I’ve been off in the real world where fevers and headaches abound. Yesterday was probably like one of my top 10 worst days ever. I’d had a migraine for five days. I wish I had known this when I scheduled my appointment 2 months ago, that these two monstrosities would converge on a single day and ruin me.

I called my vadge vag doctor for some unbaby-makers but I was unhappy to find out that I would have to come in for an appointment because blah blah blah.

I got to my appointment miserable, walked in miserable, sat down miserable and tried to ignore babies miserable. I was taken back and given an examination gown. But wait?! Why do I need a gown, I just need birth control! The internet school medical assistant said the doctor was just going to examine me quickly. In all my pain and mental fogginess I accepted this as an explanation that held any sort of meaning. I put on the gown and waited for 45 minutes, miserable, before the doctor came in.

She finally entered, shit was shot and, Oh my god, how am I getting a pap smear?! I just want birth control. You can feel my ovaries better through a rectal exam?! The whole time I couldn’t help but equate the situation to a rape of sorts. She wanted to see my hooha so she could bill insurance for the honor, even though I am not due for another 4 months. She probably doesn’t get the clams for a hi, how are you here’s some birth control visit. See what I did there, with clams?

Seriously though. No, seeeeeriously though. Just imagine what it was like. I was nursing a five day old migraine, then got mind warped into stirrups and the icing on the clam cake was the surprise rectal exam.

I called Mama Millionizer at work and the whole story was just too pathetic for her not to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to hang up.

Before the doctor left, she hugged me (bah!) and handed me half a Kleenex box to clean up with. The back of my head pulsed as I wiped off gobs of goo and could not think of anything more dehumanizing.

You need to know about The Long Goodbye, the band Michael Cera is in. People! MICHAEL CERA will sing to you if you let him. They’ve got a Moldy Peaches, Weezer, Dashboard Confessional* smooth (but not too smooth!), sweet indie sound. It’s very LA. But not LA trying to be the South like Rilo Kiley. It’s a good time in your ears and your undies, give it a shot. If not for me, then to hear George Michael be adorable and awkward.

(*In fact, their name could be from a DC lyric, just sayin)

I would so be a cougar for Michael Cera. I’m only five years older than him, so maybe I’m still in acceptable dating range and there need be no labels. Of course, both TBU and Michael would have to agree. But it really wouldn’t even be dating, it would be me plying him with strong drinks and keeping Ms. A far, far away.

Eat chips, sour cream and salsa all at once,
The Millionizer

It all started with our bathroom fan. Apparently, our use of it drives our upstairs neighbor to childhood. Seeing as we have no window in there or desire to harvest bathroom mold we continued using it like regular, rational people. At first, we couldn’t figure out why she was stomping and blaring her tv. When I say stomping, I mean there was cracking in our ceiling. We started calling her fatty, because we figured her weight was the cause of the ceiling noise and because we had grown to despise her existence. TBU tells people she’s 400 pounds but it’s closer to something like 300. Regardless, the common stairs she uses had to be reinforced after she loosened several steps and pulled the base away from the wall. TBU and I took great delight in this news.

A few months, ago she complained to management that we used our bathroom fan too much. And management had the nerve to call us and tell us not to use it if we didn’t need it. Remember this? Yeah, we need it. While we had them on the phone, we complained about her noise level, and you know what their response was? “THAT’S PART OF APARTMENT LIVING.” Why didn’t they just say that to Whiny McNeverLeavestheHouse?! I don’t know but I was pissed.

Our landlord already thinks I’m crazy unreasonable* so in an effort to appease me he said would get us a “silent” fan and hoped it would take care of the problem; but asked us not to use the fan until he installed the new one. After a week of not being able to use our regular cieling fan, our brand spanking new, taking care of business, “silent” fan was installed. And everything was reasonably quiet. Until fatty got home.

(* So crazy unreasonable as to be pissed when the handyman crushed all my plants that were out front, then left razorblades, rusty nails and cigarette butts in our entry way. Landlords response? “They’ll grow back,” and “Yeah he’s not the tidiest person, that’s why I’m here to clean up after him.” This was 5 days after the handyman was gone, and the landlord didn’t clean up shit, I wound up collecting all the trash later.)

There was no satisfying her. She was back to stomping and blaring her embarrassing taste in pop culture. We responded in kind. Actually, TBU resonded in kind. I prefer not having the bass determine my heart beat. MY stealth move was to leave the fan on and wear headphones. Eventually she would get out of breath from all the stomping and just blare the tv, which was easier to mask anyway. Then she would go to bed around 10. This has been our fairly consistent routine for the past few months.

I got out of the shower today and had had enough. It’s total fucking bullshit. I spent 3 hours psyching myself up for the confrontation. I planned on being very, very nice. Like so nice, it would be impossible not to see my point of view. Like so nice she would not want to ever upset me because I was so nice. Like so nice she would just shut the fuck up already. I prepared a speech with TBU’s help and opened the front door a bunch of times like I was going to do it but just couldn’t start walking up the steps. I called TBU and he said a bunch of shit that’s easy to say when you’re not the one about to climb a flight of stairs and knock on a door.

I practiced the speech and then I just did it. I climbed the stairs and knocked on her door.

And knocked again, this time louder.

And one more time, even louder.

Nothing.

It’s not like she’s fooling me, I know she’s there. I’ve heard her tree trunk legs all morning, Natalie Imbruglia was so loud I actually sang along to it. I waited, flipped off the peephole and walked back downstairs.

So much for being nice.

Funny thing is she’s been near silent since I went up there this morning. Granted the fan’s not on, but she’s quieter than normal. I can hear her walking, but it’s normal walking, not her usual wants-to-embarrass-herself-by-breaking-through-the ceiling, stomping. If I had known that all I had to do was knock on her door a couple times I would have done it a long time ago. It may have helped that while I was talking to her next-door neighbor (who we’re friendly with) I slipped in, “Yeah it would suck to have to get the landlord involved.” Now I know she’s complete chicken shit and thought no one was going to call her on being a fucking 6 year old. So if she reacts poorly the next time I take a shower, I’ll just knock on her door. Problem solved.