Monthly Archives: July 2016

Pokémon or IKEA product?

  2. WERNA
  4. LOTAD
  6. EKBY
  7. UTTER
  8. NUMEL
  10. HOPPIG
  12. INGO
  15. ODDA
  17. JOLTIK
  19. INKAY
  20. CILLA
  21. ROTOM
  23. BELDUM
  26. BLADIS
  28. HOPPIP
  29. TURBO
  31. ABRA
  32. CLEFFA
  33. NUTID
  34. JONILL
  35. EKANS
  36. KLEFKI
  39. SPARKA
  40. PAJMIX



Answers in comments

The Rev. Dr. Hon. Douche McBag, J.D., Esq.

Here’s a question for yas: If you have some kind of title associated with your profession/education, do you include it on things like your credit card, library card, return address labels, etc;? I’m torn on this.

When someone’s name pops up at work and it includes the “Dr.” in front of it, I immediately think this person is a pretentious asshat. Really, dude? You took the time to include that when you filled out your information? And then when I call them and they answer “This is Dr. Blah-de-Blah” and rage bells go off in my head and I think CHANGE YOUR OWN GOTDAM TIRE, DOUCHE-O-DOUCHEY.

Of course this person could be a perfectly sane, not pretentious, human person. I could be calling a number he gives out for work-related purposes. He could be just super-extra proud of his accomplishment (I think of everyone I know personally who’s got a PhD or been through medical/dental/vet/law school and how freaking ecstatic they – rightly – are once that degree was in their hands. Hell yeah, I’d be asking people to call me Doctor too, after years of torment!).

There’s not really a point to this. I’m just sort of expelling my own biases here.

All I ever do is write about doctors. Subtitle: wtf Janine?

Sometimes I feel like all I ever write about is going to the doctor. I think I could fill an entire book with essays on dental checkups.

Saw Eye Doctor today, and apparently this insurance kerfuffle is water under the bridge. Great. Maybe insurance isn’t the epitome of evil after all. Okay.

His office is in one of three Doctor’s Building(s) on the campus of a hospital that grows exponentially each time I visit (Brother, if you’re reading this you’d barely recognize the place). Everything is under perma-construction there (actually has there ever been a hospital not under perma-construction?). I think the hospital grew another parking garage and sprouted a Cancer Center while I was there.

I actually got a little lost trying to find the office (another side note: is there some kind of trend in architecture/construction where every doctor’s office building is just 492 miles of shittily-lit beige corridors? We can’t come up with something a little more inviting? This isn’t a place most people enjoy visiting. Come on). Thankfully, I found a point around which to orient myself:


Pepsi and Coke in the same machine? Wha?


This used to be the Coke machine where my Mom would purchase a soda for my brother if he behaved himself. I took this picture to send to him. Oh, memories.

Once I found the office (Brother, if you’re reading this: same eyeglasses on the wall! I would have taken a picture but there were 42 other people in the waiting room and I was self-conscious) and was seen to an exam room, a lady I’ll call Janine because that was her name started to go over my medical history.

The first thing she asks is if I have primary care physician. I tell her no. Okay, okay, I understand this is a thing that I should have. And that will be amended this summer, thanks to a friend who recommended hers to me (it was either that or eeny-meeny-miney-moe off of my insurance’s website. Until I can search by “not a douche” or “doesn’t make me feel like an idiot” I’ll take word-of-mouth recommendations for these things, thanks). Janine seemed confused and anxious that my answer was “no,” but she stopped wetting herself long enough to go through my medical history.

I’m not bragging – but hell, maybe once I actually see a doctor she’ll uncover dozens of problems I never knew I had – but I just don’t have much physically wrong with me. Even though I’d checked NO to 99.9% of the entries on the 83 page check-in form, Janine persisted. “Nothing? No trouble with your heart or breathing?” she asked.

What the fuck, Janine? Don’t you think I would have mentioned that? Yeah, I’m good. Except for that heart transplant last year. That was a thing that happened. Seriously, Janine. If you’re just looking for something to write on the form, wouldn’t you pick something a little less life-threatening?

“No skin problems?”

Again, Janine. No. I’m good.

“Nothing?” So incredulous. So much sadness in her eyes. I’ve hurt her. “No surgeries?”

Oh, well yeah. That’s the whole reason I’m here: a handful of eye surgeries when I was a toddler. A baby, really. We’re talking 30+ years ago. But she finally had a YES answer, and that really got Janine’s butter churnin’.

“Oh! Any other surgeries?” She’s practically licking her lips.

No. I mean, I had a hernia repaired when I was, like, 8 years old. But at this point I don’t want to give her anything else to get off on.

And Janine takes my file and scampers off in to the bowels of the office to paste my chart to the walls of her secret lair.


I’m not a quitter; I’m a realist.

…got a lot of mixed feelings about this one, folks. This morning I decided to withdraw from my current course.

I am:
Elated. For the next few weeks, there will be no more rushing home in order to turn assignments in by 1:59 am. I will be able to spend my free time not reading for un-pleasure or completing assignments. I will be able to work through my 30-minute lunch because I won’t have to spend every. spare. second. working on homework.

Disappointed. In myself. Obvs. Ya couldn’t even get one whole class in before you quit, huh? says the voice inside my head.

Angry. The deadline to withdraw with refund potential has passed. Argh.

Optimistic. As of right this very second, my intention is to pick back up when the next term starts again. I’ve honestly enjoyed what I’ve learned so far, and I genuinely look forward to applying myself when I retake the course.

Informed. Yeah, now I actually GET what this entails. The decision to enroll was initially pretty slapdash [though if I hadn’t bit that bullet right then and there I would have put it off for another year…or more] and because of this, I did not fully grasp how I’d need to more consciously organize my time. Part of my “problem” is my work schedule. Because I work an evening shift, I often feel like I have NO TIME to do ANYTHING. This is untrue, of course. I’ve been working on waking up earlier (going to bed earlier helps, ha) in order to have more time to be a functioning person before I need to leave for work at 3:00. By the time the next term starts back up again, I will have myself on a better sleep schedule.

Confident. The initial feedback I’ve gotten so far is that I will likely succeed in this once I, of course, apply myself. Shit that I’ve written at the last-minute has gotten positive peer and instructor comments (go fucking figure). Imagine what I can accomplish if I try!

Embarrassed. I guess this could also be filed under “disappointed.” Surely you don’t have that much going on that you can’t do this ONE OTHER THING, says the voice inside my head.

Shut up, voice.

Overall, I think I’ve the right decision for me. I know that no one else in this entire goddamn world cares that I’m withdrawing. In fact, I’m sure the university is salivating at the prospect of my next payment(s). Maybe withdraw from a few more after the refund deadline, Julie. You earned it, girl! 

This is a pause, not the end. And I’m okay with this.