Hello, its thing two here. Mom had fell down last night and wailed right next to my sisters room (and never heard a thing somehow) while i was working my way to the matrix of sleeping.Then i heard a big wail and had a sigh of greif “gosh darn thing1, not another nightmare of being at grandmas.” i stumbled out of my bunk and fell on the second step to find mom on the floor covered in laundry. She turned out to have a broken toe and fractured wrist,so no typing for her. So she decided I should write a post today cause of all my 100’s i got in writing. So here it goes.
Ever since my friend had showed me the awesomeness that could happen in a survial game i am now in a objective i like to call “minecraftian slave” i watch minecraft videos every single day. if you don’t know what minecraft is then let me simply explain it to you
minecraft is a real life based game where you have to survive in the wild to live, you can build, craft and mine (duh its called MINEcraft). there are also mobs to avoid such as spiders,zombies,creepers,enderman,skeletons, and also cute animals that roam around and you kill for food and villagers that you can trade.
minecraft is an amazing game advalibile on xbox, pc and tablet that lets just say MOST AWESOME ADICTING GAME EVER X3!!!!!!!!! adventaly i don’t have the game, so i just watch lots of videos here are some minecraft youtubers i watch
7. team crafted
Do you get it now? just in case RANDOM POPULARMMOS VIDEO ABOUT BLOWING THINGS UP!!!! (link drop!)
So the other day the girls and I were discussing how salt and pepper reproduce. Yes we were. Don’t look at us, this happened in a cartoon – FOR CHILDREN! Blue’s Clues, to be exact. Now I touched on this weirdness in my review quite a while back (LINK DROP) but it still bugs me, because I think about this kind of stuff instead of say, world peace. One thing is for sure, world peace ain’t never gonna happen while condiments are allowed to party in the kitchen cabinet while you sleep.
So what am I talking about exactly? If you guessed Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper and their spice spawn, then I’m really sorry, cause that means your brain is storing the same useless information as mine is.
A brief summary of Blue’s Clues. There’s this mentally challenged guy named Steve or Joe, they’re pretty much interchangeable, and he has a dog named Blue. She can’t talk so she gives “clues” using paw prints. Now the weird thing about this is that while the dog can’t talk, practically everything else can. Soap, a side table drawer, a shovel and pail, possibly Steve’s underpants, and of course the salt and pepper shakers. Who are married. Of course they are.
But that’s not all. Oh, no. Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper have a BABY. Her name is Paprika. I can’t for the life of me figure out the logistics of this – there’s just too many holes. I mean, in the lids. Besides that, I’ve tried combining salt and pepper together and I do not get paprika. Thing One found a video that discusses why they made Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper talk and not Blue, and how they wanted to teach kids about getting younger siblings and . . . wait, what? That’s right. It happened AGAIN. They had another baby named Cinnamon. I think this is getting out of hand. In this video Neil DeGrasse Tyson – yes the astrophysicist – asks why Blue can’t talk and Paprika, the inanimate object, can. Pay special attention to 1:12 in the video for something really whack.
It’s not just the salt and pepper having funsies, you guys, nope. If you look at the frame below, you can clearly see what looks like a baby mayo, ketchup, mustard, hot sauce, and I have no idea what the green one is – guacamole? Who knew this could happen? And if it can, why on earth do we go to the grocery store? Why not just breed our own condiments?
I’ll tell you why. Because it’s just WRONG, that’s why. If we allow this marriage of Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper, who knows what will be next? Col. Mustard and Mrs. Ketchup making their own special sauce? I don’t think so. That’s why I have all my condiments and spices spayed or neutered, and you should too. And never, ever let your salt and pepper stay in the same cabinet, not unless you really need a new spice rack in the next few months.
Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper offer up so many other questions. Like, when you refill the salt shaker, is that like a blood transfusion? If it runs out of salt and you wait too long, does the shaker die? What about if the spice inside the shaker passes the expiration date? Is that like old age? If so my spice rack is a freaking morgue. Thing Two claims a friend of hers actually buried an empty salt shaker after exposure to Blue’s Clues. Really, people, we must think about the CHILDREN. I can’t believe Fox News hasn’t picked up on this smut we’re showing to our impressionable youth by now.
Also, try not to think about what Steve and Joe do with that poor living Soap. No – no, not there!!!!
This disturbing PSA brought to you by Alice and her Things.
Okay, time to lighten things up around here. Especially on my feet. Cause I’m done talking about jerkwads that fill up cyberspace. Back to talking about me! And my feet! Also my insane obsession with fitbit which led to walking which led to said foot issues. This is totes going to be more exciting than reading the Dr. Scholl’s website (motto: You be old, here be cushy stuffs).
