Forgive us, Madam Secretary. We know not what we did.Read More
Gov. Pat McCrory is just the worst.Read More
Hello, dear readers! I'm taking a break from my campaign to unseat Pat McCrory as NC's Governor to share a positive story. A story of hope. A friend of mine sent me this story the other day and asked me to spread the word about it, but I'm not sure my infulence is even needed anymore. The story has since gone viral. And I for one, am glad it did because what these women did is to be commended. I am of the opinion, that women in our society do not support each other they way they should (Secretary Hillary Clinton is living proof of this) and we need to change that mentality. I'll be posting more about this idea in a later post, but for now, applaud these women and their heroic actions to stop this smug piece of sh!t before he could harm his next victim....
A man suspected of trying to drug a woman at an upscale restaurant in Santa Monica with the alleged intent to rape her has been arrested, police confirmed Monday.
The incident occurred at Fig restaurant, located inside the Fairmont Hotel in Santa Monica.
Michael Hsu was taken into custody on charges of intent to commit rape, and drugging with the intent to commit a rape, a Santa Monica Police Department official said.
The case has gained nationwide attention after a woman took to Facebook to discuss how she and her friends stopped the alleged assailant in a now-viral post that has been shared more than 100,000 times.
On Friday, Sonia Ulrich posted that she and two female friends had been enjoying the happy hour at Fig, a restaurant inside the Fairmont Hotel off of Ocean Avenue, when they saw a man put something in another woman's drink.
The trio thought the woman had been on a date with the man; she had gone to the bathroom when he allegedly slipped something into the drink, according to Ulrich.
"After a few 'Oh god. What do we do's,' I got up to find her in the bathroom to tell her. Warn her. Tell her to get up and leave this creep. Make him drink it. Something," Ulrich wrote. "So, after feeling awkward hanging out by the sinks in the bathroom till she was done, I approached. 'Hey! Um, this is kind of weird, but, uh, we saw the guy you were with put something in your drink.'"
The woman was stunned, telling Ulrich that the two worked together and had known each other for more than a year, according to Ulrich's post. He was actually one of her best friends, she said.
Meanwhile, the woman who first noticed the incident -- identified in the post as Marla Saltzer -- flagged down a waiter and explained to him and her friends what she saw.
"'He pulled her glass toward him, kind of awkwardly, then he took out a little black vial. He opened it up and dropped something in. Then he tried to play it cool, like checking his phone and hiding the vial in his hand and then trying to bring it back down slyly,'" Ulrich recalled Saltzer saying.
The man apparently then realized he was being watched by another woman, Monica Kenyon, who was also with the group, Ulrich wrote.
Meanwhile, the would-be-victim sat down at her table after the restroom encounter with Ulrich.
After learning of the alleged attempted drugging, the restaurant's manager went over to the pair to ensure everything was OK, and to offer the woman water.
She then continued the dinner with the man until Santa Monica police showed up to question him, according to the post. He was taken away.
Later, the head of the security went to the women's table to tell them that because of their quick-thinking actions, they were able to review security footage and found that a camera had captured the incident.
"They got him on tape. They had proof of him drugging this girl. They took the glass away as evidence," Ulrich wrote.
Police confirmed they have the surveillance and the drink in their possession.
As word of what transpired spread through the restaurant, other diners walked over to the women and thanked them for taking action, she said. A number of people told them they or someone they knew had been the victim of a drugging.
"At least 10 stories of being personally affected by someone like this ... Those were only the ones who knew what went down," Ulrich wrote.
She concluded the post by thanking the restaurant's manager and staff, as well as the hotel, for acting on the matter and preventing the woman from being harmed.
Hsu, 24, was arrested Thursday on the felony charges, according to Los Angeles County jail records. His total bail amount was set 1 million, the record showed.
The case was expected to be presented to the L.A. County District Attorney's Office on Tuesday, according to police.
Let’s Talk About Prison Contracts …
Before all the HB-2 controversy, Governor Pat McCrory had gotten himself into a sticky situation over maintenance contracts for the state’s prison system. In 2011, the NC General Assembly conducted an investigation into whether or not it was cost effective to continue with private contracts versus public ones for the maintenance of the state’s prisons. Prison officials compared the three prisons maintained by The Keith Corporation with three virtually identical prisons maintained by state employees. After sending the report to the governor’s office for approval, prison officials submitted the report to the General Assembly in May 2014. The conclusions were not happy news to Graeme Keith Sr. and other privatization boosters: Private maintenance did not lead to significant savings, the report said.
In August 2014, under the leadership of Gov. Beth Perdue, prison officials decided not to renew the contracts; two were to expire at last year’s end and the third in April.
It would seem Gov. McCrory isn’t smart enough to let sleeping dogs lie. According to the News & Observer out of Raleigh, McCrory leaned on a few guys to get the Keith Corporation’s contracts re-instated.
“Gov. Pat McCrory twice told his secretary of public safety about his concerns that private prison maintenance contracts held by his friend and political contributor would expire, according to a recently released memo from a top prison administrator.
The memo, written earlier this year by Joe Prater, a deputy commissioner of correction, recounts events leading up to the McCrory administration’s renewal of the contracts over the objection of senior prison officials.
Prater’s memo dates the phone calls as coming prior to a meeting that McCrory arranged and attended in October 2014 in Charlotte. In that meeting, Graeme Keith Sr. is said to have discussed his political contributions and said he wanted “something in return.”
The three contracts, which are the subject of an FBI inquiry, are worth about $3 million annually and are held by The Keith Corp. of Charlotte, where McCrory was mayor for 14 years. The owners, Graeme Keith Sr. and Graeme “Greg” Keith Jr., are friends of McCrory and contributed $12,000 to the governor’s political committee from 2008 through 2012.
Prater’s memo, placed in a state file, was released in response to a public records request from The News & Observer. The memo says McCrory called Secretary of Public Safety Frank Perry in September 2014, after prison officials decided to cancel the contracts with a subsidiary of The Keith Corp.
Prater had drafted letters for Perry to sign that would inform the Keiths that the contracts would be allowed to expire, an action Perry has said he supported. At an employee’s going-away reception, Perry approached Prater “and indicated that he had some concerns about signing the notification (about ending the contracts) as the governor had concerns about our allowing the contracts to expire,” says the memo, written Jan. 28, 2015.
During another conversation, “Sec. Perry told JP (Joe Prater) in the basement parking lot that the governor had called him again, concerned about our allowing the Keith contract to expire, as Keith is a friend of his (the governor’s).”
McCrory justified this to the press as “wanting further analysis of the wisdom of allowing the contracts to expire due to the lack of clarity regarding savings.”
Um… there was no lack of clarity. There was clarity. The NC General Assembly was all about some clarity after their investigation so, what could be the real reason McCrory would stick his nose into something that had already been decided by State leaders? Oh, yeah. He owed his friend, Graeme Keith Sr., a favor for the $12,000 he donated to his Gubernatorial campaign. And the best part was he had the nerve to be upset at the News & Observer for reporting this and saying they misrepresented the truth. Right… They misrepresented the facts that are in evidence. The real truth is you’re way too transparent with your motivations, right Governor?
Well, never let it be said that Patty doesn’t keep his campaign promises.
I wonder what he promised the Koch brothers….
Let's Not Re-elect Pat McCrory to the Governor's seat. His record should speak for it's self.Read More
Let's Send Patty Packing...Read More
America, we have a problem. Our society, once great and envied world wide, is now circling the proverbial drain. I’m not sure how we got here and it seems, everyday, I’m reminded just how close to extinction common sense has become. Who’s to blame for my pessimistic view of American life, you may ask. Off the cuff, I’d say Reality Television is the culprit. Think about it…The “Real Housewives” are neither “real” nor “housewives”, “The Bachelor” is speed dating for the shallow and mentally incapacitated, and “Teen Mom” is a 43 minute advertisement for Planned Parenthood. And given the opportunity, you all know who I’d point a finger at first:
Yup. I’m not going to bore you by rehashing my loathing of her or her brood. I’m merely going to say that O.J. could’ve done us all a favor if she’d been the one visiting Nicole that night. Has our obsession with these train wrecks of humanity desensitized us to living our best possible lives? What happened to the good ol’ days of morals, ethics, and common sense? Are we now supposed to live our lives by their examples? Because if we are, I failed to get the memo. And let me tell you, I will be a very loud voice of dissent if what I witnessed this weekend continues to be the norm. Trending or not.
Like many others this Valentine’s Day weekend, I went to the movies. Not because I had a date with a special fella, but because I had a date with my newly discovered Spirit Animal, Deadpool. For those of you who aren’t familiar, Deadpool is a Marvel Comics character who is the anti-superhero. He’s snarky, sarcastic, foul mouthed and has zero f*cks left to give as he exacts revenge on the people who wronged him. (And if you know me, you’d know that, aside from the penis, this character is 100% me.)
