I’m back on the pill! Finally — after weathering the awesomely gory second date; and a dinner party spent almost entirely in the bathroom (after excusing myself for I think the tenth time, I’m pretty sure my reputation among my parents’ friends as a megajunkie has been sealed forever, because what possible other reason could there be for needing a bathroom on such a tight loop?); and a morning trapped in a Humboldt outhouse by a blood scent-frenzied pit-mix dog intent on throwing and throwing its entire body against the door propped closed by nothing but my toe; and, just last week during my trip to Austin (pics and blow-by-blows coming soon), having to detour a carload of people mid bar-crawl to go hunting down an inconvenience store so I could spend over twenty dollars on lady hygienics after burning through my evening’s arsenal of eight super-sized tampons and two maxipads in under an hour — I decided it was time once again to see if they’ve managed to invent a pill that controls the gushing yet doesn’t make me bat-shit crazy.
The fact that I’m facing a dramatic shift in my healthcare situation — Cobra costs $300+ a month? — also played a big part in my decision to finally hook myself up with a prescription, and I took full advantage of my appointment. My awesome and cute nurse practitioner and I spent like an hour debating the best pill for me to try next, and we settled on, wait let me go get the discreet and handsome blue plastic pill folder, okay “desogestrel and ethinyl estradiol.” We picked it because of its acne-busting claims and, more importantly, because it can be taken in three-month stints, meaning I’ll be getting my period a scant FOUR TIMES A YEAR! “I think your body’s been through enough bleeding for a lifetime, don’t you?” said she.
Not only will I save serious bank, what with forgoing the truck-loads of super-extreme elephant tampons and adult diapers every month, but hopefully I’ll also get past the whole lingering anemia problem, finally. And no more trails of blood! That and beautiful, beautiful Canadian-clear skin.
So yeah, lots of plus sides. But! Holy shit do I feel nuts. I’m on my third week of this new round of hormonal trickery, and I feel like I’m living with the very worst and longest PMS ever. My gut is perma-wrenched, my parts are distracted by the chronic hint of an UTI, my tits are tender and swollen — all my bras fit tight and funny, giving me that hayseed, four-boob effect. And my emotions are hair-triggered, oh man. I’m crying over everything on television, Queer Eye and car insurance commercials. The very slightest infraction — I can’t find the phone! Where is the PHONE? How could this HAPPEN TO ME!!? — makes me lose my temper. And once it’s lost, it’s really, really hard to find again, my temper. Especially with Marbles shitting in the bathtub again today, what the hee HAW?
Also my skin? It’s TERRIBLE! More throbbing, painful, just-under-the-skin boils than ever, never before! What? Isn’t that exactly what this pill is supposed to prevent. WHAT?
Theoretically it takes three whole months for a body to adjust to a pill, which means that I have to hold on and see if my keel is going to even out before I ixnay the desogestrel and ethinyl estradiol. So daunting! Though I do actually feel better today than I have this whole few weeks, so maybe the sun is breaking through?
In the meantime, I’ll be here, hiding out in my apartment, eating sub-average cookies (pill-poisoned Evany is a wretched baker) and watching oceans and oceans television (I actually sat all the way through Call Me: The Heidi Fleiss Story last night, oh my god, Shitstorm, USA).
I have, however, found a few, select reasons to leave the house. Stage two of “project get as much as possible out of big-dollar healthcare before switching to some freaky back-alley HMO” was a complete mole check. The doctor strapped on the insectile magnifying goggles favored by micro-surgeons and scrutinized every last inch of my body, which sounds plenty sexier than it really was. When he got to my face, he had to take a step back to make room for the enormity of my boils. I hastened to blame them all on the pill (and not, I don’t know, too much chocolate or masturbation or some other factor within my immediate control) and he was all, “I sure am glad I’m not a girl!” Right on, sister.
When he got to my back and the odd crop of “skin tab” moles I like to keep there, he said, “Oh, I don’t like the look of these,” and started snapping on the rubber gloves. “We’re going to have to just slice those off.” “What, now?” I asked. “Sure!”
And before I really had the chance to voice the rushed, panicked feeling welling up in me — I hadn’t even had any coffee yet! — he shot me up with novocaine, sawed and sawed, then cauterized three different moles in under ten minutes.
The whole process left me with a really woozy feeling, like I’d just given blood … the saw-saw-sawing part, especially, it was so off-puttingly hyper-corporeal. Creepy, creepy!
When it was over, he said, “There! That wasn’t too bad! You hardly screamed at all!” (I had been eerily silent throughout the whole thing, concentrating as I was on not fainting or spraying.) I think that’s the adieu I’m going to use at the end of all future job interviews. (Dude, what job interviews? Yeah, no idea what’s next, career-wise, oops.)
Oh but the doctor called me yesterday and apparently all three of the worrisomely colored little nuggets are benign. So that’s good.
I’ve also started with the volunteering at 826 Valencia, doing drop-in tutoring one day a week. Kids of all ages are welcome, but it was mostly grade-school kids when I was there, and oh man are they bananas. Funny and smart, but completely exhausting. And wily! One girl, in an attempt to focus my attention away from her homework, was all, “do you have a boyfriend?” I said, “You know what? Let’s concentrate on getting this page done!” And she was all, “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Then she started tearing off pieces of her homework and popping them in her mouth.
My friend Kristin and I have been going on hikes, too, up and around Tilden over in the East Bay. It’s really pretty there, lots of hills and mud and cows.
And! I finally got my severence check, which is great and cute and a huge relief. Since it was happily juicy enough to not want to trust it to the ATM, I actually went IN to the bank to deposit it, which I haven’t done in, what, five years (aside, of course, from last month’s missing card freakout session? The receipt they printed for me was super awesome: After all the money info, it ended with, “We’re committed to supporting education. Thank you, Milton.” Actually, that’s how I’ll be ending all my (still complete fantasy) job interviews from now on.