I mean, it just figures that I would go and try to get healthy and then cause something else to go wrong. I’m like one of those cars you got a really good deal on because it constantly breaks down. Speaking of cars, did you know you are supposed to rotate your shoes every six months or 5,000 miles or whatever? Neither did I. I’m not sure if it’s true or if the shoe mafia planned this together to make us buy more shoes.
Anyway, I started walking more and it was great because not only was I making myself healthier (I think) I was also releasing lots of Alice rage and anxiety which is a good thing for everybody. But THEN, then my feet started to hurt. A LOT. Thing Two loves giving foot massages with lotion. I can’t complain; the kid comes cheap. But it just wasn’t doing the trick. I was still in pain.
So I figured, hey my shoes are um, let’s see, when did I last buy shoes . . . uh, yeah I should get some new ones. So I dragged my husband out to the mall where I tried on several different highly priced athletic shoes.
First Lady Footlocker. I was told I should have my foot measured. Well I did, and this dude says I wear size 6 even though I’m pretty sure I’ve been an 8 since high school. As it turns out, he’s wrong, I’m at least an 8. Also, according to him, I have high arches. News to me. Anyway, that was why the shoes did not fit, says he. I was tempted to buy some socks or something from him (did you know there are specific socks for walking and running? Me neither!!!) since he worked so hard and got nothing.
We walked down the mall, passing Payless Shoes, and stopped at Hibbetts Sports. My husband said “Hey, let’s try this one.” because he didn’t at all want to get this over with or anything. I tried on a few pairs there with Mindy or Cindy or Sarah, whatever. Her nametag said “Newbie”. I mentioned back pain and my supposedly high arches and she pulled out some fancy insoles and these heel things that feel like jello (my husband suggested actual jello as a cheaper substitute but I doubt the long term effectiveness). So we shoved all these things into some shoes. I found two pairs of shoes that were pretty good. In the end, the one that was 70 dollars cheaper won out because I’m poor and because I was buying these fancy inserts that were going to make everything better but made the price rise significantly.
So I wore the shoes out and things seemed okay. My husband was relieved at least. Then I got home and walked in the shoes some more and realized I was having trouble balancing and the tendons just above my foot now hurt and dang those stupid inserts might be working but they were way too hard. Considering how much I spent, I was slightly annoyed at this. I decided to return them. This was all about shoe comfort, and not at all about cost or buyer’s remorse or the fact that I can’t make a freaking decision. I thought my husband might beat his head against the tree he was trying to cut down because . . . saws and man and stuff. But at least he didn’t have to go with me. What with the tree.
Luckily, the dude at the cash register was willing to take them back without a fuss – he looked like someone who just wanted to get home and play Xbox. I left and stepped into Payless Shoes. And woot, found shoes looking almost exactly like the shoes in the last two stores, except I got two freaking pairs for 30 dollars vs . . . the extra amount I spent before. Score.
Except I still needed insoles because I wanted them a little more cushy. So I went to Wal-Mart with Thing Two who suggested I try the Dr. Scholl sizer machine because she likes seeing mom balance on one foot. She was most annoyed it wouldn’t tell her a size. Probably because she’s ten years old and her weight’s not even registering. What a problem.
So I found my supposedly custom fit (which said I have normal arches btw), but wtf they were 50 bucks which was more than two pairs of shoes. Sorry to you Mecca employees, but I was a very bad Alice and opened the sealed box to try on the insoles and they did feel good. But I wasn’t sure because after all I had not researched this to freaking death yet. So I put them back and instead got this one for “athletes” (stop laughing) because it had gell all over. And was 30 bucks cheaper. It feels okay. But I wasn’t done yet.
I looked on Amazon and read reviews about this miracle Dr. Scholl insert thing that is just for your foot (You get like a number- I’m a 310! I think that means my foot is very smart.) and found that they had the same inserts for 30 bucks. So I bought them. I’m not sure how much I have spent, gotten back, and spent again at this point. And I’m still researching because OMG I am obsessive which is great for my job but not for anything else.
Who knew walking was so much trouble?
Yesterday I saw an article posted on Facebook about Adam Richman, the guy from Man Vs. Food. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of that show – it’s about a guy who travels the world and shovels food in his face to win such novelties as a T-shirt and heart disease. But, hey, he travels! So totally Travel Channel. I’m just shocked it wasn’t on TLC.