So, imagine my surprise when, in an R rated movie, there are several children in the theatre to see this movie. By several I mean at least thirty. And by children, I mean tiny humans with under developed brains who have yet to reach a double digit birthday.
I’m not a parent and I don’t pretend to know the internal struggle that must take place when debating whether or not you should pay for a babysitter or expose your child to a movie whose opening titles credit some“asshats” for producing and “a total douchebag” for directing. Which are hilarious until you hear those kids asking their parents, “What’s an Asshat?” “Can I have a douchebag?” I recall a moment in time from my youth when an “Indiana Jones” movie was too violent to be considered a PG Rated film and the parents of America lost their minds over a couple of bad CGI effects that, arguably, didn’t fool even us kids into thinking something awful was happening. The message was clear, though, “PROTECT THE CHILDREN!” and the MPAA bowed to the masses. Thus, the PG-13 Rating was born. Now, I go to a matinee of a film that could have easily rated NC-17 for the language alone, and the theater is loaded with morons voluntarily bringing their 10 and under set to see it. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED, AMERICA?!!
Which brings us to the “Asshat” who sat in front of me with three of the most obnoxious kids I’ve ever seen. Seriously, if I hadn’t already lost my uterus, exposure to those kids would’ve been enough to cause it and my ovaries dry up and shrivel away in a cloud of dust. They were rude, loud, and showed no respect to anyone and Daddy “Asshat” was too busy texting on his smartphone to monitor his kids. I was with my two BGF’s (Best Gay Friends) and one of them had to shame him into putting his phone away 10 minutes into the movie by asking him “Are you so important that you can’t go to a movie without texting someone for 5 minutes because the world might end?” To which he replied, “No, Dude. It’s ok. I saw this movie yesterday.”
Since I had been battling a cold for the better part of a week and I had an overwhelming desire to make his experience as miserable as he was making ours, so every time I had to cough, I leaned directly over him. Eventually, he got up to leave and I was ecstatic watching him climb over people as he left the theatre. My joy was short lived, however, when I realized he left without the ankle biters. Now, there were three extremely unpleasant, badly behaved, mini-asshats alone in an R rated movie without supervision. I stopped counting after the fourth time they were shushed by the crowd, the multiple times they were told to sit down and was actually relieved when “Asshat” Senior returned 40 minutes later. It was at this point, my friend “Big Gay Daddy” decided to fight fire with fire. The kids became obsessed with the many, many blowjob jokes in the movie and thought nothing of turning to other people, myself included, and saying, “I’m gonna give YOU a blowjob!” To which, Big Gay Daddy responded with, “Be sure to tickle the balls while you’re down there.” Not to be out done, I gave them this face for the full effect:
Later, out in the parking lot as we were walking to our car, we could still here the little bastards screaming “I CAN’T WAIT TO GIVE CARTER A BLOWJOB!!” Yes, it would seem Carter would be having a better Valentine’s Day than we were, but I also was secretly hoping Carter was a dog. We turned around to see them chasing each other in and around the cars that were trying to pull out of the lot. “Asshat” was too engrossed in his phone to notice the certain death they were tempting once we found our car.
So, America, this is why we are falling behind every other developed country in the world. If we (yes, I said we. I truly believe it takes a f*cking village.) cannot teach our kids the difference between what’s right and what’s wrong; what behavior is acceptable and what behavior isn’t, how can we expect them to know the difference as adults? Adults with voting privileges. Think about that for a second and try to see a future where we’re not completely screwed. Oh, I know many of you will think it’s easy for me and my BGF’sto point out parenting flaws in others. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. All I know is what I saw; the childless people in the theatre were to left to “parent” the kids in the R rated movie they shouldn’t have been allowed to see while their actual parents did nothing. If this is the world we live in, if these are the new rules of our society, then I am officially warning you: Be very careful what you wish for. You do not want me and my friends parenting your kids, trust me. You never know when we’ll be sitting behind you and just like Deadpool, we have zero f*cks left to give.
Watch Erin Brockovich speak about the water crisis in this country on Real Time with Bill Maher.Read More
I have a question to ask you. When did a highly questionable morality become a prerequisite to hold a position in politics and when did we become so numb to it, so accepting, that we turn a blind eye when they manipulate our laws to benefit themselves or their corporate benefactors?
Okay, that’s two questions but, lately, it seems like a majority of stories in the media lately are about the failures of our lawmakers who arrogantly gambled with the lives of their people for monetary gain. Look at Flint, Michigan. Or Porter Ranch, CA. If not for Erin Brockovich and Michael Moore, we’d still be in the dark about those life threatening situations. We live in a culture where money rules all, politicians and lawmakers never do the right thing and Whistle Blowers are the new super heroes of our society.
Speaking of whistle blowers, a new law went into effect in January in NC that has me scratching my head. It was named the Property Protection Act or House Bill 405 when it was making the the rounds in the NC House and Senate. Originally, the law singled out factory-farm exposés but when it failed to pass because of resistance from several animal rights activists, they re-worded the bill to make it comparable to everyone. Meaning, anyone who disobeys this so-called law by taping abuses of elderly patients, children in daycare, or farm animals while at work and then share evidence with the authorities or media — can be sued by their employer for bad publicity and be required to pay a five thousand dollar fine for each day they recorded. How bad can the law be, you ask? Well, Governor Pat McCrory, a man, I believe, of questionable ethics and motivations, vetoed the Bill because he believed it make it too difficult for employees to come forward to report unlawful activity by their employers. A guy who has been accused of allegedly creating and/or manipulating legislation for his campaign donors, thought this law was too unethical to pass. This would be laughable if it wasn't so freakin sad. Also, it should be noted that this marked the first, and possibly only, selfless act of his tenure in the Governors Mansion. Alas, it was short lived when the General Assembly and NC State Legislature over rode his veto last June.
So, WTF North Carolina?! Your lawmakers just placed a clear violation of your constitutional rights to free speech and a free press and no one has said anything?! The NY Times ran an editorial recently that spoke about a federal case that was won by several consumer protection groups dealing with a similar law in another state:
“They have precedent to back them up, in the form of a decision by a federal judge last August that struck down an ag-gag law in Idaho on free-speech grounds, the first such ruling in the country. Activists who pose as employees to gain access to farming operations, the judge wrote, “actually advance core First Amendment values by exposing misconduct to the public eye and facilitating dialogue on issues of considerable public interest. The outcry that follows revelations about factory farms has led to important policy changes, like California’s 2008 initiative banning some of the worst kinds of intensive confinement of farm animals. The secrecy promoted by ag-gag laws should have no place in American society.” .
So, other states are seeing the reality of turning a blind eye to corporate greed and dubious ethics and are standing up for their rights.
What’s it going to take, North Carolina, for you to say, “Enough…. It’s time to do the right thing.”
I'm not sure how many of you know this, but there is a side to me that some of you may find surprising. I am a RABID Carolina Panthers Fan. If you cut me, I bleed Black & Teal. I've been a fan since the day it was announced Charlotte NC was getting an NFL Franchise. As you can imagine, this season of Football has been a hell of a ride and it’s been great time to root for the Cats. However, last week, I came across an article written by a guy named Benjamin Leatherman, who writes for the Phoenix New Times. The title of his piece was “The Top 10 Reasons to Hate The Carolina Panthers.” Link: At first glance, I was excited to read it because I thought it was going to be an old fashioned, ball busting, all in good fun, article written within the spirit of good sportsmanship. However, it was a trite, petty, and at times malicious, cry for anger management as I’ve ever read and the hateful diatribe Mr. Leatherman published angered a lot of us true Carolina Panther fans. So, the good news for us Panther fans is Carolina beat the shit out of the Red Birds Sunday night on a National Stage. It was a spectacular ass whooping the likes of which hadn’t been seen before in a Championship level NFL game. The Bad News for Mr. Leatherman is he pissed off this foul mouthed blonde who happens to own her own blog.
Below is my rebuttal to his claims…
10.) “They're the NFL's biggest bandwagon team.”
“The Panthers attracted hordes of fair-weather fans (in the Carolinas and across the nation) with their league-best 15-1 regular-season record. Die-hard Panther fans hated these come-latelys, including one Panther Nation vet who wrote the following online: “Dear new Panther bandwagon fans . . . if you’ve ever worn a Steelers jersey to a Panthers game, we don't need ya. If you ever used the phrase Who Dat, fug off.” Don’t worry, we’re sure the newbies all will be away when the Cardinals upend your pussycats this weekend.”
This was his opening argument and my first thought was, “So what?” What’s wrong with picking up fans along the way of a fantastic run to a championship? Last I checked, the NFL doesn’t offer a bonus check to the team with the most fans at the end of a season. In the four years I’ve lived in Los Angeles, (the Capitol of flaky and fair weathered), I have occasionally run into other Panthers fans. A guy wearing a Cam jersey at the mall or another chick in agrocery store wearing a Panthers cap. You know what I haven’t come across in this city, that up until last week had no NFL team, a Cardinals fan. I’ve seen no jerseys, no hats, no nothing. If there are Cardinals fans here somewhere, they're not very visible or vocal. I find that really odd, considering Arizona is just a short drive from LA. Also, according to Bleacher Report The Arizona Cardinals fans have only started showing up at the stadium since 2013.
