Testing.

I wanted to go to the doctor today to get an official diagnosis for the mild case of dying I have. There's nowhere up here that takes my insurance. So I figured I would pay out of pocket at the local urgent care facility. But you can't just walk in to local urgent care facility. You have to have a primary care doctor at the local urgent care facility. So, I spent a half an hour on the phone with someone at the local urgent care facility making two appointments, one for the mild case of dying and one for "meet and greet" with my new primary care doctor whom I would pick from a list of names. To say I was making these appointments is not entirely accurate. She was asking me all the questions one normally answers on intake forms (why I couldn't just fill out intake forms when I got there is beyond me). At the end of that process she looked for an available appointment and offered Thursday. She could have saved us both the hassle and looked for an appointment before we started the mountains of paperwork. That way I would have known they weren't going to be able to see me until Thursday and we wouldn't have wasted all that time. Also, chances are that in the time it took us to do the fucking paperwork, the available appointments for today were being taken. It's Tuesday and I'm sick now. Obviously if I stay in bed and rest I'll get better eventually. The point is, I want to go to the doctor now and be better by Thursday, not stay in bed being useless til Thursday while Kurt runs around doing laundry and raising out child, and then be better by, like, Sunday.
Long and really fascinating story short, she put in a note with the triage nurses that I need to see someone sooner rather than later so I should be getting a call today.

(Update from today (the next day): I never got a call. I called them back this morning. The reason I never got a call is that she was supposed to schedule the "meet and greet" first. The triage nurse couldn't call me until I was an established patient. So, that's awesome.)

At any rate, here is a video of me and Monty (Don't try to correct my grammar. Look it up. It's already correct.) singing one line from Pompeii by Bastille over and over. In case you can't understand us (Which you most certainly can not because it's basically gibberish), the line is, "Grey clouds roll over the hills bringing darkness from above," however, Monty has shortened it to "Grey cloutrabdha!" He's basically a genius.

Weebly is seriously killing me. They updated their app, so now, when I try to add a picture to my blog the entire app shuts down. It's a really neat new feature.
I am sick with a mild case of dying. Kurt and Monty and my father have been out apple picking in beautiful fall weather and I'm stuck in bed not being able to swallow.
I dreamt I gave birth to a baby that was still in it's amniotic sac. I was carrying it around in the sac, looking for a doctor and It started to cry, so at least I knew it was alive, but I knew I needed to find a doctor to actually deliver it. Or figure out how to get it out of its own bag. Monty keeps watching Youtube videos of people opening little plastic eggs with toys in them. Maybe that's where that was coming from?

Anyway, here are some pictures. I gave Monty a terrible haircut. I'm really sorry, guys.Also, remember I said that I'm always the one ending up playing with whatever toys we take out to keep Monty occupied with? Here's my Caribbean beach scene made out of Play Doh.

Member that time yesterday when I posted a blog called "30 In 3o: Day Twelve. Part One?" That was actually an homage to Mel Brooks', "History of the World Part One". There never was supposed to be a second one. Joke's on you.
Maybe there was supposed to be a second part, but The Silence of the Lambs on TV and two glasses of wine thwarted my intentions. (P.S. I can quote that entire movie. Even after two glasses of wine.). But you know what they say, "The Road to Hell is Paved with Lazt Blog Writing."
There is something about being at the house upstate that makes me want to bake bread and make scones and milk cows. Tonight I made cookies, which is, like, kind of all those things combined. I mean, it's not at all, except I put chocolate chips, reese's pieces, AND mini marshmallows in them, so it's almost as if I made bread and scones and milked cows. I also made a tiny margherita pizza out of play-doh and built a bad-ass fire in the wood-burning stove thingy. So, I'm pretty much an olde time farm wife. Minus the wife part.
Jesus Christ. We're watching the Omen and I swear to god, Damien looks like a brown-haired, brown-eyed Monty.
Turns out the good thing about sending your agent writing at the end of the day on a Friday is that when you don't hear from her all weekend you can assume it's because it's the weekend. If you send her something on Monday and two days go by with no word you can be like, "Uh, yeah. She's dropping me." This way, you get to just be kind of uneasy all weekend.
I gave Monty a haircut and he looks like he belongs in one of those hospitals for the forgotten. YOU know what I mean. It's a good thing Hitler isn't around anymore because he for sure would be like, "ZAT child! Ze one with ze hair of an idiot! Put him in ze showers!" There is something definitely wrong with me.

