So the other day I was flipping through one of those local little newspapers when my eye was drawn to a picture of someone’s pointer finger tied with a red string, and the caption, “I know there is something I have been meaning to do…”

Naturally I kept on reading, because I’m always worried that there’s something I’ve forgotten to take care of.

Continuing on I read, “If you are like most of us, taking the time to document your cremation arrangements is something easily put off, but something you have been…meaning to do.”

Um, nuh-UH!

Is this really what “the rest of us” does? Because I think that this time, I’m REALLY HAPPY to be an outsider.

The past couple of weeks have been sort of rough, healthwise, and that, coupled with it now being the summer (Important Side Note To All Southerners: It is the heat AND the humidity, BOTH. Please stop lying about how the heat is inconsequential in my inability to breathe once I set foot outside), means that I really haven’t been feeling all that funny lately.

However, posting about our trip to Spain made me think that, because it occurred many years before this blog was even a twinkle in my eye, I could probably mine that time for a few funny stories. And as it turned out, I was right.

When my husband and I began planning our trip, we decided to do so along the lines suggested by Rick Steves, whose PBS show we regularly watched. Rick, (as we came to call him), suggested that we just pack up our bags and head on over to Europe with simply a hotel reservation for the first night, and one for the last night, and that we then just kind of make the rest up as we went along. This kind of plan works great if you are like my husband, always calm and laid-back, always believing that things are going to work out just fine, and complete with your own highly-honed internal sense of direction.

HOWEVER: if you have, as I did, an as-yet-undiagnosed-yet-EXTREMELY-crippling anxiety disorder, this plan was pretty much the equivalent of agreeing to spend a lot of money to go and fall off the edge of the earth into the never-ending abyss of hell. Because the human mind is just incapable of dealing with all of the possible things that need to be worried about when you leave the safety and security of your home and JAUNT OFF TO EUROPE FOR TEN DAYS WITH NO PLAN.

But the worst thing that tormented me about this upcoming trip was the fact that Spanish and I had a deep, dark, and-to my mind, at least-very shameful secret, which was this: I had somehow managed to earn a Master’s Degree in Spanish without ever having stepped foot in a Spanish-speaking country. So ever since I received said degree I had been on my guard, waiting for my university and advisory committee to “find me out”, recognize their egregious error, track me down, and yank my diploma right out of my hands. Because clearly, never before, in the history of fakers, impostors, and shams, had there been a more horrible faker than me.

My husband, unfortunately, was unaware that he was living with such a flagrant impostor, and so was therefore counting on me to handle all of the communication responsibilities related to this trip.

And so, because I was so far along the path of this long con (I was currently teaching Spanish at a local community college, if you can even believe my cheek), it was too late for me to repent and therefore be absolved of this burdensome task of speaking to other people in the language in which I held a graduate degree. And so, HELLO, OVERWHELMING  PSYCHIC BURDEN BEFORE WE EVEN LEFT HOME.

Because, what if what I had learned in school was not actually Spanish? Or, what if they didn’t actually speak Spanish in Spain, and I had been lied to all these years? What if I had earned two degrees in something that wasn’t even real? What if, the second I opened my mouth in Spain, with the effrontery of trying to pass off my imaginary language as Spanish, I so offended the Spanish people that I was executed on the spot?

So I’m sure you can imagine the level of freaking-out I had already reached by the time my husband informed me that, on the following morning, I was going to have to call Spain and set up our first hotel reservation. And then on top of that, lucky dog that I am,  here was where my two worst nightmares were going to meet: my fear of talking on the phone; and the moment of truth where it would be revealed that, despite my alleged mastery of the subject, I could not actually speak a word of “real” Spanish.

Happily, the rest of the story is pretty anti-climactic; the phone call easily went through to Spain, it turned out that I actually was learning Spanish all those years (shocking, I know) so the hotel clerk was able to understand me with no problems at all, and I”m sure I was able to take a nap to make up for the eight hours I spent not sleeping the night before, while I rehearsed my script for the phone call over and over and over again.

But looking back, and realizing that this pattern is how I reacted to, conservatively speaking, every single thing that ever happened to me, I guess it’s not a surprise that now, in my thirties, my exhausted body has collapsed into fibromyalgia, most likely accompanied by chronic fatigue. Because I guess there are only so many thousands of times that you can whip your adrenals into preparing for a full-on crisis that actually turns out to be no big deal before they give you the finger, pop open a beer, and refuse to get off of the sofa ever again. (A moment that could possibly occur around the 4th day after you turn 35, in case you’re interested in any kind of “ballpark” figure.)

So I’m off to rest (which apparently is the next area in which I’m having to earn a Master’s Degree), and meanwhile,

Adiós, amigos. Espero que tengan un buen Día de Independencia.

Happy 13th anniversary to me and The Man! And here’s to many, many more!