“ And if you need further proof that this is true, a study was actually conducted during the 2014 season by Emory University that proved Arizona Cardinals fans to be the most bandwagon bunch in the NFL.”
9.) “They ripped off the Boston Red Sox.”
“It has become tradition for Panthers fans to sing Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” at home. Y'all know, right, that another pro sports franchise already does that shit. Way to be original.”
We didn’t rip off anybody. It’s a tradition at most sporting events in the Carolina’s to sing “Sweet Caroline” near the end of the games. It’s sung at all levels of sporting events across both states; Whether it’s grade school, college or professional sports. We sing it because life, in the Carolinas, is sweet.
Sure, the Red Sox fans may have started singing it years before we did, but let’s be honest: They were singing it to remind themselves life is worth living and to keep them from throwing themselves off of the roof the stadium.
What exactly do Cardinals fans sing anyway? Fat bottom girls? Red solo cup?
8). “The Carolinas suck as a location on many fronts.”
“Sweltering humidity. Swarms of Insects. Bible-thumping politicians. There are so many reasons why you’d never want to live in either Carolina, including that the literacy rates are worse than ours, the barbecue is overrated, creationism is regularly taught in schools, and rednecks and junkies are everywhere. (Don't even get us started on the Confederate flag thing.)”
I will be first to admit that NC, my home state, has some flaws. There is no question that progress is sorely needed there, but are you really going to bitch to us about sweltering heat? To quote another writer :
“Phoenix summers start in April and don't end until October. The first three months are bearable, so we collectively laugh, asking ourselves why we complained so much about the heat last year. Sure, it was 109 degrees the other day, but we have our air conditioning and our TVs and we'll survive, even if the electric bills average $400 per month. "It's a dry heat," we mutter through our blistered, sunburned lips, blandly reminding ourselves of our trademarked postcard platitude. But then mid July rolls around. The monsoon season is lackluster, as usual, and does nothing to combat our "urban heat island," which cooks the asphalt like a pierogi, blasting scorching waves back out at night. Now, even after sunset, the heat won't escape, and suddenly it's 105 degrees at 1 AM. This is worse than humidity, because at least humidity cools down in the evening. The heat is in your clothes. It's in your hair. You feel your dreams evaporating as you sleep. Even swimming or air conditioning provides only brief relief from the perpetual sauna before you're glossed in sweat again. And you have another two months of this to look forward to.”
Sir, your state is in a constant state of an underwhelming beige haze and there’s a rumor the Arizona state motto will be changed to, “Arizona: It’s California Without The Good Stuff!”™
Seriously. I heard it’s supposed to be on the ballot during the next election.
Carolina politicians may thump a bible here and there but, honestly, they’re just thumping at the swarms of insects that naturally occur in the presence of such skilled bull-sh*t artists. Don’t feel bad, lots people get that one wrong.
All joking aside, yes, we have work to do when it comes to our elected leaders, but if we followed Arizona’s lead in this area, all we’d have to do is shoot them in the head if we disagree with them, right?
Personally, I take exception with the “Creationism being taught in our schools” thing, because I was educated in NC and that’s simply not true of the public school systems. There was some controversy recently with three schools in a very small community who were publicly shamed for scheduling Bible study classes into their curriculum. However, the local school board found out about it and shut it down a few days later. But, because the internet caught wind of it, IT MUST BE TRUE AND OVERREACTIONS OF THE SMALL MINDED ARE THE ONLY REACTIONS PEOPLE READ AND REMEMBER.
The Confederate flag thing, however, is South Carolina, not North Carolina. You have to understand, for a very long time, the only thing South Carolina had to be proud of was them being the first state to secede from the Union during the War of Northern Aggression. (It seemed like a cruel joke to take away the only bragging right they've ever had, so we let them have it.) But now, I think we can all be proud of them for recognizing this was not an acceptable symbol for our country today and applaud them taking it down.
But I’m afraid you’re just plain wrong about our barbecue. It’s a cultural phenomenon that’s not to be missed. Of course, neither should our Shrimp and Grits. Or our hushpuppies. Or our sweet tea. Or our biscuits and gravy. Or our peach cobbler. Or our Banana Pudding. And many, many others… Tell me again, what are Arizona’s culinary offerings to the world? You can get tacos just about everywhere these days so that leaves you with what? Cactus juice and broiled scorpions?
7). “The Panthers' owner is a sourpuss.”
“If Newt Gingrich and Grumpy Cat were to have a kid, he'd look exactly like perpetually dour Panthers czar Jerry Richardson. If you need a few other more reason to hate the multimillionaire (who Rolling Stone cited as one of the "worst owners in sports"), Richarson made his fortune shilling greasy swill via the Hardee’s chain and reportedly was a jerk while negotiating the most recent collective bargaining agreement with NFL players. Plus, he pulled off the worst rendition of the “dabbing” dance we’ve ever seen.”
Shame on you! Didn’t your Mama teach you not to judge a book by it’s cover? Why are you picking on our Big Cat? Jerry Richardson is one of only two NFL Players to become NFL Owners and one of two owners to honor the league by placing the NFL logo in the center of their home fields because he personally believes no one team is more important than game itself. Despite the outward appearance, Jerry and his wife are the warmest, kindest people I’ve ever known. (I was in college in the 90’s when Mr. & Mrs. Richardson, while waiting for their house and stadium to be built, were residing in a suite in the hotel where I was working part time. I came to know the Richardson’s quite well in the year they stayed there and they were lovely people.) I can’t speak to his business dealings but how many NFL owners would happen upon a couple of fans outside their stadium and guide them on a tour of the facility himself?
I don’t recall hearing about your penny pinching owner reaching out to the community when tragedy strikes in his area, either. In the aftermath, of the mass shooting in Charleston last year, Mr. Richardson donated $10,000.00 to each one of the victims families to help with funeral costs.
Pick on his sour expression or inability to dance if you must, but he would never dream of judging you like that because he is the better man.
6). “The whole dabbing thing is freakin' stupid.”
“The dabbing dance fad that Carolina quarterback Cam Newton has popularized among his teammates and throughout the Carolinas is just flat-out ridiculous. Seriously, y’all look like you’re trying to stifle a sneeze. Or even shield your eyes, which is what we wanna do when senior citizens, fat rednecks, or even Panthers head coach Ron Rivera start dabbing.”
What is your problem with the dab? No, seriously what? It’s just a little celebration dance. Cam Newton told every body that if you don’t want to see him dab, keep him out of the end zone. I couldn’t agree more. If he wants to dab after he scores, more power to him! Besides, who’s gonna stop him? You? ‘Cause your certainly team didn’t stop him …..or rather, couldn’t stop him.
So quit your belly-aching about my quarterback’s dancing and take your lumps like a man.
P.S. You may want to worry about your aging quarterback’s propensity for throwing multiple interceptions during clutch games.
5). “The Panthers don't deserve the accolades in such a weak division.”
“Though it's true that the NFC South wasn’t the league’s worst division this season (the dishonor goes to the AFC South), it wasn’t what you’d call ultra-competitive. As a matter of fact, the Panthers were the only team with a winning record. And things were even worse in 2014, with Carolina winning the division with the esteemed record of 7-8. It's easier to go 15-1 when nearly half of your games are against awful teams.”
Um… Your Mama’s in a weak division. Look, I agree the NFC South wasn’t the toughest division this season, but the NFC West didn’t exactly raise the bar, either. I mean, the Cardinals were keeping company with the Rams and the 49ers. And even the vaulted Seattle Seahawks were discounted by the talking heads until December when they finally started to win games. At least the Saints and Bucs showed signs of life near the end of their seasons and the Falcons, while having obvious growing pains, managed to do something your team couldn’t; they beat the Panthers.
4). “Their field is a disaster area.”
“Much has been said this week about the awful turf at Bank of America Stadium. It's described as soupy mire, even after team officials had the thing re-sodded. Just ask the Seattle Seahawks, who slipped and tripped all over the place during their recent playoff loss to Panthers.
Thing is, the bad turf is nothing new, as Carolina had such problems right after the place debuted in 1996. And again in 2001, 2003, and 2013. It could be all the area precipitation is to blame — or maybe it’s just the team’s secret weapon. Yeah, that's it! Either way, it’s a good thing the Seahawks gave the Cardinals advice on how to handle the situation: better cleats.”