Though no one on TLC, it turns out, is as big a scumbucket as this guy. It makes me angry to even recall it. The show has been off two years, though Travel continues to show it again and again. In that time, dear Adam lost a lot of weight. Yay, now he looks so much older! Oh, and he’s totally healthy because thin! He posted a selfie of himself bragging about his weight loss and using the hashtag “thinspiration.” Turns out thinspiration is a term people with eating disorders use. News to me. Anyway a blogger named Amber Sarah (who OMG is fat!) told Adam about this and he said “Oh, didn’t realize that. I’ll just drop that particular hashtag.” Hahaha, no of course he didn’t. He told her “Do I look like I give a f**k?” She tried again, and got a friend to try, and when they were ignored, she hit up her followers who started bugging him. So he just ignored them.
No, of course he didn’t. He went freaking off the wall crazy, tweeting such gems as “If anyone acts like a c**t, I’ll call them one. It’s not misogyny, it’s calling a spade a spade.”, “Eat a bag of sh*t”, and most chilling of all “Seriously, grab a razor blade and draw a bath. I doubt anyone will miss you.”
It is impossible to fully express my anger at this because it’s wrong on SO many levels. And it just gets worse if you look at the comments. I know, I should never do this, but I thought surely people would be as enraged as I was. Nope. Here are some of the responses from various articles.
“There is no excuse for HER behavior. She weighs 1,000 pounds and doesn’t want anyone else to be happy that they are thin and in good shape.”
A picture of her – on her article – with the caption “Its Tinkerfat the land whale princess.”
“People are way too sensitive. I don’t think anything he said was wrong. He’s lost a lot of weight and is proud of himself, as well he should be.”
“Who wouldn’t want that nutjob to commit suicide? He may have been ranting, but be honest . . . most of us were cheering him on because we are so damn tired of people trying to cause trouble or thin skinned or offended by small thing. I know he’s in the public eye and has to apologize . . . but I hope it is the fakest damn apology ever.”
“Since when does a “Blogger” like that monster Amber Sarah have the power to get a television show pulled? She’s a BLOGGER! They aren’t real! That pig should take note of what he did and hit the gym. So sick of Liberal PC nonsense ruining people’s lives.”
Commenters who disagreed with these views were often disregarded with slams like “You must be fat yourself.” Right, cause you have to also be overweight to think telling another human being they should kill themselves because they are worthless is wrong. Here’s news to these people, and to darling Adam. There are PEOPLE on the other side of that screen. People who kill themselves everyday partly because they are judged by their appearance.
The ironic thing is that many overweight people are not unhealthy. They eat well and exercise. Some people will always be thin because of metabolism, even if they eat McDonalds for every meal. That doesn’t make them more healthy. And even if the person IS an unhealthy weight, that doesn’t mean their brains work less. It doesn’t mean they are worth less.
I am disgusted that my daughters must grow up in a world where completely unrealistic body images are seen as the norm, and deviating from that means ostracism, discrimination, abuse. Where it’s better to starve oneself than to have a little meat on your bones.
Adam has the right to “free speech”. So did the blogger. And the Travel Channel had the right to “postpone his new show indefinitely”. There is such a thing as karma, Adam, and consequences for your actions. I only wish his losing his new show was the only consequence, but it’s just a symptom of a very sick world where it’s better to be dead than fat.
“But which was destroyed, the master or the apprentice?”
-Mace Windu (that dude from Snakes on a Plane) in The Phantom Menace
I have had my Fitbit for less than a week now, but already I’ve managed to find the Dark Side. In my last post, I talked about how Fitbit was a cruel master. And it is – if you let it. There are great things about this handy device, but there are also baaad things about this handy device. The Good: You are encouraged to take more steps, thus increasing your exercise. Also it gives you a smiley face. The Bad: There’s a food log. And a “calories burned” vs “calories eaten”. And the opportunity to lose weight by telling it all your dirty secrets so that it can make you feel bad about yourself by making this little gas meter turn to red which signals FAIL just like the red pen in elementary school. You should also note that red is the color of the evil Darth Vadar’s lightsaber.
I’ve found myself logging my input vs output (output as in how much I exercised not how much I pooped though both make a difference in your weight) to be a real chore. I’ve learned some good things. Like that every thing in existence, even sodas for crying out loud, have salt in them. Also sodas pack a lot of calories for a liquid. So do various desserts. Now I knew about the calorie part (though the salt part: wtf?) but seeing it right in front of you is different. Suddenly you have a limited amount you can eat, like someone stranded on a desert island who must make their provisions last.
As someone who is naturally obsessive and neurotic, this is a bad thing. I find myself thinking about food – too much. Should I eat this? How many calories? It’s not in the freaking database? Now I have to figure this out myself. How much time did that take? Crap, now my blood sugar is in the toilet. Maybe I’ll puke. Hey, I could lose weight that way. Or maybe just not eat much at all cause then I don’t have to walk so much. Yeah!