Am now on 3 painkillers for 3 different kinds of pain, but *absolutely sure* I can participate in a 1.5 hr teleclass. Hello again, delusion.2:57 PM Jun 16^th

And lo, on the seventh day, the migraine ended. And God didst speak down a most special blessing upon all the chiropractors in the land.8:06 PM Jun 17^th

Today has consisted entirely of declaring things like, “Nope, sorry, no face-loving after you’ve just barfed all over my office floor.”3:48 PM Jun 22^nd

It’s days like this that make me feel really bad that my parents spent so much on my college education.3:49 PM Jun 22^nd

Cats are attempting to trap me w/in a perimeter of their own disgusting excretions. Believe attack is imminent. Send help!11:48 AM Jun 23^rd

Pip, I promise-I haven’t hidden any treasures at the bottom of my garbage can. You can let the trash go. 2:08 PM June 24^tt

Finding nothing to her taste in my trash can, Pip is now perusing the feline shopping mall, or, “the kitchen table” as we like to call it.2:09 PM Jun 24^th

“Turbines for your meat jet” #mostdisturbingspamheadlinesever 2:09 PM June 27

Back about eleven years ago, my husband and I took a trip to Spain. On our last day we took the overnight train from Granada to Madrid, where we were catching our flight home the following morning.

My husband and I were in our mid-twenties back then, just a couple of years out of grad school, so we were pretty much still in the “poor college student” mode when we took this trip, which meant that we booked ourselves into what I’m pretty sure was the eighty-seventh class compartment, which meant that we each had a bunk in a room that slept six people-and we were in the middle two bunks-which meant that we spent those eight hours in a space not unlike those prison cells they build where you can neither sit, stand, nor lie down.

But, I digress.

The two travellers sleeping above us were a guy and a girl from Ireland, and the two below us were from Columbia, and after I was able to calm down a little bit, because, OMG, CLAUSTROPHOBIA! AND STRANGERS! SLEEPING WITH ME! IN PRISON!, we all had a good time getting to know each other.

At what was apparently our officially designated bedtime, a railroad employee came by to turn out the lights in our cell compartment. And then, in one of those totally spontaneous, yet perfectly scripted moments, from the Europeans above us, and the Latin Americans below us came a chorus of, “Goodnight, John Boy.”

I bring this episode up now because I was reminded of it the other day by a conversation I overheard my husband having.

His cell phone rang, and when he answered it I heard a woman’s voice respond to his, “Hello?”

“Oh, hey,” he said, in the relaxed tone of someone speaking with a friend or a family member. “How are you doing?”

There was silence as he listened for a moment, and then I heard him retort, “Well, f*%# you!”

“Oh,” I said, as the light of realization dawned upon me. “It must be your sister.”

And it was. Just like it was up on Walton’s Mountain.

I really could have used something this the other day when I was hanging out on Twitter, and  received The Most Obnoxious Type Of Non-Porn Tweet In The Universe.

I had just tweeted this:

“After rigorous scientific testing, I’ve discovered that in addition to fibromyalgia, magical thinking is *also* unable to cure migraines.”

Because I was trying to be funny and make light of my situation. Because, you know, that’s what I do, that whole humor thing.

Which this obnoxious person would’ve known if they ever actually read my Twitter stream for what I had to say, instead of circling it like a pack of hungry vultures, waiting for the slightest mention of an illness, so that they could then swoop down and assault me with offers to buy their self-proclaimed “magical cures”, all the while inferring that, if I had just been smart enough to take advantage of their awesome cure-all in the first place, then I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this illness situation in the first place.

Specifically, this person responded by saying,

“@jennyryan72 How about a better posture and alignment, more oxygen in the blood, better breathing and having all your muscles relax.” And then she added a link to her website to try and get me to buy some stupid machine that she claims cures all pain. As if I would buy anything in the middle of a migraine except some exceptionally strong narcotics.

So the first part of my tattoo would have to say something like, “If you respond to my pain by giving me suggestions on how I should change my diet, how I should exercise, by inferring that this condition is in any way my own fault, or by trying to sell me something, then I will cut you. I will cut you deep.”

Because, don’t fucking TRY TO SELL ME SOMETHING when I am in the middle of excruciating pain. And DO NOT FUCKING TELL ME THAT MY PAIN IS MY OWN FAULT. Because then I will have no choice but to maim you in a seriously life-threatening way. Because you are clearly an insensitive asshole, and you clearly deserve it. Seriously, no jury in the land would convict me.

(And while we’re on the subject of the law: If, at any time, you are lying, contorted and almost naked, on a cold x-ray table, and you are having some kind of mystery liquid injected into your lady parts by a male doctor who is not, himself, currently in possession of  a uterus, and then, as you begin moaning and writhing about in pain, said doctor is stupid enough to say something like, “You may experience some cramping,” in a bored, detached tone of voice, not only should it be completely legal, there should actually be a law requiring you to jump up off of the table and strangle him with his own catheter.)