Oh, boo frickin hoo. Why don’t you and Seahawks save the whining for something really serious, like getting the sand out of your vaginas. Not all teams have the luxury of playing on a picture perfect field of manufactured grass in January after several nasty weather incidents and multiple college bowl games. Sure, it’d be great to be able to play on a pristine, neatly manicured, climate controlled field but that’s not football. This game was born in the mud and rain and snow and frankly, for the amount of money those players are making, they can suck it up, and play with a little more adversity that might subject them to muddy uniforms and falling on their asses. By the way, the Panthers had to play on that field, too.
3). “Their fans are classless…”
“After Cleveland Browns quarterback Johnny Manziel was toppled with an injured hamstring during a game with the Panthers last season, Carolina fans cheered manically. So much for sportsmanship. Even Cam Newton found it in bad taste, later calling the move “classless.”
And back in 2013, Rams defensive end Chris Long got showered with trash after he was ejected following a minor scuffle with a few Panthers players. “Thanks Carolina fans 4 the flipped birds+few bottles to the head,” Long later tweeted. “Sticks n stones may break my bones but aluminum zimas will never hurt me.””
Sorry, but I have no problem with people throwing things at a player who got ejected for trying to hurt a guy on the home team. It was my understanding that the referees do not eject a guy for blowing raspberries or kicking dirt at your opponent. Football is a vicious, smash mouth sport and you have to be a real dick to get ejected. So, if Panthers fans made it known they don’t take kindly to that type of behavior, good for them. I guarantee you he fared much better than he would’ve had he done that sh*t in Philadelphia. And please, name one game this season, where any fans, Cleveland or otherwise, who didn’t cheer or boo at something stupid Johnny Manziel did this season to hurt himself or his team.
2). “…and include tons of rednecks”.
“Look, we’re willing to admit that not every fan of the team is a beer-swilling hillbilly. But the fact you can see dudes dressed as Dog the Bounty Hunter at Carolina home games, buy a “Redneck Wine Glass” made from a Mason jar that bears the Panthers logo, or catch players rubbing elbows with NASCAR drivers speaks volumes, don't it?”
Really?! We’re still slamming Carolina fans? I can’t, even...
Read this. I found it on Bleacher Report from last season that will eloquently illustrate Cardinals 12th Man situation:
“The Cardinals suck because deep down 90 percent of our fans are really fans of other teams. Like at the 2009 NFC Championship game when some “hardcore” Cardinals fans who sat near us for years showed up with Eagles jerseys on, or the scene from last year in the photo below. (We were playing the 49ers.)
Sure, Arizona is a rapidly growing, transient state, but there just doesn’t seem to be that dumb loyalty that Browns or Bills fans have. We’re always a couple 5-11 seasons away from the stadium being a ghost town again. Maybe we’re just bitter. We’re fans (well, one of us is) who have had season tickets in Arizona since 1988, who suffered countless ass burns and heat stroke on the metal bleachers of Sun Devil Stadium watching the Cardinals lose to the Falcons by 20. Maybe we don’t know how to deal with the team’s sudden success and popularity. But we kind of hate our fans. You probably do too.”
We have NASCAR drivers hanging out at our games because the Nascar Hall of Fame is two blocks from the stadium. It’s a given in this part of the country. It’s kinda like me saying Arizona’s filled with gun-toting wing nuts that hunt down illegals on their days off or Arizona's nothing but drunk ass college kids and middle income retiree’s looking for the next early bird specials at the local buffet. It is what it is.
And If your fans are so extraordinary, I’ll bet they turned out in droves to welcome their team home from their loss to show them their support.
Oh, wait… It was the Panthers fans that did that…
1. Cam Newton is a pompous ass.
“Look, we get it. Cam Newton is one of the best in the game today, a money quarterback, dynamic playmaker, and a future Hall of Famer. But why does he have to act like a pompous ass, continually running his mouth, taunting opposing players, arrogantly celebrating touchdowns, and pouting after the Panthers lost their lone game of the season to Atlanta.”
Wrong. He’s anything but. We’ve already discussed his celebration dances and I’m not going to rehash it, but your perception of him is dead wrong. All that petty sh*t you listed is not who Cam Newton really is.
He’s the guy who started a Sunday Giveaway tradition of handing a football to a child in the stands after scoring a touchdown because he wants to young fans to love the game as much as he does.
But all you see an arrogant touchdown celebration.
He’s also the guy who heard about a local community throwing a Halloween Party for a terminally ill, 10 year old Auburn fan and showed up, unannounced, with an ice cream truck to hang out with Elijah during his party. And it should be noted that he came without an entourage or camera crew. All the pictures and video that surfaced of the party after the fact belonged to the parents who were in attendance.
And he’s the guy created a foundation with the sole purpose of improving the lives of children. He served over 900 kids Thanksgiving dinner this year.
Then a few weeks later he served lunch to the students of a special needs school, took several under privileged children christmas shopping for their families and then teamed up with Kevin Hart and Ice Cube to give a check to a local high school football team who were in dire need of a new weight room.
But he’s not allowed to have a bad day at work?! C’mon, man! Everyone has a bad day once in a while. You clearly were not having a banner day when you wrote this article. And Carson Palmer wasn’t exactly tap dancing and vomiting rainbows at the press conference after the game Sunday night, either. But I’m not gonna kick a guy when he’s down, that’s you’re job, right?
Thus bringing us to the end of my rebuttal and I feel so much better now that I’ve cleared the air.
Let me leave you all with a riddle…
Q: What do you call 53 millionaires sitting around a TV watching the Super Bowl?
A: The Arizona Cardinals.
Happy Birthday 50th Cosmo!! In celebration of their 50th Birthday, Cosmopolitan Magazine decided to design a hilarious cover starring the 6 most famous zombies in the US. What a fantastic Halloween Prank!! It is a prank, right? If it is, It's Hilarious!! If it's not, it's still HILARIOUS!!! I don't think it's a coincidence that "Easiest Workout for an Epic Ass" is conveniently placed over Kourtney or that "Decode His Crazy Mind Tricks" sits over Kim, although it's thisclose to Kylie as well. Maybe she needs a Tyga Tamer? And then there's poor Khloe... "Fashion Under $50 & Makeup Under $10" is splashed across her torso implying what we already know; she's the bargain basement Kardashian. (She's likely to get her own clothing line at Walmart....eventually, you know, once Sears passes on it.)
Then there's Kris, sitting front and center with a trite smile in a vain attempt to make us forget her ex-husband would rather live alone as a woman than live with her as a man. Kendall is the only one of them to walk away unscathed. Well, she is a model after all. Cosmo didn't want to sh*t where they eat, I guess.
So, congratulations Cosmo on 50 years of quality journalism. In keeping with your current theme of covers, maybe for your 60th cover you can reunite Jared Fogle with his victims for a "Where are they now" issue.
At least that would be in better taste...
When it's bedtime, kids checks under the bed for monsters. Trump checks under the bed for Obama.
I've always wondered is jellyfish are sad because there are no peanut butter fish.
Melania's upset because several news outlets called her a 'former escort'. and the word 'former' implies that she isn't one anymore.
I miss the old Big Mac styrofoam containers, they made the best coffins for hamsters.
You Guys! I got Nathan Fillion's autograph! ...Well, it's on a restraining order... but still!
Pandora's problem was that she didn't think outside the box.
"Did you know you can make any quote seem legit if you put a famous person's name at the end?"-Lin Manuel Miranda.
Alexa, tell the CIA "good night"
the White House just announced it is firing all the microwaves that were installed during the Obama Administration.
Things Irish people simply won't do on St. Patrick's Day: 1) Drink green beer. 2) Twerk with leprechauns. 3) Spend $40 on Dollar Store stuff
it's all fun and games until someone brings out the Monopoly board....
Trump asking the media not to be rude is like Jeffery Dahmer criticizing a victim for their dining etiquette.
A tattoo doesn’t tell you very much about a person, but where they put the tattoo does.
I miss the 90s when grunge rock made bedhead cool and fashionable.
Probably the coolest thing about dating me is knowing if we have sex I'll recite Wikipedia pages to help educate you.
How much douche could a douche bag douche if a douche bag could bag douche?
Going forward, I'm gonna memorize my grocery list in case the CIA hacked my Evernote...
Well, they'll have better health care in China at that robot factory that built Paul Ryan.
I gave that pitch vibrato. Pitches love vibrato.
Last year I joined a group for antisocial people. We haven't had a meeting yet.
I woke up in recovery in what felt like only a few minutes later when in fact, it
was actually, three and half hours later. I didn't feel any pain to speak of, but I really had to pee. I couldn't find my voice at first because my throat was so dry. I managed to get the nurses attention to mouth for some water. After a few minutes, I was able to tell the nurse that I desperately needed to pee. She said that was a good sign and told me to wait just a few minutes. She came back with a bed pan and went to place it underneath me. I stopped her and asked if she could me help me to the bathroom instead. She said it was too soon for that and put the bedpan under my butt. Gross. I hadn't had to pee lying down since I don't know when and no desire to fall into that habit that would require a Depends subscription plan. Plus, having a cold metal donut under my ass was seriously uncomfortable and seemed to work in opposition of my bladder to give me any relief.