Then I stopped for a second and let my brain kick into gear. Wait a second. I think I’ve heard of this stuff before. It’s called a freaking eating disorder.
So I looked up “fitness trackers” and “eating disorders” and ta-da, found several articles about how these wearable fitness devices and cell phone apps are an anorexic’s best pal. Now they don’t have to keep the log of molecules eaten in their head; it’s right there in their hand 24 hours a day! And if they eat too many crumbs, they can always exercise more and bing bing look a smiley face!
Now I’m not saying you should just eat an entire pack of Twinkies and say to heck with it. Twinkies aren’t worth it – they’re like eating an actual sponge. But by turning calories into numbers, you lose something. Like say, the nutritional value. Sure you can lose weight by subsisting on lettuce, but is that healthy? No, it’s not worth it. Especially since lettuce tastes like wet cellophane.
Also calorie counting is taking me a long time. I told my daughters to wait a minute while I logged in my food. And then I wondered what message I was sending by doing this.
I thought back to how I heard of this device – David Sedaris. And I re-read his article. Not once does he mention diet when describing his obsession. Just adding a little more walking to each day. Well, in his case, a lot. If he’s really taking in 35,000 steps a day, he should have some fractures by now. I’m gonna leave that to “comedian creative license”. But my point is, if he obsesses about the food log, he doesn’t say so. And I don’t see why I have to do so either.
Yes, if I want to lose weight I have to make sure I’m not eating more calories than I am burning. But what if it’s not just about weight? Is it not good that I’m taking more steps than I was? Isn’t every little bit something? It’s more than I did before. Fitbit starts you at 10,000 steps a day. I put myself at 5,000 cause I hate those freaking frowny faces, and have since kindergarten. Alice don’t do that crap. Besides, it’s actually a good idea to work your way up, especially if you’re used to exercising as much as I am (as in not at all). I got a little thrill when my wristband buzzed today.
Fitbit won’t let me remove the food log. So I hid the little button on the dashboard. And I’m willing myself not to bring it back. Fitbit is a tool. But I am my own master.
Maybe I’m headed back toward the Light Side of the Force.
Yesterday was my birthday for all of you who forgot to send me a present. (I’m looking at all of you). I did get some nice birthday messages on facebook, which were way better than the clever one I got several times “Oh, so you’re turning 29 right? It’s funny, cause we all know you’re actually way older, wink wink!” I hate these people.
Fortunately, I did receive gifts. Like the gift of way too much food making me want to throw up, a comfy pillow, breakfast in bed by Thing Two (2 burned pieces of cinnamon toast, an overflowing cup of chocolate milk, and about 10 pieces of precooked turkey bacon), and finally the gift I gave myself because yea, I am a masochist.
I got a Fitbit.
What is a Fitbit? I didn’t know either until recently. I owe it all to David Sedaris, and to blogger Nicki Daniels, who posted his article on Facebook. He wrote an amusing article about this silly little device, a pedometer you wear on your wrist that measures all sorts of crap, like every step you take, every move you make, etc. And then it puts it all into this chart on your computer or phone. On this same site you can also tell it what wretched things you ate (be honest, the scale is evil, and never lies) and find out how many calories you took in and whether that will in any way be offset by the calories you burned (it won’t). On the plus side, I did figure out I burn a certain number of calories by breathing, so there’s that.
I hesitated getting one, cause it costs 99 bucks (Thing Two saw it and promptly announced that she knew how much it cost from the Target ad. Smart little brat), but then I figured so do bracelets and this one has doohickeys on it and is totally going to make me thin and healthy and crap. Totally worth it. Also, did I mention the pretty charts and graphs? The reviews were all over the board, from this is so wonderful to I lost it the first day cause the clasp sucks. Never fear, there is an answer to this. It’s called a Bitbelt, and it’s this little plastic thingy that holds your band on. There’s nothing to it, and I guess I could have just used a crude rubber band, but this is cute and hey you are helping a business that is not the evil Empire of Amazon where I do most of my shopping, er, I mean that I protest daily.
I have to admit, I’m kind of addicted. I walked like mad the first day, cause I really, really wanted it to vibrate. Get your mind out the gutter, it’s on my wrist. Anyway, it’s neat when you meet your goal cause then Fitbit likes you and gives you badges and wants to be your friend. But if you fail, it’s all like that little punk girl on Candy Crush who cries cause you didn’t meet your goal. There isn’t a little girl really, I just imagine it that way.
