Tag Archives: Bad days

Need Extra Cash?

Need extra cash?

OK, I guess that was a trick question because, well who doesn’t?

In keeping with my newly assumed role of bringing you all the news you need to know , I will give you this profitable tip.

The Washington Post is reporting that you can earn up to $13 K anually.  Anally.

You can sell your poop.

Poop transplants are a real treatment that I’ve read actual medical journal articles about.  The hypothesis is that our Western Culture (damn you McD’s!) has eliminated too much of the flora and fauna out of our GI tracts.  The result is lots of people like me with bowel disease.

So scientists are looking at all kinds of ways to help.

One of the latest ideas is to repopulate the good bacteria.  That’s the idea behind pro-biotics.  They put back the good bacteria that overuse of antibiotics and other hazards of Western life have, ummm, eliminated.

One of those ways is through poop transplants.  I kid you not.

At present, poop transplants are used only for treatment of poor suckers infected with c difficile* and e coli, particularly nasty bacteria that is really hard to get rid of.  They are studying it in bowel diseases like my Crohn’s and colitis, but they haven’t yet flushed out all the problem issues.

So if you are really healthy and have good aim, you can earn some bucks while doing your business.

Washington Post.  Notice how upright those treated people are

Washington Post. Notice how upright those treated people are

You know the worst thing about this for a Crohn’s patient?  The knowledge that this isn’t the worst treatment imaginable.  That goes to the one they were testing a few years ago under the same hypothesis — that our guts were too clean.  With that treatment, they had you drink worm larvae.  Yum.

Your Scientists

I wonder if the researchers know about the whale in my last post.

*Thanks to my pals Kate Crimmins and Carrie Rubin.  The article refs c diff; Ive read it is also used on e coli.  So much shit; so many uses.  So much money in the pot.

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Filed under Adult Traumas, Bat-shit crazy, Conspicuous consumption, Crohn's Disease, Disgustology, Extra Cash, Health and Medicine, Hey Doc?, Huh?, Humor, Taking Care of Each Other

Portable Self-Defense

Many years ago when I lived in a not terribly safe neighborhood in DC, two work colleagues/friends of mine were discussing safety precautions to be used in case we were ever assaulted.

“I heard that if someone tries to rape you,” Ellen said, “the best thing to do is to poop in your pants.  Nobody wants to rape a person with poopy pants”

“That won’t be hard for me to do,” I said.  “I can poop on command.”  My colitis-that-was-really-Crohn’s was raging in those days.  “Maybe I can sell some!”

Our colleague, John, got a mischievous look on his face.  “But what if you’ve just gone?” John asked.  He then stood up from his desk, and started grunting as if he were pooping.  “Wait a minute, wait a minute, Mr. Rapist.” John grunted some more, laughing. “I’m almost ready for you …  OK, NOW try to take me!”

We didn’t get a lot of work done those days.  But it was a valuable lesson in self-defense.

Sadly, Keri Wilk, an undersea photographer, wasn’t in the room with us.  Because that self-defense lesson might have come in handy for him just recently.  Because recently he learned that sometimes, a little poop can be the best defense.

You see, according to the article in the Huffington Post, photographer Keri Wilk had a crappy experience when he got up close and, ummm, personal, with a sperm whale.  Apparently Keri and his fellow divers made the whale a wee bit nervous.

While leading a group on an underwater whale photography expedition off the coast of the Caribbean island, Keri and four others were approached by what appeared to be a perfectly calm whale.

The whale approached them, stopped, pointed straight downward, and then in Keri’s words, “the storm began.”

If only Keri and his friends had given the poor whale a little privacy, well then, the storm might have been short-lived.  But noooooooooo.

Instead, Keri and friends experienced a “Poopnado.”

“At first, it seemed like a regular bowel movement… sperm whales are often seen defecating, especially while diving, so we didn’t think much of it initially. It pointed itself down, but then, rather than continuing its dive, it remained at the surface, continuing the bowel movement for a startling length of time,” explains Keri.