I was moved back into my room around 9pm and the decision was already made for me to spend the night in the hospital. I wasn't thrilled, but it made sense given the lateness of the hour and how beat I felt. I sent my family and friends home with the promise to pick me up first thing in the morning.
When I woke again, it was 11:30pm and I had to pee so bad I could taste it. My bedpan had been removed at some point so I would have to make my way to the bathroom. However, I couldn't stand on my own because of there were two giant burritos where my legs used to be. I was wearing these compression stocking thingys on my legs.
They looked like some new age torture instruments wrapped around my clave muscles and were plugged into a surge protector at the end of my bed. They squeezed the shit out of my calves every 10 seconds in an attempt to either make feet bigger or my bladder explode.
So, I called for the nurse. A little asian lady with a name I couldn't pronounce came in and asked what I needed. I told her I really had to go and she helped me unwrap my legs and walk, very slowly, with my rolling IV and my ass hanging out, to the bathroom. I had to let her set up some contraption inside the bowl to catch and measure the amount of urine I'd pass. She left me to do my business and I went about it. The relief I felt was unparalleled and it ended up being a marathon pee. Seriously, I think it took almost 20 minutes for me to fully empty my bladder. When I was finished, I stood up and called for the nurse as I was instructed.
Then, I made the mistake of looking in the bowl.
My urine was blue! Bright blue! Not the toilet water, my actual urine was mother frickin' blue! And there was a lot of it. The nurse was pleased with the amount but seemed to ignore the fact that it was blue. So, I asked her.
"Why is my urine is blue?"
"That's perfectly normal."
"Normal?! Did she replace my bladder with a urinal cake during surgery?!"
She looked at me like I had Tourette's.
"Okay, then. I guess I just miscarried a Smurf."
Again, she just stared at me.
I waddled back to my bed with as much dignity as I could muster with an IV attached to my arm and my ass hanging out.
I laid back down and tried to fall a sleep again but, alas, not so much. My post surgical roommate snored. And when she wasn't snoring, she was bitching. Bitching about the temperature in the room, bitching about her IV, bitching about the nurses checking on her, and of course, bitching about the crying babies next door to us. I guess in all her bitching she forgot they were housing us in the maternity ward.
I guess I fell asleep anyway because I woke up again around 2:45am and really had to pee again. The IV of fluids I had attached to my arm was working my bladder overtime. I slipped out of the compression socks, unplugged my IV from the wall, waddled my way back to the bathroom, peed more blue urine, and waddled back to bed. I laid there for a few minutes trying to will my body back to sleep, but I was SO hungry my stomach was attempting to eat it's way out of me. I tried to read for a little while hoping to fall back to sleep, but my stomach wasn't having it. Then I remembered putting a few snacks in my backpack before I left for the hospital. The surgeon told me that when I got to recovery, I'd have to do two things before they'd let me go home: 1) Go to the bathroom (she neglected to mention the blue dye) and 2) Eat a snack and keep it down. So, I packed some applesauce and a few Gluten free Snickerdoodles that I got from Trader Joe's for after surgery. I couldn't trust the hospital would have anything Soy free for me to eat, so I packed my own. I leapt from the bed, and by leapt, I mean slowly rolled on to my side like an ancient, obese turtle on it's back trying to flip himself over, and reached for my backpack.
The shelf it sitting on was on the left side of my bed, just out of my reach and I had the dexterity of a drunk 2 year old. I tried again, but still couldn't reach it. I took off the compression stockings and stood up on the left side of the bed. My fingers just barely brushed the edges of the bag but not enough for me to get a hold of it. I rolled the IV around to the foot of the bed but that was as far as it would go. I could unplug it but I'd run the risk of the nurses coming in to check on me or waking up Bitchy McRoommate. Frustrated, I sat back down and tried to think of a way to MacGyver the shit out of this situation. Then it came to me. I rolled the rolling bed table all the way over to the left so it was directly in front of the shelf. Laying sideways on the bed, with my head where my butt would normally be and my feet out in front of me, I stretched my legs straight out, and grabbed one of the straps with my totally freakish and yet, completely functional monkey toes. (Point of Fact: My sister would be equal parts grossed out and proud at my minor accomplishment.)
I was able to pull it just enough to slide the bag over until it was on top of the rolling bed table. Then, I was able to pull the table the rest of the way over to me. Triumphant, I ransacked my bag looking for my snacks. After I ate, I slept a little bit more but was woken my roommate bitching about having to have another round of blood work done. She didn't believe that the doctor ordered the tests and wanted to hear it from the doctor personally before she allowed them to stick her again. I'm not gonna tell you what an entitled bitch she was to the nurses, but I will tell you that if I was one of those nurses and she had spoken to me like that, she would have woken up like this...
I got up to go pee again and gave my roommate the stink eye as I walked past her on the way to the bathroom. When I was done, I opened the door to find my doctor standing in front of my bed. I was completely stunned. I didn't realize it was 7:15am and I didn't think I'd see her again until my first PostOp appointment. As she checked my sutures, she congratulated me on being an impressive bleeder. I bled so much they had to transfuse me which is a major accomplishment for an out patient procedure. (Is there a trophy or ribbon for that?) She also told me they found 3 cysts wrapped around the right ovary, as well as, a significant amount of endometriosis. I don't know why I was surprised by that revelation but I was. I let that sink in for a few seconds and then, burst into tears. A weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. Everything I had been through had been worth it. I wasn't out of my mind! I was right about my right ovary being a total bitch! I thanked her for all of her help and most importantly, for listening to me to begin with. She gave me my discharge instructions and as she turned to leave, I mentioned that she may want to warn her patients about the blue urine going forward. I explained the reaction I had when I saw it and she laughed out loud and said, "You have the most unique perspective of anyone I've ever met."
Welcome to my world, Lady.
I'm gonna jump ahead to the day before my surgery. Long story short, it was hell. (There was several times the surgery was postponed and rescheduled due to my employer and I going our separate ways. More on that later.) My surgery date went from May 5th to May 8th; From May 8th to May 12th; May 12th to May 16th and then finally, May 26th. Yeah, I know.
So, it's the day before my surgery and I have instructions to follow to prep for the procedure. It seemed simple enough; no solid foods throughout the day, liquids only; nothing to eat after midnight, and perform a bowel prep. How hard could it be? In my defense, I had never done a bowel prep before. I honestly thought that by not eating solid foods for 24 hours was the bowel prep. The really interesting part of this story is, my mother, my sister, and my aunt (mother's sister) all had hysterectomies but none of them were required to perform a bowl prep before their surgeries. Which begs the question; Exactly how many times had my surgeon been shit on before this became her protocol?
Anyway, at 8am I drank my first 8oz bottle of Magnesium Citrate. It tasted like someone had ground up a bag of Sweet Tarts and had added them into a glass of Perrier. I choked it down and went about my day. About an hour later, I decided to walk my dog before I became incapacitated and couldn't leave the house. Well, the idea was good. The timing was not. I made it about halfway to our normal turn around point when my bowel declared war on the rest of my body. The stomach cramps hit me first; intense enough to bend me over and for my dog to look at me like, "The f*ck are you doing?!" And then, as I realized too late that I needed to get home, the dam burst.
Yep, I shit my pants. I never thought there would come a day where I'd be desperate for a pair of Depends, and yet, here I was; "Miss Soils Herself in Public 2015". I waddled my way home as fast as I could. I went right into the shower and rinsed off my humiliation. I suppose there are worse things that could've happened but, it didn't feel like it at the time. I remained in my house the rest of the day; no more than 20 ft from my bathroom. I now know the true meaning of "Full of Shit."
The next day, I arrived at the hospital at my appointed time of 11:30am, with my surgery scheduled for 2pm. I filled out the necessary paperwork, paid my co-payment, and received my directions to the out-patient surgery section of the hospital. Once there, the nurses took my vitals, issued my wristbands, got me into a hospital gown that big enough to house The Circus of the Stars, and eventually in bed. All in all, everything appeared to be going well. All I had to do was wait...
And wait some more...
At 1:45pm, a nurse came over to me and said that my surgery had been delayed to 3:15pm because an emergency came in and they to use the Operating Room I was assigned to. That wasn't too bad. I'd waited three years for this surgery, I could wait a few extra minutes.
At 3:30pm, I was told the emergency surgery was in progress. They didn't know how much longer it was going to be. Out-patient surgery was getting ready to close for the day and they had to find somewhere for me to go. They moved me into a room on the Maternity Ward because the best possible place for a woman who was about to lose her uterus was right next to the screaming babies. The staff got me settled in my room and a new nurse was assigned to me. I was beginning to get anxious and a little cranky. I made it a point to tell any and all hospital staff I saw that I was not leaving the premises with my uterus; even if it meant I had to do it myself. Keep in mind, I hadn't eaten in 46 hours and was ready to kill someone for a bag of Doritos or hospital pudding. I tried to stay calm and read my book, but the cries of the newborn babies in the rooms around me had the effect of nails on a chalk board on my concentration.
