My Health Insurance Company Is Afraid I Might Jump Off A Bridge

  • September 19, 2009

I got a letter in the mail the other day from my health insurance company that basically said, “We are all scared shitless here because we noticed your aren’t taking your Prozac anymore.”

What.The.Fuck.

Technically I have a prescription for Prozac. It is one of the few antidepressants approved by the FDA for the treatment of severe PMS (I read a shitload of magazines and I’ve actually self diagnosed myself with PPMD which is way worse than just the regular PMS). And the reason those yahoos at my health insurance company think I’ve stopped taking it is because, per my prescribing doctor, I’m only supposed to take it for the 5-7 days before my period, not every day. So one bottle lasts a really long time. And some months I don’t have to take it at all. If I start thinking about picking up a fork and stabbing Dave in the head with it then I know I better go over to the cupboard where we store our drugs and take one of those little pills. So that’s like my litmus test for determining whether or not my PMS is indeed severe enough that I need to medicate myself immediately. If I don’t feel like stabbing Dave in the head with a fork in the 5-7 days before I get my period, then I don’t need any Prozac.

My PMS started to get really bad when I was about thirty-eight. I noticed I was becoming less tolerant, bitchier. Then it got worse and now I pretty much want to kill people during certain days of the month. I went to my gynecologist and my regular doctor. They both immediately suggested birth control pills regardless of the fact that my husband has had the “snip-snip.” Supposedly, the pill would regulate my cycle so that my hormones would be “evened out” and I wouldn’t be so psychotic and mean to people I actually love. I think my gyno and my doctor are both getting outrageous kick-backs from their pharmaceutical reps because I can think of no other reason why they would pimp these birth control pills all the time (am I right, Pfizer??) However, since I was having a lot of “fork stabbing months”, I decided to at least try the pill to see if it would help.

Remember that chick who was on the Yaz commercial and she’s sitting around with all her girlfriends at some club and they’re drinking and she’s rattling off all these Yaz statistics and then she’s all “I didn’t go to medical school for nothin'” but you know she’s not really a doctor and instead is probably a struggling actress whose resume lists a deodorant commercial and an episode of Fear Factor under “experience?” That’s the pill my doctor put me on. Within six weeks I lost the desire to ever have sex again and my boobs exploded. I have a pretty good rack to begin with so I really don’t need bigger boobs and hello? if I have no sex drive what good are big huge boobs? Dave was super bummed considering he now had to choose between a psychotic hormonally unbalanced bitch on wheels or a hormonally regulated woman with ginormous boobs and no sex drive. Plus Yaz gave me really bad headaches.

I informed my doctor about the exploding boobs and the lack of sex drive and she pretended not to have ever heard of either of these side effects. She then said if I was not willing to be on birth control pills, she could prescribe something called Sarafem which is really just Prozac that has been marketed under a different name and FDA approved for the treatment of severe PMS. And the little pills are pink. You know, for girls. She also mentioned that because my prescription was for Sarafem, and not Prozac, no one would think I was crazy which does not sound like a very doctor-y thing to say at all.

The first time I went to fill my Sarafem/Prozac prescription, the pharmacist asked me to pull up and over (like they do at McDonald’s when they don’t have enough nuggets to fill your order and you have to sit there and wait for your fast food while everyone drives around you and glares). Then, when the pharmacist came out to my car she was all “We don’t have any Prozac and we can’t fill your prescription until tomorrow” and I’m thinking, “What the fuck do you mean you don’t have any Prozac, you’re a pharmacy” (and it’s Sarafem, remember?) but I was all “Oh, that’s okay, no big deal, I can come back tomorrow” and she’s all relieved looking because I think she thought I might stab her in the head with a fork but that’s ridiculous because I don’t even keep forks in my Explorer.

I used to be envious whenever I’d hear about someone having to have a hysterectomy because I thought that maybe removing the whole “kit and caboodle” would offer some relief but apparently I am experiencing issues that are not related so much to the hardware (girly bits) but the software (the monthly hormonal shitstorm).

I will say that the Sarafem/Prozac DOES work when I take it. But it also makes me very tired and I kinda don’t give a shit about anything. I also don’t have the energy or desire to commit manslaughter though so I guess you have to take the good with the bad.

Anyway, if your periods make you bat shit crazy and evil like mine do, consider taking Sarafem/Prozac/Fluoxetine(generic Prozac) for 5-7 days each month. It does help.

But if you do accidentally/on purpose kill someone during PMS? Call me.

I will so totally testify on your behalf. Or bake you a cake with a nail file.

Whichever.

Peace out.