“The 4 of us looked at each other with confusion, then back at the whale, expecting that any second its call from nature would be ended, and that it would descend to the depths for another meal as they usually do. Instead, the whale bobbed up and down, spun around in circles, and waved poop in every direction for several minutes while 4 of us in the water sat back and watched!”

The minute by minute photos are pretty amusing, but I think you might just want to go to the full article rather than see that much poop on my blog site.  I do have my standards, you know.  Low as they may be.

The full spread of pictures is, ummm, more overwhelming.

There simply is no reason for you to bother reading the news.  Or watching it.  Because I promise you, if there is anything you need to know, anything at all, I will tell you about it.

Including things you didn’t even know you wanted to know about.

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Filed under Bat-shit crazy, Climate Change, Conspicuous consumption, Crohn's Disease, Diet tips, Disgustology, GOP, Huh?, Humor, Wild Beasts

People My Age

It happens every year, try as I might to avoid it.  Annually.  At about the same time each year.  On the same damn day, even.

Every bloomin’ year! What’s with that?

For the last 15 years, I’ve tried to avoid it.  I just put my head down and muddled through the whole month.  Looked forward to February.

Yeah, it’s my birthday.   Ho hum.  Everybody has one.  Still, I figure I need to do something to mark it.

So to celebrate, I’m going to insert one of my very favorite birthday songs for those of us who are in their our post- years.  The perfect song for the post-teens; post-Yuppies; post-childbearing, child rearing, post-careerists; post-menopausal; for the pre- and post-retirement set.

The perfect song for the pre-dead among us.  And I do hope you, my dear bloggin’ buddy, are among us.

Ho hum.  Where’s the wine?

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Filed under Adult Traumas, Awards, Bat-shit crazy, Birthday, Bloggin' Buddies, Disgustology, Family, Farts, Health and Medicine, Hey Doc?, Holidays, Huh?, Humor, Mental Health

Where’s MY ‘Panic Button’?

Wednesday, the Texas legislature’s House voted to allow their members to install “Panic” buttons in their office.  Isn’t that special?

The reason they might just need these panic buttons is because some folks are just getting out of hand.  And in their hands, they want deadly weapons.  Just about wherever they go.

The Texas Lege is voting on whether to allow “Open Carry” of guns.  Texas would join 22 states where Open Carry is already legal.  [For the record, I am astonished that that bastion of gun rights, Texas, does not currently allow folks to carry guns wherever they choose.  Shocked, in fact.]

The vote to allow House members to install “Panic Buttons” all came about because of a group of folks, ummmm, lobbying for open carry rights.  This group went to the office of a House member, Pancho Nevarez, who had the audacity to plan to vote “No” on open carry.  And while these “lobbyists” believe strongly in the Second Amendment, they apparently haven’t read about the FIRST Amendment.   They were aggressive.  They were intimidating.  They were, in a word, assholes.

But the thing is, rather than doing anything to prevent assholes and crazy folks from carrying guns, intimidating people and killing them, the Texas House voted to allow their members to install “Panic Buttons” to alert security.

You will be surprised to know this action just doesn’t sit well with me.

Perhaps I should be used to it.  After all, there have been security measures in Congress and most Executive Branch departments for nearly 30 years.

Folks cannot bring their weapons into the State or Defense or Homeland Security Department.  You can’t even bring it into the Air and Space Museum.

And, really, that’s OK by me.  I don’t want government officials to be shot at their desks.  It’s so messy.

But you know what?  I don’t think anybody should be shot at a Walmart.  Or at a movie theater.  Or at an elementary school.

So why should we provide an extra level of protection for the very same folks who vote to put the rest of us at risk?

The folks who decide on the gun laws are voting to keep themselves safe.  If they’re going to do that, they should damn well vote to make me safe.  And you.  And our kids.

What is wrong with this picture?

 

 

 

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Filed under Adult Traumas, Bat-shit crazy, Conspicuous consumption, Criminal Activity, Disgustology, Elections, Gun control, Huh?, Humor, Hypocrisy, Law, Mental Health, Stupidity, Taking Care of Each Other, Wild Beasts

Let it Snow!