At 4:30pm, I was still reading my book. My mother convinced the nurse to let me have some ice chips because I was starting to sound like Harvey Fierstein when I spoke. I felt bad for my family and friends that were with me. It's one thing when you're left waiting for surgery to be performed on you, but it's another when you're there voluntarily. What a miserable way to spend a day...
It was 5:10pm when they finally came to get me to roll me down to the OR. Relief washed over me because I knew I'd be unconscious soon and would no longer be hungry. I was wheeled in to a staging area just outside the OR where the anesthesiologist was waiting for me. He put in my IV and we discussed my allergy to Soy. Did you know there's link between Soy and Anesthesia? I was to get a special cocktail of meds because of it. Then, Dr. Cotter came in and she and the anesthesiologist discussed my pain management. She was really concerned about my sensitivity to narcotics. The decision was to put me on Tramadol. Truth is, I could've cared less about pain. I'd be more than happy to deal with a little pain if it meant I'd be rid of this bitch of a uterus.
They wheeled me into the OR and moved me over to the operating table. My last thought after the anesthesiologist put the mask on me was, "I could eat the hell outta some pancakes right about now..."
To be continued in Part 6
I began the next week calling on all my resources to help me find a new gynecologist. I asked my GP, my friends, and my customers. My customers from work ended up being the best resource. They all had someone to recommend, but one name came up a few times, Dr. Renee Cotter. She was spoken so highly of by three of my customers, I decided to give her a shot. Worse case scenario, she'd tell me the same thing as my other doctor. At least I wouldn't be any worse off then I was, right? So, what the hell? I made the appointment.
I didn't know what to expect when I walked into Dr. Cotter's office. My experiences, thus far, hadn't led me to very high expectations for this one. What struck first, was how kind her eyes were. And what a good listener! I told her my ridiculous story and she never interrupted me. When I finally finished, the first thing she said was, "I am so sorry you've had to go through all this. You must be miserable."
I was stunned! She didn't have anything to apologize for; I just met her!
And then she said, "I promise you we're going to figure this out but first, I want you to know I would never turn a patient away for not being sick enough for me to treat her. That is the single most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. A 13/39 result from a blood count tells me your blood loss was significant enough for someone to pay attention." That was the last thing I expected to hear. I was prepared for battle. I came ready to fight, but instead I burst into tears. I wasn't even sure why I crying, but I was full on ugly crying.
And as I was crying, I got embarrassed to be having a nervous breakdown in a doctor's office and I cried a little bit harder. Then I thought, "Get a grip, Bitch! If she has to sedate you, your insurance company probably won't cover tears of joy. Plus, you'll need a ride home."
She was very patient and waited for me to calm down. Then, she began to tell me her take on things. She said from my story, she felt pretty sure I had either Endometriosis or Adenomyosis. Given my family history, she was surprised my other gynecologist hadn't mentioned either condition to me. I told her I had mentioned my sister having endometriosis but, we never discussed it in length. She said she was 90% confident everything I told her, that we were dealing with one of these two conditions. Her best educated guess led her to believe I was dealing with Adenomyosis because of all the bleeding. However, she wasn't gonna rule out Endometriosis because of my propensity for ovarian cysts. Then, she outlined the procedure. She told me she is a specialist in Advanced Gynecology (fancy!) and had full privileges at the hospital where she was affiliated. She wanted me to understand that no one has to approve or sign off on her surgeries. If she feels the patient needs surgery to improve the quality of her life, then that's what she's going do. She made it a point to say that the Endometrial Ablation was actually a good idea but, in cases of women with Adenomyosis, the procedure rarely worked. Also, she found it amusing the other Gynecologist mentioned only one way to perform the Abalation because there were several different ways to accomplish it. For her to say my Uterus was too small for the procedure, told Dr. Cotter that she may not have much experience with it. She agreed with my decision to stop taking the birth control. It was clear to her my body was rejecting the combination of chemicals in it. However, she said just couldn't see the connection with Soy. In her opinion, I was better off not having any Soy in my body at all. Because 90% of the Soy in our country is genetically modified, she was having to counsel many patients away from it. Apparently, there was direct link between Soy and breast cancer. I didn't know that. She felt it the timing of my situation was just a coincidence.
Lastly, she walked me through what she thought was my best option: a Hysterectomy. She wanted to take the laprascopic approach which would make shorten my recovery time. She would remove my uterus, cervix and fallopian tubes. Did you know that 90% of ovarian cancer starts in the fallopian tubes? Neither did I. The ovaries she would leave alone unless there was a very good reason to take them out. The only thing she asked of me was to obtain my records from the previous gynecologist. I told her I had tried getting them before my appointment with her. I called the other office twice. Once, I left a message and the second time, it rang and rang and rang with no answer. She asked for the phone number and she'd get them herself.
I left feeling elated! Lighter than I had felt in weeks! My surgery had been scheduled! A medical professional agreed with me and didn't make me feel like a hypochondriac. I was actually excited about having a surgeon rip a major organ out of my body! How f*cked up is that?!
About a week or so later, Dr. Cotter called me and said she had gotten my medical records from the other doctor. Everything looked good as far as my surgery but she wanted me to come in for an Endometrial Biopsy. She wanted to have a current tissue sample. We got that scheduled and ended the call. Immediately, my mind went to worse case scenario. What was wrong? What did she see in my records to make her want to run a tissue test? And of course, I did the exact wrong thing. I went on WebMD and did a search for Endometrial Biopsy. It confirmed what I already knew; I was minutes from dying and I would never sleep again... (Author's Note: I certainly hope y'all get this new millennium joke about WebMD searches always leading to cancer and death. It would totally kill my writer's mojo.)
The following week I go in for my biopsy. I'm a nervous wreck but anxious for it to be over with. It wasn't until I got there I found out Dr. Cotter wouldn't be performing the test. Her nurse practitioner would be doing it instead. I was a little surprised and tried not to be disappointed. I was really comfortable with Dr. Cotter but honestly, as long as it was over with quickly, I didn't care who did it. I'm taken into the procedure room and told to undress, put on the gown, and the NP would be in shortly. I did as instructed and a few minutes later, in she came. She was very pleasant and had a very calm demeanor which was a good thing since I was wound as tight as a drum. She talked me through the whole procedure but it did little to my nerves. The whole time she was talking she was also setting up the instruments she was going to use on a little tray next to the exam table. One look at them and I was convinced I was about to be tortured. I couldn't identify any of the tools on the tray except for one seriously demented twisty looking thing that I'm pretty sure a Roto Rooter Guy used on my toilet last spring. Oh, and one that looked like Jeffrey Dahmer's melon baller. I think I blacked out for a few minutes after seeing that one.
She started the procedure the way any normal pelvic exam would go; legs up, slide down, closer, no,closer, and then, the speculum. She felt my uterus and she too, remarked how small it was. What was with these medical professionals and their size-bias on tiny uterui?! If I lived through all of this, I'd put it on display in the f*cking Smithsonian for all to see!
She then took the Dahmer melon baller thing and inserted it. With her other hand she pressed down on my stomach and told me she was going to count to 10 and wanted me to start taking deep breaths when she did. She explained there would be pain, but it wouldn't last long.
Then, she started to count and I started to breath. She hadn't even made it to the number 3, when it felt like she was trying to peel a grape inside my vagina. Except it wasn't a grape, it was my uterus or intestine or something else equally horrible in that region of my body. Out of pure instinct, my legs almost clamped shut and she damn near lost her head. And P.S. the breathing shit didn't help. I felt like she had found the one ingrown hair on my body and was pulling it out from the inside. And it was same size as the soap on a rope that hangs in my f*cking shower. Seriously, I've head actual surgical procedures that didn't hurt as much as this did.
But, I lived and she said I did really well. She was thrilled with the sample she took from me and I told her it was a good thing because there was no way in hell she was going back in there.
I was glad I had planned to have the whole day off because there is no way I could've gone back to work. For one thing, my body took the biopsy as an invitation to open the flood gates back up and I was bleeding like I had played a sick game with Jigsaw and lost. And for another, I hurt. A lot.
I couldn't wait for all of this to be over.
To be continued in Part 5
Previously on "Free to a Good Home"...
I had managed to make it to January without my uterus falling out and hadn't bled to death. I had made an appointment with my gynecologist to discuss a possible hysterectomy. I was done living as a hostage to my reproductive system...