As David points out in his article, this is the perfect device for neurotic, obsessive people who need to lose weight. Bin-go! You found a winner here! Yes, sometimes I lose my obsessions, but I’ll have you know that I still have all my yoga equipment and sometimes I still do poses. Mostly the ones lying down. In bed. But STILL.
Speaking of Yoga, just a while back the creator of YogAlign, whose product I kind of sort of poked fun at, found my blog post and offered to send me her 60 dollar book and DVD for free. WOOT. Seriously, I am most appreciative. It is a pretty impressive book, though I haven’t read it all. I linked to her website if you wanna check it out. She talks about how some of the poses you do in yoga can sort of crush your spine and I’m more than willing to redo those poses (stuff like sit down and touch your toes) cause I hated those poses anyway. Thing Two and I tried out her DVD, but I believe it is for advanced yogis, cause in one move she does this scissor thing where her foot meets her forehead and while that doesn’t compress the spine, I’m not sure how her leg failed to pop off. Thing Two kept yelling “LADY!” through most of the video. But the good news is that she is planning to offer a beginner’s version. Excellent idea.
But back to Fitbit. This silly little device really IS making me walk more, and I have hopes that it will help take off these extra pounds because there’s a lot of Diabetes in my family, and I hear that sucks. Also I don’t want to keep buying pants. If only all cake could disappear. I’m pretty sure cake is in cahoots with the scale as both are obviously designed by the Devil who also created Yoga.
But yesterday was my birthday. Fitbit stayed off my wrist. Bound and gagged it could not see all the food I shoveled in my mouth or the number of naps I took. Haha! I showed that tiny electronic device! But tomorrow I will strap it back on again, because I’m neurotic and obsessive and at least this will be a more positive obsession than say, dating my car or eating baby powder.
Any of you guys have a Fitbit or similar device? What do you do to work out? Does it involve being chased by wild wolverines? Let me know in the comments below.
Game of Thrones, yayyyyy. For the last recap, see the Game of Thrones Recap button at the top. Saying I’ve bothered to transfer them over there. Crap there’s a lot of stuff in this one. Let’s get to it.
“Jousting with the Stars” is still going on. Ned keeps poking around asking questions. More tournament blood and gore.
Meanwhile, Ned’s wife is busy endangering her entire family by dragging along poor Tyrion, who asks “What kind of imbecile would arm an assassin with his own blade?” Uh, dur-rup, Lady Stark. They get attacked by some random dudes and Tyrion protects his captor who shows her appreciation by dragging him to her sister, who Tyrion describes as unhinged (surprise!), because . . . I forget.
Back at Winterfell, Bran Stark is doing homework written by George R. R. Martin. He’s learning the different houses of all these crazy characters (good luck, kid). Each house has a motto, and the Lannister’s is “Hear Me Roar”. Pfft, seriously?
That kid who isn’t a Stark but was raised by the Starks cause he’s a prisoner of the Starks (keep up) goes on about his great bloodline to a prostitute who just sits there naked. Totally normal.
Ned is visited by this bald dude on his council who had his balls cut off. He tells him that the last Hand of the King was probably murdered by this knight that just got killed by Mountain and Ned is like, who would hire that guy to kill the Hand? Oh, gee, let me think.
No-balls also warns Ned that the last Hand was killed cause he started asking questions. In other words, stfu, Ned. Gawd. Cute little Arya Stark overhears no-balls talking about Ned but has no idea what’s going on (like the rest of us) but even she figures out it’s not good. Ned pats her on the head.
Weasel Boy and No-Balls talk about how the brothel caters to everyone, even those who like little boys and dead people! Also about how No-Balls has no balls! Yay, that was so necessary to the plot, thanks so much! They gossip some more like girls in a junior high bathroom until mercifully interrupted to go to a council meeting. At the meeting, the king says they gotta kill Dany, cause that Jor-El dude told him the pregnant teen and her barbarian buds are a threat. Ned’s like, no way that’s not cool, and the king is yeah huh is so and Ned says well I quit and throws down his badge. And the king says “We are totes not buds anymore!”
So Weasel Boy is all hey I can give you more clues about the death of the last Hand that can totally get you killed, or, you know, you could just beat cheeks and get the hell out of here. So Ned goes with him. Of course he does.
Meanwhile, Cate Stark gets to her sister’s with Tyrion. Her wackadoodle sister is sitting there breastfeeding her son who looks like he’s about seven or eight. Turns out dear sister went batshit crazy when she didn’t make it on the cover of Time Magazine. But even she realizes that Cate is a moron for bringing Tyrion there and endangering them all. Lady Cray-Cray accuses Tyrion of murdering her husband, and Tyrion remarks that gee, he’s been pretty damn busy. He’s put in one of the “sky cells” which are rooms with a hell of a view – like thousands of feet below.
