Donald Trump and Library Porn

I have never been so nervous to go to the library as I was this week.

I’ll tell you what I was there to get, but you have to keep it a secret.  Promise?  Pinky swear? (Everyone knows you can’t break a pinky swear – you get seven years of bad luck or you grow warts or something.  It’s unpleasant.  Don’t mess with pinky swears).

Okay. *deep breath*  I was there to get…

Books by Donald Trump.

WAIT! HOLD ON! Don’t unfollow me and threaten to burn down my house or dismember my childhood teddy bears!  I want to read his books because, like it or not, he is going to be our next president.  I want to read these books for the same reason I wanted to read The Audacity of Hope when President Obama was elected.  If someone’s going to be running my country, I would like to hear what he has to say.  I feel like that’s responsible.  Plus, how can I complain intelligently if I don’t even understand someone’s views?

Okay.  There’s my defense.  NOW you can unfollow me, but you don’t know where I live and also I’ve hidden my teddy bears.  So ha.

If you’re still reading, I will tell you about my library excursion.

Our country is oddly hateful of people who support Trump at the moment. I certainly didn’t want to be on the receiving end of this venom simply for checking out a library book.  It doesn’t mean I like him, people!  I don’t like him at all!  It means that I want to be an informed citizen!

I reserved the books ahead of time, so when I went in I could basically grab and dash.  I went to the shelf where the holds are reserved, and I immediately saw my books with a big label on the side that said, “HILLBORO.”  I quickly looked left and right – had anyone I know seen this?  Was anyone watching now?  I was alone.  Grab the books and run!  EEEEEEEEEP!

I grabbed the books but put the titles facing toward me so that no other library patrons would mistakenly think I’m a Trump fan.  Then I saw that there was “About the Author” picture on the back of the book.  Eeek!  There’s no escaping his ridiculous hair!  Quick!  Turn around a different book! Good news: the blue book had no picture on the back.  I put that one in the front.

I hurried over to the self-checkout so I would not have to admit to a librarian what I was reading.  I felt weird about being this shifty, like I was checking out porn or something.  This made me wonder – do they have porn at the library?  They sell magazines…can you check out a Playboy?  That seems pretty disgusting, but hey – it’s 2016.  We live in a weird world.  Our country just elected Donald Trump.  Library porn is pretty low on the list of global concerns.

I’ve checked out books on bipolar disorder a bazillion times.  I think I’ve probably had every library book on the topic checked out.  I never got all shifty about checking those out.  But reading up on the new leader of the free world?  How embarrassing!  Obviously that’s a dumb way to feel, but this is a mental illness blog.  LET ME FEEL MY FEELINGS!

Okay, so I was embarrassed about the book, but I did the self checkout and hustled out of the library like my coat was on fire (this is a phrase I’ve never quite understood, because everyone knows that if your coat is on fire you should stop, drop, and roll.  To clarify: I did not stop, drop, and roll with this book.  I left the library in a rushed manner).

Now I’m at home, and I’m getting ready to read my secret books that are so, so much less sexy than library porn.

Wait, Where’s the Part Where I’m Perfect?

I was three years old, and I was learning to tie my shoes.

I had just failed with the clumsy laces for the millionth time (Does the rabbit run around the hole or through it first?  What is this rabbit running from?  Does anyone else think that shoelaces look nothing like a rabbit?)  My mom showed me how to do it again, perfectly tying her shoes on the first try.

Tears filled my eyes, I threw my shoe down, and I said, “I wish I was a grown-up.  I can’t wait until I understand everything and never make mistakes again.”

Oh poor baby Hazel, if you only knew.  My mom told me what I said wasn’t true, but I didn’t believe her.  I never saw her with untied shoes.  I never saw her in time-out.  Clearly her life was perfect.

I’m having one of those weeks where I have the opposite of the Midas touch: instead of everything I touch turning to gold, everything I touch is turning to poo.  I got to work late three out of five days this week. I made a parent mad with one of my lesson plans (even though I worked so hard on it!).  I dropped the football on a key play during a staff football game.  I got rejected by another agent who showed interest in my book (I know people say that rejection is part of a writer’s life, which is true, but – crazy thought here – is acceptance ever a part of it?  Ever??).  I even made a big mistake on this blog. I unintentionally wrote something hurtful and offensive in my last post, and I hope anyone who saw it will accept my sincerest apology.  I truly didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and I was being thoughtless with my words because I was angry.  I had no malicious intent.  Scout’s honor, it will not happen again.

Dang – good thing I’m not actually a scout.  If I was trying to survive in the wilderness this week, I’d be dead for sure.  I was a girl scout in second grade only.  I sold cookies and did a report on Kenya.  I hope that’s enough to make my aforementioned “scout’s honor” legitimate.  If not, invent another promise for yourself.  I’ll promise that instead.