I entered my gynecologist's office trepidatiously. I had a game plan but, given my past experiences with her, my expectations were not high on our conversation going well. I liked her, but she had a bad habit of not listening. After the pleasantries were out of the way, I started telling her everything I knew about my situation up to that point; the allergy that wasn't an allergy, the hives, headaches, insomnia, how all of that stopped when I stopped taking the birth control, and how the bleeding was back again. I told her I had started planning my life around my periods and how I couldn't live like that. I wanted to talk about hysterectomy options. She agreed that it was time to look at other options for me. From what I described, she thought my body had started to reject the birth control or maybe the manufacturers had changed the ingredients. Either way it was time to distance myself from it. I told her aside from the bleeding and the intermittent pain in my right side, I felt great. I just wanted the bleeding to stop. She balked at the idea of a hysterectomy, though. When I asked why she said, "You have a teeny, tiny uterus." I didn't understand the significance of that statement and said, "I was not aware you guys got paid by the pound." She ignored my comment and went on to explain that the board of the hospital when she performs her surgeries has to sign off on all of her procedures and we'd have to make a very convincing case to justify the removal of such a small organ. She went on to outline other options, like an Endometrial Ablation. I told her I was fine with that as long as it worked because a lot my my research on that procedure showed a less then 75% success rate. Then, as she explained how the ablation is performed, she looked through my medical record. Halfway through her explanation, she stopped and sighed. According to my chart, my uterus measurements were too small for her to get the instruments in to perform the ablation. She offered me a different birth control prescription and I said no. I told her I had made my mind up; no more birth control. My body did not like chemicals and I wasn't willing to press my luck anymore. The only option left to me, then, was a hysterectomy. So, she said we were going to have to gather enough evidence and create an overwhelming case in support of hysterectomy for her to take to her hospital board. She gave me instructions I had to follow the next time I got my period and then she'd be back in touch.
A week later, I got my period again for the second time that month. I was some what relieved I didn't have to wait too long to put her plan in to action. I called her office and told her PA that I had gotten my period. She told me I had to go to a lab the following day and have some tests run. She emailed me the lab order and I printed it out to take with me. So, the next day I called out from work and went to the lab.
A few days later, my gynecologist calls me and says, "Well, you just aren't anemic enough for me to order the surgery." What. The. Fuck?! I asked the obvious question, "What the hell are you talking about?! Just how anemic do I have to be to quantify this surgery?" She said my results were 13/39 and I needed to be at least 10/39 for her to order the surgery. So, she wanted me to wait until my period stopped and go and have the lab work done again. Maybe if we timed it right, we'd get the results she needed. Again, I asked the obvious question, "What makes you think my period is gonna stop?" There was a pause on the other end of the phone and then she said, "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." "Great", I thought, "She's a medical doctor and a fortune teller".
Well, two and half weeks later, I had a brief respite in my outpouring of monthly happiness, and I headed back to the lab. I called my gynecologist's office once I got there, so they could fax over the paperwork. Luckily, I had the same lab tech as the first round of tests because my right arm looked like it belonged to a heroin addict and I was not in the mood to explain. I kept my fingers crossed the entire time she drew my blood because it was the only tactic I hadn't tried yet.
In the end, crossing my fingers didn't help because the results were only marginally better; 11/39. And the best part of those results? My gynecologist was too chicken shit to call me with the results herself. She had her PA do it for her. I already suspected what was going on, but I asked anyway, "So, what's the next step?" She said there was no next step. I was not anemic enough for the surgery and since I was refusing to go back on the birth control, their hands were tied.
"What am I supposed to do? Bleed to death?! Will I be anemic enough then?" I asked. I was met with silence again and I said, "Thank you. You've just told me everything I needed to know." and I hung up.
One of the lesser known disadvantages of working for the world's most valuable technology company is that you instantly become a source for free tech support to everyone who knows you. Especially, doctors. So it shouldn't have surprised me when a few weeks later, my gynecologist came into the store where I worked. She saw me, waved, and made her way to where I was standing. She asked me how I was doing and I said, "How do you think I'm doing?" She changed the subject and attempted the cliche' small talk topics. Eventually, she came to the point. Her son had dropped his mini tablet and cracked the screen. She wanted me to look at it and tell her what she needed to do to fix it. I took the device from her and looked it over. I handed it back to her and said, "I'm sorry, but this is not quite broken enough for me to fix it."
It was time for a second opinion.
To be continued in Part 4.
So, let's jump ahead to three years later... I had been taking the birth control I was prescribed and it seemed to be working. My periods are under control and I no longer looked like I walked out of a crime scene when I get up on those wonderful heavy flow mornings. Despite the thirty pounds I packed on and the frequent bouts of insomnia, headaches, and fatigue, I felt good about my reproductive health. And yet, the human body can be as fickle as a fourteen year old girl being told she has swallow something icky.
I figured I was in a much better position this time to ferret out the offending food. I have several apps on my phone that help me manage my allergies, from shopping to creating a food diary. So, I tracked my eating habits for a month and was no closer to finding an answer. Mind you, this took me weeks to do and I came up empty handed. Then, I started to track my environments. Where were the break outs happening? I noted most of them were happening at work, in our break room. Maybe that was it! The room was being worked on for a lack of air conditioning. Maybe something in the air was causing me to breakout. The next day, I changed where I ate my lunch and I still broke out. Then later, again at home and at Maggiano's. Both places I knew were safe zones for me. So, it wasn't environmental and I was back to square one. I'm not gonna lie, I almost ended up on a roof with a rifle.
In the middle of all this, I had a check up with my Gynecologist to renew my Birth Control prescription. I also was having pain in my right side and wanted to know why. My whole life I could tell you when I was ovulating because I'd always get a pain in my right side just over my right ovary. In the past, other Dr's had told me that I had either pulled a muscle or I had irritable bowl syndrome. What was actually going on was Ovarian Cysts. One of my rare talents in life is growing cysts on my right ovary that would sometimes rival the size of a grapefruit or a Toyota Corolla. (Side Note: I actually had one burst in the middle of a show I was in. True story. I was in a production of Barnum and fell doing a chair trick. I'm not gonna say that it hurt, instead I'm just gonna say I've never been back to the Circus.) So, I was hopeful this time would be different and she'd validate me by agreeing that it was just my right ovary being a bitch. Not so much. She scolded me saying that I could not have been ovulating because I was on BC and BC's job was to stop ovulation. I mean, I knew that, but the pain I was having was unmistakeable in my mind. And even though, I felt like an idiot, I still asked if we could do an Ultrasound to be sure I didn't have a cyst because that's what it felt like to me. A great big, nasty Honda Civic of a cyst. She humored me and performed the ultra sound and there was no cyst. She said I was probably constipated or had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I silently agreed that someone in that room was full of shit, but I didn't think it was me. Instead of arguing with her, I sheepishly took my prescription refill and left.
The only good thing to come out of that appointment was a referral to an Allergist. I hadn't been to one since moving to LA and I wanted a doctor to help me figure out this mystery allergy. I had all of my data recorded in my apps and a food journal ready for his perusal when I got there. I'm pretty sure I overwhelmed him with all of the information I threw at him because I could see little mushroom clouds form in his pupils. But, God bless him, he went through it all. Every piece of data. Finally, he said, "The only thing I can tell you for certain is, it's not food related." He told me all of the work I had put into chasing down this phantom allergy, proved it wasn't food. I would've found it by then. Also, he congratulated me on my use of technology and for doing his job for him. I told him I'd be sending him my bill.
Back to square one again. It had been eight weeks since all of this started and I still didn't know what it was. Frustrated, I turned to my Aunt who was is nurse practitioner of psychiatry and as such, uniquely qualified to handle my case. I told her the whole sordid story and she reminded me that both she and my mother had hysterectomies by the time they were each forty. You add to that, my sister's endometriosis and her hysterectomy at thirty five and you have an established family pattern. She admitted that she failed to see the connection to Soy, but said the only thing she could think to do would be to stop taking the birth control. I was desperate enough to try anything at this point. After I hung up with her, I threw away my BC.
Nothing worth noting happened for a while. What I did notice was my weight fell off. I lost twenty pounds without trying and I was sleeping better. Also, no more headaches. I took all of this as a positive sign. I stopped taking the BC in August and it was October before I really felt the impact. In terms of the Calendar, my period showed up at the normal time, but there was so much blood, I couldn't leave the house. Do you remember that scene in The Shining when the doors opened and....
I thought maybe this was my body getting even with me for screwing around with the BC. November came, this time I had two periods with in two weeks. And this time I had to call out of work because I bled through a super tampon, a maxi pad and my clothes. Yeah. I was sure my uterus and vagina had teamed up to put an end to my then miserable existence. The biggest problem I had at this point, was the timing. The Holiday season when you work in retail is the only time of year you can't ask for time off. Plus, I refused to be the girl that has to call out of work because she got her period. I was sure could deal until January.
I scheduled an appointment with my gynecologist as soon as I could once January rolled around. I told the receptionist when I booked the appointment that I wanted to discuss my options for having a hysterectomy. I wasn't playing anymore.
To be continued in Part 3...