And speaking of doctors, last week I had to go and see my sleep doctor for my one-year follow-up appointment. I really hate going there because it is not close at all, and involves traveling on 3 separate highways, and then I’m only in there for about 5 minutes, and he pretty much spends the whole time typing on a computer and never looking at me, and tell me again why we can’t just do this over the phone? And apparently I wasn’t paying attention when I scheduled the appointment, because it was first thing in the morning, which meant that I had to do all of this in Atlanta’s rush hour traffic.

So I was kind of already in a bad mood when I got there, and unfortunately, it only got worse.

I had to fill out one of those forms where you tell the doctor everything that’s happened to you since the last time you were there. So of course I had to write a small novel explaining all about the fibromyalgia, and the high blood pressure, and all of my mental health stuff.

So he dutifully recorded all of that in his faithful computer, and then he said, clearly not having actually paid any attention whatsoever to what I just said, “So, are you having any other health problems?” And I was like, “Seriously?!” I don’t think I actually said anything out loud, but he must have felt the white-hot heat of my gaze boring into the back of his head, because he quickly added, “Not that this isn’t a lot.”

So then he came over to like, shine a light up my nose or something lovely like that, and then he said, because this is all he ever says, because he sucks like that, “Well, you know, weight loss would help.”

And I was devastated, because, hello, I’M DOING THE BEST I CAN! I KIND OF HAVE A LOT ON MY PLATE RIGHT NOW, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T NOTICE. AND JUST THE FACT THAT I SHOW UP EVERY DAY TO MY LIFE WITHOUT RUNNING DOWN THE STREET, TEARING OUT MY HAIR, RIPPING OFF MY CLOTHES, AND THROWING MYSELF IN FRONT OF A BUS IS A FUCKING MIRACLE.

So clearly the second part of my tattoo would have to warn others, “And if I ever see your lips even thinking about moving in the direction of forming the words ‘weight loss’, I will kill you where you stand.”

And, even though I really like him, and he’s helped me so much, I’m still kind of upset from the last time I went to see my fibro doctor.

I had just entered into a new pain cycle after a couple of weeks with no pain, and so he asked me if I thought anything in particular had triggered my pain, to which I replied that part of it was my cycle, part of it was a recent weather front that had brought with it some massive thunderstorms, and part of it was just everyday life stuff.

So, I know he wants to be helpful, but sometimes he’s really not. Because his advice was something like, “Well, you really need to figure out how to keep having more good days, so that maybe you can start getting off of some of these medicines.”

And I thought, “Oh, sure, I’ll get right on that. Because you know I have the power to control the weather. Because, I’m actually God in disguise-you caught me!”

And also, what is it with everyone and their fucking dog telling me I need to get off all these medications? Like I just woke up one day and thought, “Hey, I’m tired of chocolate, so I think I’ll start taking eleventy billion different prescriptions instead. OH, ME LOVE PILLS, NOM, NOM, NOM!” Seriously, people: I’m on these medicines because I need them. SO PLEASE  BACK OFF.

Although yes, you are correct, they do have some side effects. And do you know the most serious side effect I experience when I take my pain medicine? I believe it’s something called, “IT RELIEVES MY FUCKING PAIN!”

Truly, it is kind of a miracle that I have not actually committed any violence yet, because Lord knows I’ve had good reason to. I mentioned this to my husband the other day and he said, “Well, I’m glad you haven’t. Because I’d hate to have to visit you in prison.”

“I know,” I replied.  “Prison would not be kind to me.”

Although I’m pretty sure I could get some really good help in there with this whole tattoo thing.

A few months ago the big cat was diagnosed with an overactive thyroid, so we’ve been having to give her thyroid medicine twice a day. This afternoon as we were working on our monthly budget, my husband decided to do some research to see if we could get her pills cheaper online.

He found the information he was looking for, and then decided to see what else they had to offer.

“Hey, look!” he exclaimed after a moment, and I glanced up to see a picture of one of my prescriptions displayed on the screen.

“Dude,” I said, “I don’t care how cheap it is, I AM NOT BUYING MY FIBROMYAGLIA MEDICINE FROM PETMEDS.COM!”

“Oh,” I thought. “Since I’m not going to the store with him, I’ll need to find a notebook so that I can show him which size I want him to buy me.”

And then I realized that, if I already have one around here to use as an example, then maybe I don’t actually need a new one.

So then I did a little searching, and here is what I came up with, WITHOUT EVEN HAVING TO LEAVE MY CHAIR.

The first step is admitting that you have a problem, right?

Dear irritating little man in front of me at the drug store, holding up a line of 8 people waiting to check out because, BY GOD, you were not leaving that store without your inalienable AARP right to $0.03 off of a $2.00 can of mixed nuts:

When you turned to the rest of us and pretended to be sorry for holding us up, as you caught my gaze, the young woman in line behind you who was obviously in agonizing pain, and who was there to purchase a cane, did your entire life flash in front of your eyes? Because it did for me.

I hope you go back to that store and thank the lady at the photo counter for opening up a second check-out line. She is the sole reason that you continue to be alive today.

Go here to find out.

(This will open a PDF document.)