Tracey’s Shit List

  • September 3, 2009

1. McDonald’s. I’m not talking about those ‘tards at the McDonald’s up the street from my house (which, if you remember, is why we no longer have McDonald’s Monday). I’m talking about a different McDonald’s and the d-bag who thought it would be a good idea to have double drive thru lanes that require hungry and/or stoned McDonald’s customers to take turns and merge. Implementing a system that the general public has to self administer is just asking for trouble. How long before the drive thru reaches riot levels and someone goes all “Reginald Denny” on some annoying blinged out milfy mom in a giant SUV who is yammering into her cell phone and trying to cut in line? *****This McDonald’s location never fucks up my order though so yay!

2. People who post five or more Facebook status updates in one 24 hour period. Set up a Twitter account, you losers! And I won’t be following you. Also, I don’t need to know that your kids have homework, it’s bunco night, or everyone’s! eating! tacos!

3. The duggar’s. Okay, we get it. Michelle and Jim Bob like to put the penie in the pie. A lot. And they don’t like birth control. But seriously Duggars, stop reproducing. Michelle your uterus is just going to fall out and land on the sidewalk someday. Thankfully, Michelle has made some much needed improvements to her hairdo. If you want to see it, click here and head over to DG’s World by Big D. She’s got a bitchin’ picture of Michelle’s new ‘do.

4. In the last three weeks, I have seen no fewer than three dudes scratch their balls while they are talking to me. Here’s the thing guys, your hands and/or genital area are not, in fact, invisible. I can see you scratching. Just because you keep on talking to me doesn’t mean I didn’t notice. Plus, now I’m not only grossed out, I’m creeped out too. You don’t see chicks walking around scratching down there, even if we are dealing with the outgrowth of a bikini wax/trim/shave/whatever. Seriously, girls don’t scratch in public (unless maybe they have crabs or something which at least helps us identify who the whores are. Am I right?)

5. Old Navy. I think I’m going to have to write Old Navy a letter. It will read like this:

Dear Old Navy,

I recently returned to the work force and had to buy a whole new wardrobe (at least that’s what I told my husband). Because I am working at a junior high, and will probably come into contact with sweat, puke, general 8th and 9th grade funk, and the H1N1 flu virus, I wanted to purchase clothing that was cute, inexpensive, and possibly disposable. Your retail establishment offered everything I was looking for.

However, I ordered four pairs of chinos online, and not one pair fits me the same (and in the case of the navy blue pair, not at all). Since I’m tall, I love your web site because I can order my pants and jeans in a longer length. The drawback, however, is that I cannot try anything on. When I get a big box in the mail, full of new Old Navy clothes I get very excited. But when I received my last order and started trying everything on, I wanted to march into your headquarters and stab people with a screwdriver. Kindly fix your pants sizing clusterfuck immediately. The employees working in your corporate headquarters will be very grateful. Or dead. It’s really your decision Old Navy.

6. Walk in clinic. Last week, I had to pick up Matthew in the nurse’s office because he was burning up with fever and complaining of a sore throat. I knew it was strep because I’ve been down this road with him a few times before. I only had 35 minutes to get him to the doctor and then get back home before the bus dropped Lauren off. I chose the walk in clinic, a decision I now regret. First of all, the nurse practitioner ripped me a new one for not “filling out the waiting log correctly.” Apparently, writing down my time of arrival, AND the number of the beeper assigned to me (Jesus, walk in clinic, do you think you are Outback Steakhouse or something?) was not good enough. As I am standing there with my poor child who is ON FIRE with fever and whimpering she pointed out that I had not written down my name. Even though we were the only people waiting. And some A-hole had scribbled out the column that said “name” so I didn’t even know there was someplace to write it down (in case the beeper and/or visual scan of the waiting area did not help her to identify that THERE WAS A MOMMY AND A SICK LITTLE BOY WAITING TO GET SOME MEDICAL ATTENTION AND BY THE WAY THE BUS IS GOING TO DROP OFF MY OTHER CHILD IN 25 MINUTES SO GET DIAGNOSING YOU BITCH). *I’m very sorry about all the yelling*. Anyway, I shot her my best dirty look and let out a little “ugh” under my breath. I also gave very curt little answers to her questions because her attitude made me all passive aggressive. Luckily, we did manage to make it home before the bus dropped Lauren off. However, the nurse practitioner did not prescribe the right dose of antibiotic for Matthew, he got much sicker, and I had to take him to his pediatrician to get the right drugs as well as an oral steroid to reduce the swollen tonsils that were so big he couldn’t even enunciate words properly. And yes, the walk in clinic did receive a piece of my mind some constructive criticism.

7. Dave. I love my husband (97.6% of the time) but the other night, Dave said “Chloe has some poop hanging off her butt.” I’m all “okay, then deal with it.” I mean, if you see it, shouldn’t you just be the one to take care of it? And haven’t I been almost 100% responsible for attending to all the shit (and I mean that literally people) that has come out of the offspring’s you-know-whats from the time they were born until they were potty trained? So why in God’s name is the shit hanging off the dog’s butt my sole responsibility? Man up Dave. If you see a dingleberry, do something about it.

