Oh, I just have so many things to tell you I cannot even know where to start.
Yesterday could not have been better unless Jude Law had shown up somewhere in there with a McGriddle.
I guess first I will stampede to the punchline. If you read yesterday, you know I went to the headache clinic in order to talk to a neurologist about my Topamax because it is making me stupid. The reason I know it is making me stupid is because, among other things, I failed a proofreading test. Last month I applied for a freelance proofreading job with this fancy New York publishing company and they sent me a proofreading test, and having been a proofreader for 13 years, I have taken those a million times, and I took it and sent it in and they said, "Okay, if you passed, you'll hear from us this afternoon" and I was all "Pfft, if I passed" and then I never heard from them that afternoon.
Oh, I was devastated.
So I spent all morning yesterday at the headache clinic having 2384839 tests, which I will tell you about in a second, but when I got home yesterday there was an email from the fancy New York publishing company.
"Dear June," it read. "A month ago we sent you a W2 and an independent contractor's form because we were so impressed with your proofreading test. Why the heck aren't you answering us?"
You guys. I COMBED through my spam, and I had no idea how large I could make my penis, and they NEVER sent me that note or those forms. They had attached the original note, and I saw that the person who wrote me a month ago had the same first name and phone extension but a different last name now, so I wonder if she got married this month and got all flustered and in fact did NOT send me the original email.
Well, I mean, she DIDN'T send me the original email, but I wonder if that was why. Anyway, I do not care. The point is, I am not an idiot! Well. As much as I had thought, anyway.
So back to my neurologist.
Oh, it was fun. They did an EKG, and range of motion tests which apparently I have very little of but who cares? Why do I need a range? And they did blood work and tests to see if I have a brain tumor and they asked me 23858494028584 questions about my migraines.
I had the best time. I love medical tests.
Anyway after it was all said and done the doctor told me I have migraines. Did you know that? But here it the best part. He said I have a
delicate brain.
Isn't that lovely? Don't you picture my brain being made of the finest porcelain, and inside of it are the rarest butterflies? A delicate brain.
He changed my medication, and I am getting a drug that is a lot like Topamax and still causes weight loss (!!!!) but makes you less stupid. Also, I have to change my diet.
Sigh.
I came home and showed Marvin my diet and he said, "Geez, what CAN you eat?"
"Lettuce and chicken," I said. Honest to God, if you look at that list, it seems like all I can eat is lettuce and chicken. Fresh chicken. Oh, I can have some fruit, as long as it isn't bananas or citrus or dried fruit or blackberries or I forget what else.
And here is the worst part. Are you ready for the worst part?
I have to give up coffee. My delicate brain cannot take coffee.
NOOOOOOOOOOOO! DEAR GOD, the humanity!
He said I can wean myself, and from now on I can have it at special occasions only, like once a year. Like at Christmas, he said, or at black tie functions. That's what he said. You know how often you find me at those black tie functions.
Give up coffee. Or keep my migraines. This is like Sophie's Choice. Only it's Taster's Choice.
Anyway, after my appointment I had lunch with some friends and I spoke only of my delicate brain until no one liked me anymore. "No, no more for me. My delicate brain is full." "Oh, I'd pass the salt, but you know. My delicate brain."
Then I went to the hair salon. And you GUYS. This is where it gets otherworldly. It was the best day ever.
I went to the back room, there, and they have these kind of window seats where people get pedicures. There was a large man back there getting his toes painted. Having lived in LA, this did not faze me much, but the part where the man's eyebrows were waxed within an inch of his life made me look at him.
When he left, I asked the crowd, which was all male, "Was that Big Shirley from Drag Queen Bingo?"
"It sure was," said the guy who had done his nails.
"I had a celebrity sighting!" I said, my roots all atwitter. I told the room how much I love drag queens, and not 10 seconds passed before every man in the room, other than my straight hairdresser, was over by my chair with a cell phone.
Every man in there was a drag queen, and they all had photos to show me of them in drag.
Oh! They were all so beautiful! Naturally I had to tell them of my dream to be a drag queen, myself. "Well, honey, I'm having a Fifi contest July 11," Angelica Dust told me.
A Fifi contest?
Turns out a Fifi contest is where women dress as drag queens. And Miss Angelica Dust has offered to help me with my makeup and hair because I AM IN! Me and my delicate brain are so IN THIS CONTEST!
I am leaning toward the name Tyra Spanxx. What do you think? Isn't this exciting? What song should I do? I kind of want I Love the Nightlife. Oh, I could not sleep last night.
See? Dreams really can come true if you work for them. Or, you know, show up at your hair appointment. With your delicate brain.