It snowed here in the DC area today.

Google Image

Google Image

Snow in DC, well, is where:

(1) Everybody is from somewhere else;

(2)  Everybody has forgotten how to drive in it;

(3) They drive in it anyway; and

(4) They are in front of me going up a hill.

Trust me.  A four hour commute tends to take a bit of the frosting off one’s appreciation of a snowfall.

Still, not everybody cares.

If you haven’t seen it yet, here is Washington DC’s favorite son.  Bao Bao, our baby panda.

Nothing less would have gotten most folks in the DC area to stop swearing over the fact that they didn’t plow 4 inches of snow off the roads.

Now that I think of it, next time it snows, I’m heading to the National Zoo!

Google Again

Google Again

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Filed under Adult Traumas, Bat-shit crazy, Humor, Virginia

Pet Power!

Elyse:

What a terrific way to cheer up a kid in the hospital.  I was 17 the first time I was hospitalized — it’s a terribly lonely place to be.  So sharing some pictures of my Duncan is the least I can do.

Thanks, Tops, (of Life With The Top Down) for letting me know about it! Duncan pics on the way to Anthony!

Originally posted on Life With The Top Down:

This morning as I was trolling on Facebook I noticed that one of my friends posted an adorable photo of her two puppies Cosmo and Emma, but this time it was different. She included a well wishes to someone named Anthony. Hmm … further investigation was necessary.

After a few clicks I found out that her photos were actually part of a wonderful event Photo Doggies for Anthony. Anthony is a 16-year-old boy who is currently undergoing chemotherapy for acute lymphoblastic leukemia at the Phoenix Children’s Hospital.

As I was reading his story I found out that Anthony is a firm believer in the power of pet therapy and animal healing. I know my Peanut has wonderful nursing skills, so I can’t argue with that thought. 

Therapy dogs are just not available every day for every patient, so some wonderful people in Anthony’s life came up with this incredible idea to have…

View original 169 more words

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Filed under Bloggin' Buddies, Childhood Traumas, Health and Medicine, Humor, Mental Health, Wild Beasts

Healing

Before I started blogging, I hadn’t done much personal writing.  I’m a medical writer at work, so I’ve been working with words for decades.  But they weren’t for me.  They weren’t about me.  And they didn’t help me get beyond my share of those things that landed on my shoulders and my heart and pushed down.  Tried to drag me under.  Things that succeeded sometimes, I’m sorry to say.

For years I’d grieved.  I couldn’t get beyond the loss of much loved family members.  Until I wrote this post.  Now, I think and write my stories with more smiles and fewer tears.  Through the humor I found writing it, I got myself back.  And them, too.  It was a win-win.  By writing it, I was able to heal.

I had forgotten that really, the only thing as powerful as words is being able to laugh.  When I first posted Both Sides Now three years ago, my bloggin’ buddies didn’t quite know whether it was OK to laugh.  It is.  I did.  I do.

My long-time bloggin’ buddies may remember this post.  I’m posting it again mostly for myself and for my newer friends.

*     *     *

Both Sides Now

“The Season” makes me crabby.  Grumpy.  Irritable.  I’ve come to hate it.  Everything about it.  I hate the music, the crowded stores, the decorations.  I especially hate the decorations.

Last year a friend stopped by our house in the middle of December.  “God, it’s December 15th,” I said to her, “and the only decoration I have up is the wreath on the door!”

“I don’t think that counts, Lease,” responded my husband John. “You didn’t take that down from last year.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tonight, I’m looking around at my undecorated house thinking, “uggggh,” not “Ho ho ho!”

It wasn’t always true, though.  I used to be one of them.  I was a veritable Christmas Elf.  I baked, I decorated.  I embroidered Christmas stockings for the whole family.  My son Jacob and I built gingerbread houses that did not come from a mix or a box and were actually made of gingerbread stuck together in the shape of a house!  My friends got a bottle of homemade Irish Cream liqueur.  Some used it to get their kids to bed on Christmas Eve.