I missed yesterday. I feel just awful about it. I'm so ashamed of myself. I don't even know how to live with myself anymore.
Although technically I'm calling it 30 in 30, so I don't have to post every day, I just have to post 30 blogs in 30 days... Ha ha!I have beaten myself at my own game!
Kurt is very close to getting a job that would be very, very good for us. He had a third interview today. I sent my agent some version of what she was asking for. I'm pretty sure she's going to drop me when she reads it. Either that or she'll be like, "This is incredible! You don't even have to write the actual book!" And she'll sell it for 8 million dollars. That's the going rate these days, right? That seems like a completely reasonable expectation.
Monty is watching a phenomenal amount of television. Between being sick and the disgusting weather we're experiencing, it's been a shit ton of Cat in the Hat, Thomas and Friends, Curious George, and Sesame Street. I'm surprised Child Protection Services hasn't come for him. I can hear his brain cells fizzling away. I keep buying him toys at flea markets and thrift shops, but they only seem to hold his attention for a few minutes. And I haven't quite figured out how to do arts and crafts without everything getting literally all over the place. The weather isn't conducive to painting outside and I'm pretty sure my parents would disown us if we got paint and glitter and glue all over their house. So, I'm at a loss. I'm sure all the other kids his age are building skyscrapers out of blocks and reading entire books on their own. Most of the time if Monty does get into a toy he's interested for five minutes and then I'm the one who ends up playing with it while he runs around singing Pompeii by Bastille. I've put together more Frozen puzzles in the last two months...
You guys, parenting is haaaaaaaaard.

I have nothing to say tonight. I'm with Jordan for the first time in over a month and apparently I knocked her out with my immense wit and charm. I'm so witty and charming.
Speaking of wit and charm, have I told you lately what a god damned rock star Monty is? He literally makes people gasp with shock at how friendly and loving he is. I don't know what the hell we're doing, but whatever it is, this kid is so filled with joy and enthusiasm it doesn't make any sense. I could never have a second kid because he'd be a Damian child.
Kurt had a job interview today for something that would be pretty great. Everybody send him good thoughts.
Also, if you're enjoying these posts (Not this one, obviously. This one is pretty subpar), please be so kind as to share them on your various social medias.
Okay. Goodnight.

(Due to technical issues with Weebly's mobile app, I wasn't able to publish this last night. Weebly, get your shit together, PLEASE.)

I accidentally took a sleeping pill last night. I didn't realize it til halfway through dinner when I began to wonder why the walls were starting to bend. Incidentally, I had a great night's sleep.
Kurt seems poised to get a job soon. That will be a welcome relief on any fronts. As for Monty and school, I guess I'll just keep reading him the Sesame Street Dictionary Letters O through P that I got at a local thrift shop and just kind of hope it's intellectually stimulating enough to earn him a spot at Harvard or whatever I'm supposed to be striving for. I read in the "papers" today that the pope said he agrees with Kim Davis and feels for the priests who raped children. So, I'm guessing the big sociopolitical apocalypse is just around the corner and once that happens pre-school will be the least of our worries.

Before the world falls apart be sure to buy your tickets for
Daisy and Jordan: Rejected Bond Girls
on November 15th at 9:30 pm at Feinstein's/54 Below. So far the line up includes Eric Anderson, Cady Huffman, Beth Malone, The Skivvies, and a super special surprise guest were not allowed to advertise...

If you haven't already, be sure to sign up for my newsletter (which I rarely put out). I will be sending out a special discount code to my newsletter readers in the next few days! Don't miss it.