This is a copy of a Craig’s List Ad I posted a few weeks ago. Don’t judge. Shit was getting real and I was desperate…
Here's how it read:
"Free to a good home; a slightly dented, previously owned uterus."
"Anybody interested in a previously owned uterus? I have one that I can't seem to get rid of. I've been told it's freakishly small to the point of being absurd. And it bleeds a lot. A hella lot. Like I sometimes wake up thinking I'm in the middle of a crime scene. I’ll even throw in my fallopian tubes, cervix, and one of my ovaries. I’m keeping the left ovary to try and keep a little estrogen in my body for as long as possible. The right one, however, you can keep. She’s a total bitch. Any takers? Would it help to know that I’m an organ donor? So, you can just take it. I’ll even write you a receipt. Where are all the people with the little red and white beer coolers when you need them? If interested, please call 1-888- 4UTERUS or email : firstname.lastname@example.org. Serious inquiries only. "
Let me start at the beginning. Four years ago, I found out I was allergic to Soy. Not really a secret. I’ve written about it before. There was a incident at work, I went to an allergist and life, as I knew it, changed forever. I had to eliminate Soy from every aspect of my life. Especially, my diet. I re-learned how to eat, shop, cook and clean. As time passed, it became easier to deal with the challenge of a life threatening allergy. However, what no one anticipated, was the impact it would have on my reproductive system. A year after being diagnosed, I started having problems with my periods. At the time, I assumed my body was dealing with the stress of having just moved to Los Angeles. A logical conclusion, right? Wrong. I started my period in March and it didn’t stop until the end of June. And it wasn’t just that I was bleeding, I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Every morning my bed looked like I attended the f*cking Red Wedding in Game of Thrones.
All my male friends kept tip toeing around while looking at me like “HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?!” I knew needed help.
The first gynecologist I went to, was young, perky, and personable. She consulted with me to obtain a little bit of my medical history and later, performed an exam and an ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed three ovarian cysts; two on my right ovary and one the left. I had experienced ovarian cysts in the past, but never three at once and never with all the f*cking bleeding. The doctor sent me away for a few weeks to see if the cysts would dissipate on their own. If they didn’t, I was to return and we’d take a different approach . Three weeks passed, and the bleeding never stopped. I went back to her and she seemed really perplexed. She performed another ultrasound and the cysts we’re gone. So, the question became “why was I still bleeding?” We talked options; Birth Control Pills, Endometrial Ablation and possibly, a Hysterectomy. I told her how I was the only woman in my immediate family to still have her uterus past forty. (Not that it mattered, really, but I was proud of that accomplishment.You take the wins when you can get them, you know what I mean?) And I even mentioned that my sister had lost her uterus at 35 to Endometriosis. I though maybe that was related to me and my issue, but she didn’t think so. Ultimately, we decided to do a D&C. She wanted to analyze the tissue to see if it held more information. The following week I went in for my D&C and everything went well and I was home by mid afternoon. A few days later, my doctor calls me and says the results of my tissue samples came back and there was little to no estrogen in the tissue they took from my uterus. WTF?! Can that even happen?!
She seemed as dumbfounded as I was but we talked about options. Her best educated guess was that it was linked to my Soy allergy. My estrogen levels must have been depleted before the diagnosis and when my new diet eliminated Soy completely it caused my levels to completely bottom out. How? This is what my research revealed:
*“Phytoestrogens are compounds found in plants that are chemically similar to the hormone estrogen. Normally thought of as involved in female reproduction, estrogens control many important aspects for the body in men and women: metabolism, bone and blood vessel health, skin tone, cholesterol level, fluid balance and sexual desire. Soy is one of the richest sources of phytoestrogen, containing the highest levels of isoflavones in food. Soy isoflavones activate your body's estrogen receptors, proteins that detect the presence of estrogen and carry out effects such as changes in gene expression. However, isoflavones do so more weakly than your body's natural estrogen. If estrogen is absent, isoflavones weakly activate the estrogen receptor, mitigating the effect of low estrogen. If estrogen is abundant, isoflavones interfere with the activity of natural estrogen, limiting the effect of high estrogen levels. Since the structure of isoflavones is similar to estrogen, isoflavones may decrease your body's production of estrogen and increase the rate of estrogen degradation due to feedback mechanisms that control estrogen levels.”* - Healthy Eating - sfgate.com
So, according to my doctor, my body was supplementing the Soy in my diet to counter for the lack of estrogen. Then I removed Soy from my diet and then there was no estrogen at all and my body freaked the f*ck out thus causing scary, nasty periods that destroyed my wardrobe and all of my sheets. The next obstacle was to try and find a synthetic estrogen not derived from Soy, which proved to be more difficult than we thought. In the end, I ended up with a prescription for very large doses of Premarin that had to brought in from Japan. For those of you not familiar, Premarin is predominately made from horse pee. That’s right. Horse. Pee. And yes, we had to have it brought it from Japan because everything we looked at made in the USA had Soy in it. Just like our food supply. F*ckers.
For six weeks or so, I had to take two very large Premarin tablets three times a day. Obviously, I was concerned about side effects. What if I started to display affection for pony play or counting with my feet? I wouldn't have to continue to taking it, would I? I mean, F*ck my ovaries! She assured me I would be fine and wanted me to come back in two weeks to give her time to find a birth control pill that wasn’t made from Soy. I wasn’t thrilled about being on birth control, but at the time, I didn’t see any way around it. The impact of the Premarin was instantaneous. Most notably, my skin. I pinked right up! I no longer looked pale and gray. And with that dramatic a change in my complexion, you would’ve thought I would have seen it long before all of this started, but you know what they say about hindsight…
The saga will continue in Part 2 which will be posted soon!
I wasn't planning on adding any hype to Twat Waffle Kim Kartrashian's stunt of trying to break the internet, but out of other peoples' narcisisstic tragedy comes my favorite type of comedy; schaudenfrueder. Presenting my favorite memes of Kim Kartrashian's Break the Internet debacle:
Bill Clinton's version of Heaven...
Nah! That would require an I.Q. above 80...
"Bitch, are you sure you ain't a hobbit?!"
I'm thinking Bruce Willis didn't sign off on this...
Honestly, I'd prefer to see Medea naked...
Here's the unphotoshopped version...
And just in time for the Holidays...
Not relevant, but nonetheless, true...
And my personal favorite...
For those of you who know me, you are already aware of my sick sense of humor. And I realize there are those people out there who don't find me as hilarious as I find myself... Despite knowing this, I'm going to regale you with the best gag gift idea I've ever pulled off...
I should start at the beginning... Gag gifts are my family's signature. Especially between my sister and I. Whether Christmas or birthday, at least one gag gift would make it's way into the mix. For instance, I once gift wrapped an empty box that I had rigged with a false bottom and weighted down and told her it was the invisibility cloak from the Harry Potter movies. She got me back when my fortieth role around by having the Grim Reaper deliver a tombstone cake to me at work. So, for Christmas that year I made her a "Do-it-Yourself-Hysterectomy-Kit" that consisted of a flashlight, Bactine, a mirror, a needle & thread, and a wire coat hanger. Since, she was due to have a hysterectomy that Spring, I thought my gift was practical, thoughtful and cost efficient. What?!
Don't judge me...
So, by now, you get the idea. She was turning forty and I had to come up with a plan that was as equally cunning and hilarious as it was brilliantly executed. The biggest obstacle being my sister and I don't live in the same city anymore. She is in Charlotte and I'm in Los Angeles. Some how, I would have to make it to Charlotte unannounced the day before her Birthday and lye low until the following day. I would invest in a Grim Reaper costume with all the bells & whistles and would already be in the house when she woke up the next day. Piece of cake, right?!
I was relaying my plans to my Aunt (who lives in upstate New York) one afternoon, and she said, "Oh, I gotta get in on this shit! Do you know what's worse then having one Grim Reaper following you around on your fourtieth Birthday?" And I said, "Two?" And just like that, I had another Grim Reaper flying to Charlotte and had seriously upped my gag gift game! The plan was to sneak into the house that morning and follow her around the entire day. Watch how we pulled off the surprise:
Not bad, right? Like I said earlier, the plan was to follow her around the entire day; where ever she went; she'd have a Grim Reaper escort. What we didn't plan on, was her not having anything planned for the day. So, we had to be flexible and adapt our strategy.
Instead, we taught her how to use the inflatable walker we got for her:
Posed for a selfie...
Helped do the chores...
And yes, I did forget to pack a pair of black shoes... I happen to think the Grim Reaper could benefit from a splash of color.
Took a smoke break...
Ran some errands...
Took a nap...
Ate some cake...
Went to an Aerial Yoga Class... Yeah... You read that right.
When the day was done, I inducted into the Gag Gift Hall of Fame. She will be hard pressed to top this and I'll love watching her try...And even though I spent several years in the Theatre world I never got as much enjoyment out of a costume as I did that $29.99 Grim Reaper costume from Amazon.com.