But mostly, I sang.  The records, tapes and CDs came out on Thanksgiving.  From the moment I woke up the day after Thanksgiving, until New Years, I would trill away.  “White Christmas,” “Do You Hear What I Hear?” “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”  I belted “Mele Kalikimaka” when I had an established escape route to avoid people trying to punch me.  I know the words to all 18,423 verses of Frosty the Snowman.  I would start singing in the shower and keep going until John tackled me and put duct tape across my mouth, usually at about 8:30 a.m.  Regardless, I’d start up again the next morning.

If the current, Crabby Christmas Me got a hold of the old Merry Christmas Me, I would slap myself silly.

So you see, I do understand the Christmas-sy part of Christmas.  The love, the joy, the traditions.

But now I see the other side.  And it’s that “tradition” part that is to blame.

You see, my family’s always been fairly competitive.  My mother and her sister Ruth were particularly so.  They’d argue at each shared Sunday dinner over a million things:  whose gravy was better (my mother’s), who cracked the best one-liner (always Aunt Ruth – she was a hoot), and most traumatically for me, whose young daughter was taller. (Duh, Maureen was almost a year older than me – of course she won every time.  But you’re not taller now, are you?  And you’re still older, Maur.  You’re still older.  How do you like it??)  Darn, I wish I’d missed the competitive gene.

When I was a kid, Aunt Ruth was high on the list of my favorite relatives.  Now she’s tops on an altogether different list.  And it ain’t Santa’s list, neither.

Because Aunt Ruth started a family tradition.  A competition.  But it’s not a family tradition I recommend, especially during the Christmas season.  In fact, it should have a warning, although I’m not sure where you’d put it:  Don’t try this at home.

You see, Aunt Ruth started the tradition of kicking the bucket on a major holiday.  What fun!  Great idea!  Not many families do that!  Hey, we are DIFFERENT!

Knowing Aunt Ruth, I’m sure her last thought was “Doris, you’ll never top this one!  I’m dying on Thanksgiving!!!!”   She was no doubt a bit miffed when my mother joined her a couple of years later.

Because, not to be outdone, Mom arrived in the afterlife on Easter Sunday.

Their party really got going when we reached Y2K, and my sister Judy died unexpectedly on my birthday in January.  Now, you might argue that my birthday is not, technically speaking, a holiday.  Not a paid day off for most folks.  But hey, in my book, this qualifies.  So there.

As time went on, there were fewer and fewer holidays I could celebrate.  The only big one left was Christmas.

Guess what happened on Christmas, 2000!

Yup, Dad reclaimed his spot at the head of the table with Mom, Judy and Aunt Ruth. Dad trumped them all.  Or because it was Christmas, perhaps he trumpeted them all.  Maybe both.

I must say I am rather ticked off about it all.  Sort of changes the tone of the Holidays, you see.  I plan to have words with all four of them, next time I see them.  And I will not be nice.

In the meantime, celebrating holidays, well, it just seems so odd to me.  Especially Christmas, because Christmas is so stuff-oriented, and most of my Christmas stuff is from them.  It takes a bit of the fun out of decorating.

For a while, I considered joining the Eastern Orthodox Church.  That way I could celebrate the same holidays, just on different days.  I could keep all my Christmas crap!  I could decorate!  I could bake!  I could sing!  But then I realized that the change would just give us all additional high priority target dates, and I don’t have enough family members left to meet the challenge.  So Eastern Orthodox is out.

At the same time, I also realized that, when Dad hit the Holiday Lottery, the whole tradition had to stop.  Because I’m pretty sure that biting the dust on, say, Columbus Day, just wouldn’t cut it.  So why bother?

Nevertheless, this whole thing has made me decidedly anti-holiday.

There is one holiday I still look forward to, though.  Groundhog Day.  I just can’t figure out what sort of decorations to put up.

Photo courtesy of Google Images

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Filed under Adult Traumas, Bat-shit crazy, Birthday, Bloggin' Buddies, Childhood Traumas, Christmas Stories, Dad, Family, Health and Medicine, History, Holidays, Huh?, Humor, Mental Health, Mom, Taking Care of Each Other, Writing