Pop Rocks and Hospital Wings

The Artist Formerly Known as Chemo Boy and I met with Dr. W today. Before the nurse stuck us in the room, she did his usual weigh and measure. Since midway through chemo, as soon as his lungs were back to a functional capacity, his blood pressure had been back to its usual healthy range – typically somewhere around 114-119 over 70-80.

Not today.

Although his blood work all looked great, my typically Zen-like husband’s blood pressure was 138 over 87.

Seeing his elevated blood pressure tore through me, because I knew the reason, and it broke my heart that he’d fought so hard, Fucked Cancer in the Eye, to end up facing spiteful, purposeless hate that could cause this kind of stress for him.

Fortunately, our love is strong. We’ve freshly proven we endure a crisis like a mo’ fo’. If we need to break out another batch of bubble wrap, we will. And, we both have stellar models in our own parents of how to endure the decades. Between our two sets of parents, they’ve got over 90 years of marriage under their belts, and no divorce. So throw us those curve balls. (I’ll duck, cuz my hand-eye coordination sucks ass.) But I have a bitchin’ set of pompoms and a high-kick that’ll reach the moon. (That’s why he married me.)

Speaking of the parental units, my mother called today, offering her wisdom and support, as she updated me on my rockin' pop's status. For those of you praying for him, sending good vibes or juju – whatever you do best – his blood clots are still very slow in dissolving. The one in the lung did, in fact, pass through his heart. Yes, his heart. I nearly crapped a waffle when she told me. All this time we'd thought it had travled up his thigh to the lower lung and parked. Nope.

Sooooo....we’re feeling infinitely blessed that he is here with us, and able to laugh at our jokes, and make plenty of his own. No science on that one, just a flat out miracle. Way to call one in, Dad!

He still has a long recovery ahead, with an expected hospital stay of at least another 2 weeks. He’ll remain on blood thinners for 6 months or more, which means the knee injury (the cause of all this drama) will have to wait. The orthoped thinks it’s an ACL tear, but surgery can’t happen on blood thinners. (Not really anyone's main focus at this point, anyway.)

Again, thanks to all of you who’ve been praying and keeping our family in your thoughts. It means the world to us. We’re about done with the medical shit, either that or we need to work on getting a hospital wing named after us. Oh, wait. You need like a Cindy McCain boatload of money for that, huh?

If y’all buy Twitter Wit, maybe I’ll have a chance of raising enough to get a tree planted in our name. Or a flower. Maybe just trashcan to put next to the bathroom where the Artist Formerly Known as Chemo Boy used to pee the red stuff for 7 hour-shifts. I got my copy today, and I can assure you it is Teh Funniez!

Buy Twitter Wit so I can get a trashcan named after my family at the local hospital.

P.S. Bing’s right, I really do need a symbol for The Artist Formerly Known as Chemo Boy. @InSoOutSo? What say you, good man? Bueller? Bueller?

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Getting Rich One Poop Joke At A Time

Since my kids' educational IRAs have plummeted along with the rest of our investments, the only hope we really have of making a sudden mountain o' cash rests on a one-liner I have featured in Nick Douglas' book, Twitter Wit, which came out today.

51FY3K0QNXL._SL160_ Whether you're looking for something to read on the shitter, stuff in your loved one's stocking, or give to that family member who needs to grow a sense of humor, Twitter Wit is the book for you. With over 600 witticisms of 140 characters or fewer (I can't say "less" I just can't), there's sure to be something to please even that ol' codger down at the Five and Dime.

Plus, who doesn't want the opportunity to knock Glenn Beck's ass off the New York Times Best Seller List this week? Huh? That should be incentive, enough. (Sorry, Dad, I know you love the guy, but you love me more.)

So, hop to it kids. Grab your copies of Twitter Wit. For the price of a slab of meat, you can be the proud owner of your very own pet Twitter Wit.

Not sure who needs a copy of Twitter Wit? Let me help you out:

  • your shrink
  • Johnny's kindergarten teacher
  • your hairdresser
  • the hobo on Market St., okay ALL the hobos
  • librarians
  • the bus driver (to read while he's NOT driving, duh!)
  • your barista
  • your boss (but just slip it into the ol' office mail anonymously)
  • the staff lounge
  • the office shitter
  • the receptionist who puts up with greeting your cranky ass every day
  • the pizza delivery dude
  • the WalMart greeter
  • anyone hooked up to an IV
  • anyone with something stuck up their butt involuntarily
  • bald people
  • people who need to get laid
  • people in chronic pain (trust me, it makes us cranky)
  • caregivers
  • the terminally ill
  • your mama
  • hos, but not pimps. pimps are assholes.
  • anyone working for The Man
  • Santa (leave it out with a beer and salami sandwich)
Smooches, pooches!

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