But enough of that, let’s see a gay dude shaving his lover’s chest. I forget who they were.
Queen Cersei and King Robert yammer about possible invasion by barbarians and if he ever twuly luved her. He says “Hell, no.”
Ned finds one of King Robert’s baby bastards (they love that word) and her mom in Weasleboy’s brothel. Weaselboy says the last Hand was tracking down all the king’s bastards for some reason. That’s a lot of bastards. Bastards.
Ned leaves and runs into Cersei’s brother / lover (gag) Jaime and Jaime is all, where is my brother who I suddenly care about? And Ned’s like, oh shit, and says he ordered his idiot wife to capture him cause he’s noble which in this universe translates to “has no freaking common sense”. Jaime has his men kill Ned’s men, and Ned gets madfaced, and they fight until one of Jaime’s guards spear’s Ned’s leg. Ned fall down and go boom.
Things are lookin’ bad! Don’t worry, it’s all downhill from here! Oh, right, a song. To Full House!
Game Full of Thrones
Whatever happened to peeps with nobility?
Like Ned Stark, and Tyrion, and that’s about it.
You miss your old happy shows
But waiting just around the bend
Everywhere you look (everywhere)
There’s a bunch (there’s a bunch)
Of crazy evil people
Everywhere you look (everywhere)
There’s a face of someone who wants to kill you
When you’re into the characters
And you hope they live
An author is waiting to kill them all off
Everyone is screwed.
Season 1: Episode 5
Death toll: Lots
Nakey toll: 3: 1 totally naked prostitute, two bare chested dudes (whose chests were not impressive, no fair)
In case you missed part one of my voyage to Middle Earth, er, Loopy, click here.
I had this wooden bed with a comfy mattress that was “no longer bolted to the floor” as they said. But I didn’t lay there long because they called us for supper. People were already lined up, but the guy at front reading a book waved me forward. Ladies first. One of the other women bitched because she was a bloody Marine and didn’t need special treatment. Whatever. Women still aren’t paid as much as men. I take my perks when I get them.
The food was actually pretty good. I was warned against the Salisbury steak and took the Chicken Alfredo. Some of the others stared suspiciously at the noodles. And I thought I was picky. The cafeteria lady was simply charming, growling at us as we picked our food. A fellow Looney, Kleenex girl, said “Could you please smile?” Cafeteria woman glared and said “I AM smiling.” Right. Moving on.
They only had diet sodas. So apparently caffeine was okay, but not caffeine and sugar. Though you could have juice, chocolate milk, and dessert. Whatever. I got all of the above. No one said what I was limited to, so I figured I’d get my money’s worth.
We only had plastic forks and spoons. No knives. Nevermind that you’d have to work pretty hard to slice yourself or anything else for that matter with a plastic knife, we didn’t get one. This was okay with the noodles, not so much with the chicken they later served. I ended up eating it medieval style, spiking it with my fork.
Once back to the room, they served dessert, but did not allow us a spoon. Some wily people had smuggled their spoons in, but the rest of were out of luck. Apparently you can shank yourself or your pal with a spoon if you break off the handle. Thank goodness for the mental hospital, or I wouldn’t know half the ways a person could kill herself.
This wouldn’t have been so bad if they had served us cake instead of ice cream and yogurt. Try eating that shit without a spoon. We did it, sure, but wtf. I mean, why give that as dessert and not allow spoons unless you’re conducting some kind of bizarre experiment? Maybe that was the idea. If so, I can tell you the results. It annoys the mentals.
There was one big screen TV, but a lot of us, so you had to stay with whatever the person holding the remote picked. That turned out to be American Idol. I was just thankful it wasn’t Fox News, or I might have had to steal a spoon and shank someone. The Meatloaf dude won over the Katy Perry look-a-like. Yay.
We were given our pills in an orderly fashion. This is the point where they doubled my anxiety meds without informing me they were doing so. I wouldn’t figure this out for a while yet. They doled what were little more than hand towels for our showers. The Hitchhiker’s guide is right. Wherever you go, bring a decent towel. I didn’t have a towel, or any clothes at all to change into because I was waiting on my husband to come by with them. This had not happened. No big deal except that I really needed new underwear. There’s another lesson. Don’t just wear clean undies, carry another pair. I mean, you never know.
