Do we bring it on ourselves? Whatever gory mess is happening, have we wished for it in some way, created the gore?
Hellz no. DONE WITH THAT. I’ve heard those theories, and I am TURNING MY BACK ON YOU, THEORIES.
I have also heard stupid-ass theories that we are the other character in our dreams, or that our dreams have profound significance. HA! HA! I just had a dream that my next door neighbor was Steve Martin, and he had cancer. So I had to leave a screening of ‘American Idol’ (full of scary teenage BOYS), a screening that I never wanted to GO TO IN THE FIRST PLACE. I had to leave the show to go care for Steve Martin. But when I tried to LEAVE, the scary TEENAGE BOYS surrounded me and so I had to yell at them, “I HAVE TO GO TAKE CARE OF A MAN WITH CANCER!” Which worked, because even a teen boy with evil in his soul is no match for a woman begging to care for a MAN WITH CANCER!
And when I got there, to Steve Martin’s house, he had all this great FOOD that I wished I had in my refrigerator, and he was mocking the FOOD! So I ATE some. Stuffed some in my mouth when he wasn’t looking. Felt bad that I was STEALING FROM THE TERMINALLY ILL. But, dude, a tormented girl has got to EAT.
And when I went to straighten up his BEDSHEETS, Steve Martin pressed up behind me with a BIG OL’ STIFFIE, and I was all like, “Um, Steve Martin? You have cancer and a chubby, and if I gave into your lusty last wishes, I wouldn’t feel good about myself, because I see that you have a COLLECTION OF EARRINGS FROM YOUR PAST CONQUESTS.”
And then Steve Martin was all like, “Oh, you got me there,” and then beautiful women started STREAMING THROUGH THE DOOR WITH FABULOUS CAKES for him and rendered me virtually INVISIBLE. Until I told them they had to LEAVE, because Steve Martin was about to DROP DEAD and it was my job to usher the dirty deathbomb into his nicely made BED. At which point, he tried to have SEX with a few of them, but they DECLINED because I had called him a DIRTY DEATHBOMB, and even star-f*ckers know better than to drop down that manhole.
So I put Steve Martin to deathbed. And he sighed patiently, WAITING. I crawled into bed with him and told him I wouldn’t have sex with him while we WAITED FOR HIM TO DIE. Because he would only DUMP MY SORRY ASS before he made it to St. Peter’s Gate, where he’d hook up with a flight attendant. I told him I wanted to be SPECIAL. Steve Martin understood this. So we just waited. And waited. And waited.
When I woke up, he still hadn’t died yet.
As you can clearly see, there is NO SIGNIFICANCE WHATSOEVER in a dream like THAT.
That was my digression.
I meant to say: There is something wrong with my digestion, a word that looks a lot like ‘digression.’
I had to go to the ER, but not because I was CUCKOO! But because I doubled over with stomach pain last week, out of nowhere, and I was pretty sure Steve Martin was in the other room smoothing my sheets.
ER. Big ol’ nightmare! They pulled out the IVs, people. You KNOW how I feel about IVs. I tried to be a sport, but then they told me I had little girl veins, so I became a little girl and started bawling my eyes out, because they couldn’t get one started. Then they made me drink lidocain and sparkly unicorn pee so they could see my insides during a CT scan. They injected IODINE into my IV to see if I would explode!
It is almost better to be cuckoo.
I have an ultrasound on Friday. An early birthday present. I wish it were for a baby, and not to see if I have Steve Martin’s tumor living in the base of my esophagus.
They say not-quite stomach ulcer, not-quite gallstone, not-quite good, and oh, by the way, is there a history of stomach cancer in the family?
They don’t know what I have. It’s not presenting clearly. Rather like myself.
Had another attack yesterday. Felt like Steve Martin’s cake knife was slicing through my stomach and back. Damn you, Steve Martin! Go into the light! Go into the light!
Anyway. This is the last straw. No, that WAS the last straw. I no longer believe I am bringing this CRAP on myself. It is a run of terrible luck that is now reaching comic proportions (I would have said, thus, Steve Martin, a comedian! Or: I obviously can’t STOMACH something. But now I am an anarchist and I don’t believe in anything).
But I AM NOT TO BLAME FOR ANYTHING ANYMORE.
THAT IS ALL. I’ll keep you posted.
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Girl, I am so sorry for your suffering, but this?
“Damn you, Steve Martin! Go into the light! Go into the light!”
Made my face turn red with the restraining of the laughter in the workplace! (No place for laughter!)
I hope you feel better and have no more attacks!
Hi Jenn. I hope it’ll all turn out to be nothing major. Could be an ulcer or something but not cancer.
That said, your luck does indeed seem to be pretty crappy. BUT! I personally know a woman who has had the following happen to her (so it’s not hearsay, I KNOW for a fact this happened to her):\
When she was happily married in her 30s to a man she loved a had 4 (!) kids with, what should happen but the husband dropped dead. Heart attack or something. Only then did she find out his business was a sorry mess and they were in major debt. He left her nothing but debt as a matter of fact. While she was processing all this she was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy followed by a gruelling regimen of chemo & radiation.
That was some 25+ years ago. Today she is fine, happily (recently) married and healthy.
Just goes to show that crap does indeed happen to good people but it’s possible to survive it. I wish I knew how she did it.
I’m voting for gall bladder trouble. Gall bladders are notorious for not presenting clearly but causing amazing pain. I had gall grit rather than stones so they didn’t show up on scans. You can do a check for this yourself by waiting until you feel fine and then eating something LOADED with fat ( I recommend a pint or two of Ben & Jerry’s Double Fudge Brownie ice cream). If it’s your gall bladder that is causing you grief, you’ll probably get an attack of the pain afterwards as your gall bladder starts contracting and releasing bile.