I've been thinking about this kid I went to elementary school with. I don't remember his name. He was super smart. The kind of kid who knew how to spell the word "people" way before anyone else. Nerd. So, one year on our last day of after-school we were going around the circle saying what we were going to do over the summer. We were all saying reasonable things for a bunch of 8-year-olds, like, "I'm going to summer camp." or "I'm going to eat Popsicles til my insides freeze." or "I'll be spending most of my days rubbing elbows with the heroin addicts of Coney Island while my father runs a dark ride there." You know. The usual. But this kid said, "I plan on reading all of Webster's Dictionary." Seriously. That's what he said. Come on. That's not a thing ANYONE does. Let alone an 8-year-old. Just knock it off, Whatsyername.
About seven years later I ran into him at Washington Square Park during the pot parade or whatever it's called. I hated smoking pot because it made my brain end up in a foetal position inside itself. Within a few minutes of smoking pot no matter where I am or who I'm with I'm convinced that I'll end up homeless in the gutter by the end of the day. But all my friends smoked and I was so desperate for friendship that I would have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge if they did. Or, even if they had just told me to. It wasn't a time I look back on with any fondness. So, there I was in Washington Square Park, stoned out of my mind, trying to make it look like I didn't feel like my body was covered in ants, and Mr. Dictionary points at my shoes and says, "Haha. You double-knot your laces." I said, "Yeah," because I did. It was an accurate observation. I generally find double-knotting my shoelaces preferable to having to re-tie them all the time. It was less a fashion choice and more a decision of convenience and efficiency. I had missed the memo about shoelaces. Apparently the less they are tied the cooler you are. Mr. Dictionary had deduced that I was a nerd because I didn't want to deal with the annoyance of repeatedly re-tying my shoelaces. Like I said, he was SUPER smart.
For years I was embarrassed that I had double-knotted my laces that day. I just wanted to be cool. I could never get it right. And here was this really cool guy calling me out. I mean, he didnt look cool or anything but he knew the exact definition of the word, so he must have been cool. He read the dictionary. Even if he didn't make it all the way through, it's likely he at least got to "cool".
So, that's something about me. I let a kid whose summer activity when he was eight was reading a dictionary make me feel like a nerd because of an arbitrary fashion preference. I think about it almost every time I tie my shoes.

I have a troll that lives in my head. I'd like to think that it's male, but I keep thinking of it as a she. It's not that I like thinking there's a dude living in me. Monty is the only guy I'd ever let live inside me. And I evicted him over two years ago. But a male troll seems more likely than a female because people who have trolled me online have mostly been men (except for that one chick who was angry at me when I was angry at her for trolling me because, you know, that makes sense.) Plus, I'd hate to think there's some shithead woman in there just being shitty. I'd like to think that if there were a lady living in my head she would be an awesome, bad ass chick with great hair who knew about metaphysics and could explain black holes and where the universe is and stuff. Not some crusty twat who tells me I suck.
So, anyway, there's a troll of indeterminate gender that lives in my head. It tells me all kinds of awful shit. Mostly it's versions of trolling nonsense I've read about myself online. Which I shouldn't admit because isn't that what a troll's goal is? To get in your head and knock you down? But there it is. So, good job, trolls. You won.
When I was in the deep throes of postpartum depression and I would sing to Monty the troll would whisper in my ear (I realize I said it lives in my head, so it shouldn't have to whisper in my ear, but that's what I'm going with.). I would be singing "I Will" and I would hear, "I feel bad for Daisy Eagan's kid, having to listen to her awful voice all the time." Isn't that amazing? Alone with Monty and some schmuck is poisoning my brains. It's also completely the opposite of things I actually have read online. Which is not to say I haven't read really mean things about my voice online. Just in regards to singing to Monty I've read nothing but lovely things. It's basically like my brain troll crossbreeds various quotes and creates new versions that I can use to feel shitty about in specific moments.
The troll also tells me that everyone in New York hates me, which I KNOW for a fact isn't true. First of all not everyone in New York even knows me. But even if everyone in New York did know me, why would they all hate me? I'm not that bad. I'm sure there are one or two people here who hate me. And that's cool. I hate a few people myself, so, you know, it all comes out in the wash. But also, the main thing is, people are not thinking about me nearly as much as I think they're thinking about me. And that's a huge relief. Relative anonymity.is a comforting thing.
Except when my troll takes my relative anonymity and turns it into "No one knows who you are and no one cares and no one's reading your blog anyway. Nana nana doody."
It would appear that my brain isn't equipped with a block button. I'll be all, "Block. Block. BLOCK. Blockblockblockblockblockblockblock!" and the troll is still prattling on some nonsense. But, if I'm very quiet and wait for it to shut the fuck up, sometimes I hear another troll. A smaller, awesomer troll. That troll is going, "Hey, hey! I think you're scared. It's okay. I get it. Guess what. We're all scared. You're doing great! Some people love you! Some people don't! Some people like you! Some people tolerate you! Some people don't even know who you are! Isn't that great?! Sing louder! Write more!"
And then, if I'm really, really quiet, she says, "We are all just energy. Black holes have something to do with gravity. And the universe is everywhere and nowhere! Isn't my hair awesome?"