They had nothing in the bathroom, not even soap which seemed kind of unsanitary seeing as how you do have to pee and all. I got hospital versions of all the toiletries and took a shower. Normally I hate showers because mine has not been cleaned since Obama’s first term. But this one was nice except that it turned off multiple times and you had to keep smacking the button to get more water. But it was all mine and I didn’t have to clean it. Score.
Earlier I talked about how they made rounds every 15 minutes – and how the doors had to remain at least partially open. This is not so bad during the day, but kind of sucks at night. Especially if your tech has bronchitis and thinks she must yank your door open all the freaking way every time she stops by while coughing her head off. Twit.
The lights outside the room never go off, and the TV didn’t go off until 11 pm. Thank goodness for knock-out meds or I don’t know how anyone would get sleep. I did wake up the night twit tech went by and couldn’t fall back asleep so I cried. A really nice nurse stopped by and talked with me a little bit. “What can you do about it now?” she asked. Nothing. Good advice. I’m trying to remember it still.
There was very little individual counseling here. Almost everything was group. I think you’ll find that at many mental health places, because it’s cheaper for them. It sucks for the patients, though, because frack if you’re going to get some one on one anywhere, shouldn’t it be at the hospital? The shrink does stop by on certain days, but most of them have social disorders and don’t talk. I got sneaky though. Cornering nurses, getting counselors by themselves and at last resort, calling the Chaplain. We had fun dissing the Church of Christ together. I liked him.
Okay so I didn’t get to Nurse Ratched – yet! Stay tuned.
Earlier I said I would tell more about my inpatient stay, and I do want to do that in case someone else is scared to go to the hospital like I was. Every hospital is different, but if you are desperate enough, any hospital beats suicide, so please go.
When I finally decided to go (and undecided about 20 times while on the way there and in the waiting room) I was so terrified I was scaling my husband like a cat climbing a tree. It is safe to say that I have never been so scared in my entire life.
There were a lot of hoops to jump through just to get there, or rather, locked door after locked door. I went through most of these hoops with my husband and a nice young woman who was talking on her cell phone Zomg she did not have a cell phone. She was just talking to herself, like, a complete conversation. Also, she would cry for a few seconds, then laugh. I was certain they were going to put me in a room with her and then my anxiety would get so high I would literally stick to the ceiling. “Don’t worry,” my husband whispered. “You aren’t like her.” Wasn’t worried about that. I was worried that everyone was going to be just that cuckoo. And the ceiling thing.
But as it turned out, it wasn’t so bad. They put me in the Veteran’s unit, where there were mostly surly people like myself. The lady who was her own best friend went elsewhere.
All I had with me was my purse. They took it and locked it up. No cell phones here. No computers. (ZOMG the withdrawalllll) Also nothing that could ever, ever in your wildest imagination, be used to harm yourself. Like my shoe laces. I wondered exactly what you would do with shoelaces since they were too short for a decent noose then I thought well maybe someone could try to choke themselves, but that seems difficult, or cut off circulation, and then I thought, you know, I really don’t want to know. Please no one tell me. My shoes wouldn’t stay on without laces, so I had to give those to my husband. Also my hair clip. And my bra with the underwire. Thankfully not my undies.
Then a guy asked me to rate my depression and anxiety on a scale from one to ten. This would be the first of MANY times this question was asked. When I said ten (or really 20) on both, he said “If it’s because you’re here, don’t worry. It’s not One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. They’re putting you in the Veteran’s unit. They’re pretty laid back over there.” You know, for mental patients. I was not convinced. They then separated me from my husband and my terror notched up higher still. They took me through more locked doors (up to the dungeon!) and into the unit. One guy was sitting out reading a book. Other than that, it was nurses. I sat and waited for them to take vitals while they pretty much ignored me. After a while, I started near hyperventilating with my crybabies, but most people in Camp Loopy didn’t seem to notice. I guess they see it enough.
Finally after checking me out for scars and bruises (I had a few but I explained that I honestly, for reals, just walked into walls on a regular basis), they left me in my room – one bed, some shelves, and best of all, no roomie. I think I was the only one who didn’t have a roommate. I’m not sure if it was because I was the only one paying with private insurance or I was just a speshul snowflake, but I didn’t care cause MINE. There was also a tiny bathroom with this tiny shower. It had a curtain in front of it, which was good, cause that was pretty much your only privacy. You had to leave the door at least partially open all the time. Rounds were every 15 minutes. These guys were really concerned about us. Also their jobs.
There were two types of employee there most of the time. The nurses and the techs. You could tell them apart by scrub color. The nurses gave you your meds. The techs . . . couldn’t give you meds. They could unlock the laundry room door. Cause of course the laundry room was locked. Nobody taking rides in the dryer here!
