electrodes, and wires, and highly calibrated pieces of Scientific Measuring Equipment, and a trained technician named Ken. It wasn’t like they just sat me down in a room with a random guy who looked at me, rubbed his temples, and then proclaimed, “I declare…that your number is…FIFTY THREE!”

Apparently this particular person doesn’t believe that sleep apnea is actually a true medical condition. “You know, that label was only created in like the last 20 years or so,” they said, in the condescending tone of someone who believes that I have just been unthinkingly caught up in the latest fad, like designer bottled waters or those hideous clogs called Crocs.

Right. Like I’m choosing to attire myself every night in enough contraptions to be assimilated by the Borg for fun-perhaps as a fashion statement or something.

Of course, if I were continuing to practice mindfulness and self-awareness, I might be inspired to ask why I immediately reacted with such defensiveness to this person’s opinion that doesn’t actually mean anything. But, um, I don’t want to, because sarcasm is just so much more fun.