1. I saw the gastroenterologist and he wants me to swallow the magical robot camera that travels through you taking pictures and transmitting them wirelessly to
Big Pharma the government the Illuminati the doctor’s office so they can see EVERY BIT of my lovely, photogenic intestines. And especially that pesky, ulcerated ileum that may be causing the (sporadic, dramatic) trouble. Looks like I get the Joan Didion treatment after all! They are going to call me with more details, but it sounds like you go swallow the pill-cam in front of the docs in the morning, put on your Big Brother-esque tracking vest, and go about your day with the unsettling knowledge that you are being spied on from the inside. Supposedly you can go to work while all this is happening, assuming you don’t work in a coal mine or as a professional wrestler, but I may take a personal day just for the sheer amazing mindfuck of it all. I can stay home, daydream about the fantastic voyage of little robot pill cam, drink disgusting “clear liquids,” and fret about security protocols and such. Hacker-terrorists could conceivably intercept my intestine photos! Threat Level: ME!
2. A special thank-you to those who took time to write or tweet me regarding my anxious brain. I appreciated every type of response, but especially those from people who had previously felt as I do but don’t anymore. There is something kind of amazing and unbelievable about that, because one of the hallmarks of this problem (at least for me) is to adjust to the new normal like the apocryphal frog in the gradually heating water—I always think, “oh whatever you big baby/everyone feels like this/it’s a part of the modern human condition/panic and obsession are pretty much a reasonable response to this toilet earth.” Because of this it was an eye-opener to hear from folks who said, “Nuh-uh sister, get this: I don’t feel like that anymore and everything is a lot easier.” Wow. Really. Wow.
3. I’m going to start referring to those hideous quilted purses as “bonerkillers.” Not that regular purses should give anyone a boner—you’re pretty hard up for boners if you’re sproinging one over any handbag, if you ask me. But man, those things. Run in the other direction, lesbians and heterosexual dudes, when you see someone carrying a quilted floral bag. Likewise those purses that are actually baskets, which I think may be sold through some scamtastic “home-based” “party” scheme. I am not sure since I automatically delete emails like that. Come to my house and buy some crap! Man that’s not a party, that’s a mugging. Only more depressing.
4. The post office gives the longest receipts I have ever seen. I know the main reason the USPS is perpetually broke is that mailing things sucks and most people don’t do it anymore, but they may want to look into not giving me two feet of receipt paper every time I go spend three bucks mailing a Bookmooch book.
5. Speaking of, I have had some weird experiences with that site lately. The first was when I mooched a book for Nora, the giver wrote to me and said, “I also have 27 other copies of this book. Are you interested?” What? The other was much funnier because it involved a shouty all-caps man essentially self-destructing. He requested a book of mine, I had a crazy week and did not get it out, and he emailed me “reminders” pretty much every day saying things like “I NEED THIS BOOK IMMEDIATELY” and “PLEASE SEND QUICKLY.” I responded (twice) with a promise to send shortly, and a gentle suggestion that a website where people essentially trade books for free, and arrange for/pay for shipping themselves, may not be the best place to obtain something you need right away. But “Alex” wasn’t having any of that. On Friday he said, “IF YOU DO NOT MAIL THIS BOOK BY SATURDAY I SHALL CANCEL!!!!!!” To which I pretty much had to say well, knock yourself out my shouty friend. Because I ain’t going to the post office on a Saturday. (Don’t you love the use of “shall,” though? In my head Alex is an excitable 18th-century fop wearing breeches and a wig.)
—mimi smartypants got what she paid for.