We had frequent “group time”, kind of like circle time in kindergarten. These were on the schedule which was mostly followed. I got to know the other inmates, er, patients. One of them pointed a Kleenex box at me and said I was making excuses. At that point, I just got upset. By the end of my visit, had she done the same thing, I might have tried to shove it up her nose. But she wasn’t all bad – really none of them were.
A few of them I almost never saw because they slept most of the time, in spite of the techs shouting at them to go to group, supper, etc. A few were just really quiet. The women were quite outnumbered – only four of us compared to probably thirteen, fourteen men. Hard to say since a few didn’t leave their rooms. Each day someone would leave, or a few someones, and someone else would come in.
I was there from Tuesday evening until Friday afternoon. Each day had different employees, different patients, and different rules. But there was still routine and best of all, no decisions to make. They told you when to eat, when to shower, when to go to group, when to take your meds, etc. For the first time in my life I did not feel responsible for anybody else but me.
. . . stay tuned for Nurse Ratched!
I always hated group work in school. It sucked. Then you grow up and go a little off the deep end and bam, they make you do group work all over again.
Currently, I’m in an outpatient program that involves a lot of group “therapy”. First we have to fill out a form called a, not kidding, “happy sheet” with numbers rating how we are feeling on certain days. Like Angry, Sad, Anxious, Hopeless, Bored as Shit, etc. I added the last one, but it should be on there. You also have to say how well you slept. Well, fuck, I don’t know, I was sleeping. I know I need help because I can’t even fill out the happy sheet correctly because I forget whether 10 is the best or the worst, so sometimes I just randomly circle 5.
The therapist looks at your sheet and then asks you how you’ve been. Turns out most of us have not been well. Which is why we’re there. While each person gets a turn at whining, the rest of us either try to look concerned or just say fuck it and nap. We’re all either sleep deprived from insomnia or just stoned on various pharmaceuticals so it’s generally accepted. Better than work meetings where this is usually frowned upon.
I have not been declared ready for work yet (sarcastic sadface) because I still have meltdowns. Wednesday was because this lady tried to talk about time management and lists and all I could see was this endless stream of shit I hadn’t done yet and I had to leave so I could freak out and the nurse seemed concerned with this. Thursday was music therapy and the lady brought fucking drums and we all had to play in a circle and make up our own rhythms which I ain’t got and it just kept going and going and we were supposed to remember our turns and think while there was banging and I wanted to hit the therapist with the drum repeatedly. I would have tried to play a creative rhythm while I did.
Friday we talked about what made us Angry, Sad, Scared, etc. I said drums for every one, among other things. But then someone started talking about traffic and the conversation steered off into an actual car wreck as people talked about all the accidents they had been in and how dangerous it was to drive when I was going to have to drive in the next fifteen minutes or so and I was like “subject change” and they said sure and then went back to traffic and I left and the nurse called my husband and said I really shouldn’t drive home cause for some reason I am having problems. She thinks I want to kill myself. That’s not true. I want to kill everyone else.
Part of the problem is that I happen to like stuff like routine and we’ve had absolutely none of that. The regular therapist was gone last week, so we got therapist of the day. It’s always reassuring when your therapist asks “Am I supposed to be here?” when she first shows up. Then you get to tell your problems over and over again which is super fun, especially for the ones who have irritating and possibly made-up problems. Like this one chick who couldn’t seem to gain weight and constantly talked about how people were so hot for her and her stepfather was stalking her and every time someone made a suggestion for help she said no because he was in the police’s pocket you see, and I don’t care.
We also have different psychiatrists prescribing the drugs. So far I’ve seen three – one in inpatient and two more in outpatient. I’ve been in outpatient 7 days by the way. The first shrink put me on lithium and the third one took me off. It hasn’t seemed to make much of a difference on my anxiety. I’m normal for a while, then I want to climb a tree until I take my pills and then I just want to be unconscious. I thought if I told my parents about my therapy – who were sure to disapprove because I was missing WORK and should suck it up – I would feel better. I brought my husband. So my parents screwed with me and were like, nice, and offered me money, which was my other worry. So parents and part of the finance worries down, and supposedly job covered by FMLA. No problems!
Except yeah there are because I’m still fucking anxious for some reason. Also there is this anger that kind of takes off into near shouted expletives I normally save for my family blog here. One group member, a guy in the military, said “Holy crap, and she’s the librarian!” Yes, buddy, librarians have RAGE too. And I’m not sure if there is a pill for that. I’m not sure about anything. Except I’ll be a group again, same time, same place this week. I only hope the girl is there who wants to stab people in the eye with a pen. I like her.