If only all medical tests could be performed by eating ice cream.
Oh, and Steve Martin? That’s just plain weird. If I ever catch him hanging around, I’m calling 911 just in case.
You are so brilliant. I am going to be yelling “Damn you, Steve Martin! Go into the light! Go into the light!” all day. Also, stomach thing? Sucks. Praying it is easily fixable.
Oh girly, the shit that has rained down upon you. I’m so sorry. I too do not buy the theory “we bring it on ourselves.” That is a very large load of poo. As for Steve Martin, go to the light already. At least in Jenn’s dreams.
Awesome, crazy dream but you GOT it — no WAY you’re bringing the poo on yourself! Sending healing belly thoughts…
Yeah, it’s just life, happening. “You brought it on yourself” is in the same category as “Do what you love and the money will follow.” (Some loves pay more than others, THAT’S for damn sure!) It feels good to call BS, doesn’t it??? xoxox
Holy hell Jenn, I don’t even know how to respond to this circumstance you now find yourself in. If I’m this exasperated at this turn of events…I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling!
I was still comtemplating your spirit guide post from yesterday. Can spirit guides change that fas, from Moose to Turtle to Deer? I’m not familiar with the process, but my curiousity is now peeked at the thought. Are turtles or deer known for guiding one through stomach issues??
If I get my hands on whoever is playing these cosmic games on you…Steve Martin or whoever…I’m going to throttle him into the light myself. And I know I’d have a lot of help.
Please keep us updated on what you find out. Sending you strength as always.
You were never to blame hon.
Come on Friday! Let’s get this shit out of the way so you can move on with your life. Your luck is about to turn around. I can feel it.
You are definitely not to blame for the bad things that happen in your life. Some people are, because I cannot argue against the fact that making bad choices will bring you bad things (I am counting on that lessen to sit with my children sometime before they turn 18.). However, the kind of bad stuff happening to you is NOT your doing. No way. It’s no more your fault than my father losing his second wife to breast cancer this past weekend was his fault. It’s all just some kind of cosmic joke. Only nobody can laugh about these things.
I’ll be thinking of you. I’m anxious to hear the resolution to this chapter.
The only thing you are to blame for is the puddle under my chair. Well, you and the four kids I pushed outta there.
I have done that verysame gall bladder test as suggested by BadKitty and my gall bladder is playing fuckfuck with me, too. But it was an awesome pint of Ben and Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Cookie. Oh yes, yes, yes it was.
Hang in there. Everything clears up if you drink enough sparkly unicorn pee.
Yeah… those teenage boys with the IVs? There’s something you’re not telling us here, Jenn. Something darker and more insidious that you, even now in your “look at me I’m a bi-polar bear” cookiness phase, hesitate to admit.
But I suspect. And I suspect that I suspect correctly.
Those teenage boys in your dream? They were riding swans, weren’t they?
(I’m right. I know I’m right.)
My goodness, steve martin, IV’s, stabbing pain, this is all too much. Bring back the slow turtle, the muscular moose. Anyway, all we know for sure is: it sho aint your fault girl.
WOW. Never a dull moment. Hope your ilness gets figured out and treated quickly, so you can move forward with the knowledge that NONE OF THIS IS YOUR FAULT. Very freeing revelation that.
I have a hard time feeling badly for you when I’m laughing my ass off.
xoxo, my snooger booger…
(also? I tend to copy my comment before I hit submit, just in case the fr***gin security code effs it.)
Sending you healing thoughts and a bat with which to thwack Steve Martin if he gets fresh again (Sorry, Steve Martin).
What are you, Job? Or Jobette?
OY.
She is actually Job Less and I will be too in another couple weeks.
Are we having fun yet?
Unexplained stomach mysteries are pure hell! It may turn out to be IBS, which is a bitch but not cancer. Holding my thumb for you, the one that is not hitting the space bar, that is.
And that is one amazing dream. If you have it again, maybe you should take him up on it.
seriously, jenn, one of the funniest things you’ve ever written. to think, you are brilliant, still, even through your tummy pain. get better soon, woman. love from your LA fan.
Good grief!
Sending hugs and positive vibes your way immediately, then I’m heading out to buy peanut butter cup Ice cream for my gallbladder.
Jenn, Oy, what a crap hand you’ve been dealt lately. Where’s your wild card? The one that you just show the dealer and say “Ha! Not today, sucka!”
Feel better! Keeping my fingers crossed for you for Friday.
I’m so sorry you are in pain and scared… but FUNNY. Also feisty, which is nice. So, yeah – boo, potential serious internal illness! But yay, “get the hell out of my face bad stuff” attitude.
I have IBS. It’s crap, but it hasn’t killed me yet. And the best part was my doctor smiling his reassuring smile and saying “some people actually feel a lot better just by getting diagnosed” – which is doctorspeak for “it’s all in your head, get over it”.
Hope you feel better soon. XX
I’ve heard that moose meat is good for digestive issues.
Ahem…
Roooo
sparkly unicorn pee, pamela??? love it!
I hope it’s nothing, Jenn – feel better soon. Once again from the peanut gallery…you are an amazing writer, beautiful woman and force to be reckoned with…hang in there!
Aw shit. Is it gallbladder? It sounds like it, but I thought I was having gallbladder attacks, and my doctor tried to tell me she thought it was simply my stomach PUSHING BACK THROUGH MY ESOPHAGUS, ABOVE MY DIAPHRAM, oh THAT is a lovely visual, and makes me feel oh-so much better, thank you very much.
Keep us posted hon. Hope you feel better.
Also? Used to have a crush on steve martin as a kid, but not sure I would be impressed with his chubby now.