8. Chloe. I don’t know what the hell you rolled in when you were in the back yard but I’m pretty sure it was poop. And then I had to wrestle you into the tub and scrub something stinky and brown off your fur. And then I had to completely change my clothes which required ironing an entire new outfit and selecting new shoes. And then a little while later you insisted on climbing onto my lap and I thought you still smelled like shit but I wasn’t sure if I was just being paranoid and since I’m lazy I decided to just febreze my lap because I am not made of ironed outfits plus I didn’t feel like going upstairs. ****If you see me today and I smell like shit blame Chloe.

Is anyone wondering where the hell I’ve been?

  • September 2, 2009

Dear blogosphere in general and my readers in particular,

Hi. I’m not dead!

If you’ve been wondering why I seemed to have disappeared it’s because:

A) I was carried off by a dingo
B) I fell down a well (a big one, not a little one like baby Jessica fell into in 1987). Obviously.
C) My Internet connection exploded
D) I got a job.

If you picked D, you’re the big winner!!!!!

Let me be the first to say, I’m not totally sure how this happened. I mean, I remember the general process. A friend told me about some available jobs, I went to the website, filled out a lengthy application and uploaded my resume, had an interview, passed the reference and background checks (I know!), and was offered a job. Which I accepted.

I am now working in our school district as a Paraeducator which is just a fancy way of saying teacher’s associate which is also just a fancy way of saying teacher’s helper.

I’m working with older students. It’s like the universe sucked me in and then crapped me back out right into a John Hughes movie. I’m pretty sure I spend 7th hour with the kids from The Breakfast Club except now they’re all wearing Abercrombie.

I won’t be able to blog about my job. Frankly, I’m surprised funny in the ‘hood didn’t get me dooced before I even started. And I certainly don’t want to get canned for violating student confidentiality guidelines.

You’re probably wondering how I ended up working at a school (because God knows I am). It’s not for the money, although I was formerly making zero dollars an hour and if you look at it from that perspective, I just got a nice raise. There are two main reasons I accepted the position. First, if the offspring are at school then I am too. If the offspring are home, so am I. I also have all the holiday breaks, early outs, and snow days off so Dave and I never have to worry about someone being home with the kids. Dave puts them on the bus in the morning and I’m home when they get off the bus in the afternoon. It’s taken a little adjusting but Dave assures me “It’s not hard at all Tracey, it’s really going quite well.” I imagine it is going smoothly considering I have every single thing organized and ready for every living person in this house, including Dave, before I walk out the door at 7:00AM. The second thing I like about this job is that it is somewhat temporary. I’m technically unemployed again when school gets out next May and if I don’t want to go back, I won’t. If the job market ever fully recovers I wouldn’t mind finding a part-time job in my field which is/was Human Resources and Information Technology recruiting. But for now, things are going okay. I am fortunate to be able to choose what I want to do and what I think is best for my family.

Now that I have a job, I am feeling very productive which is something I was lacking in last year when the offspring were at school all day and I was home alone. I’ll be the first to admit that I had acquired a pretty severe Internet addiction, one that kept me online for hours each day. I wasn’t as bad as those people you hear about that sit on a stool in front of a slot machine for so long they pee right in their pants but that’s probably only because there’s a bathroom ten steps away from my computer and I didn’t have to worry about anyone sliding onto my stool and stealing my triple 7’s jackpot.

I’d rather spend all day writing on my blog, reading other people’s blogs, and leaving lengthy comments on them. Ditto Facebook and e-mail. But the time has come to get off my ass and do something and so far, I’m feeling pretty good about my decision. My only regret is that I may not have as much time to write and blog. Hopefully, as I become even more efficient and get used to my new schedule, I will still be able to post a couple times a week.

So, even though my job is low paying, there are often BAD SMELLS, and it’s pretty much a given that I’ll come down with H1N1 at some point, I’m pretty happy right now. I may change my mind in November when I’m in the death throes of the flu.

When that happens, please send Kleenex and wine.

And don’t forget about funny in the ‘hood either.

Sure I’m busy. But I’m not dead.

P.S. Have a wonderful Labor Day weekend! We are going to Tom and Amy’s lake house for one last hurrah.

P.P.S. They only reason I was able to write this post today is because I’m home taking care of Matthew. He has a raging case of strep throat and I feel sorry for my little buddy. We went back to the doctor for the second time and he should be fine by tomorrow.

P.P.P.S. Children’s illnesses = blog posts.

P.P.P.P.S. Cold and flu season is just around the corner so perhaps blog post volume will actually increase?

P.P.P.P.P.S. Will be spending meager paychecks on doctor co-pays and not designer purses.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Curses, foiled again.

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