Other jobs I’m thankful to not have this week: surgeon (mistakes would kill people), the person in charge of our nuclear arsenal (mistakes would kill a lot of people), veterinarian (mistakes could kill puppies), stock broker (mistakes could cost people millions), Trump’s public relations manager (because that job would just suck in general).

I wish that there was some age where suddenly mistakes evaporated and I could effectively do all the things, but if there’s an age where that happens then I know I haven’t hit it yet.  It should have kicked in by now, because I’m pretty adult on all levels: I’m married.  I have a full-time job.  I have a house.  I consistently tie my own shoes without error.

Then again, I occasionally have ice cream for breakfast and my favorite color is still sparkles.  I tell people it’s teal so I don’t sound like I’m four, but I don’t think I ever fully grew out of “my favorite color is sparkles.”  Maybe this means I’m not a full adult yet.  There is still hope for my dream of perfection!!

Well, no there’s not, but I still feel a little let down by adulthood.  I feel like I let people down more consistently than I make anyone smile, and I always hoped I would grow out of that one day.  Especially this week, I feel like my life is one mistake after another.

Whoa, hold on, this post is teetering on the edge of the rocky cliff marked “Pity Party.”  If there’s one party I don’t want to join, it’s that one.  Let’s turn this ship around quickly, people (don’t ask why my ship is on a rocky cliff.  My blog, my rules.  My ship needs no water).  Instead of a pity party, let’s go to the kind of party where a guinea pig wears a sombrero.


Phewf!  Way better.  Don’t ask me what kind of party that is, but I want to be there.  He’s wearing a sombrero.

Cheers to a weekend reset and hopefully a better week next week.


The Debate Heard ‘Round the World

Since I frequently blog about insanity, it’s a wonder that the American political system hasn’t made an appearance until today.

This evening I will be watching the first presidential debate between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.  I will also be feeling a bit guilty, because I accidentally lied to some German students during the summer of 2105. They might still be mad about it.

I was in Germany with a group of fourteen other teachers, and we were visiting schools as part of our study of the German education system.  Trump had just announced he was running for president.  A group of students asked us, “Why is Donald Trump running for president in America?  Do you think he will win?”  EVERY teacher, from the most liberal to the most conservative, vehemently assured these tender German teenagers that America would never vote for Trump.  We didn’t even know why he was running.


I thought about those German teenagers this morning.  I wondered if they would watch this debate, and I decided probably yes.  They were very interested in American politics.  Then I thought, how many people in how many countries will watch this thing?   Then my imagination started rolling… Here are the conversations I envision happening in various countries regarding this debate:


Irish dude 1: Hey chum, you wanna chill with me and me mates while we watch America continue self-imploding?

Irish dude 2: Sure!  I’ll pick up some Guinness on the way.


Mexican dude 1 (to no one in particular): America had better not elect Trump.  There is no way I’m building that frickin wall.  *eats a taco*


British lady 1: Would you like a cup of tea?  Shall we watch the American presidential debate?

British lady 2: Of couse, dah-ling.  Who is running?

British lady 1: It’s Mrs. Clinton and that Trump fellow.

British lady 2: Oh bloody hell.


Canadian guy 1:  Looks like America has gotten themselves in a pickle, eh?

Canadian guy 2: How’s our immigration policy?  Maybe we should build a wall…



(No one in Switzerland watches it.  They’re always neutral, so their foreign policy game is a bit lacking.  For Switzerland, just imagine people enjoying a normal day.  Perhaps they hear a far off yodel).


German teenager 1: Stupid Americans.

German teenager 2: Yup.

(My bad, guys!  I’m just as surprised as you are!!)


Watching this election season is like watching a bad reality show where the winner gets a country.  Someone should suggest airing this debate on MTV, because that’s where this crazy belongs.  Does anyone else feel like politics has turned into show business but for ugly people?  Because that is what it feels like.

Ack! I just pictured Trump and Clinton as contestants on The Bachelor(ette).  Can you imagine the fantasy suite episode?  Stop!  Don’t imagine it!  The mental image buuurrrnnsss!  MAKE IT STOP!!

America’s a weird place to live right now.  I think I’d rather be drinking the Guinness and eating the taco.  But hey, maybe the contestants (oops, nominees) will surprise us and prove to be really knowledgeable, articulate, and respectful this evening.  We can always hope.  The fact that they’re there in the first place proves that in America, anything can happen.

Before I Throw My Computer Out the Window of a Fifteen Story Building, Maybe You Can Help Me

I’m ready to throw my computer out a window.  It will probably be out of a building at least fifteen stories high, because it’s much more dramatic that way.  Throwing a computer out of a one story building would be very anticlimactic.  It probably wouldn’t even break.  It would land safely in a bed of fluffy grass and look up and me like, “Na-na-na-boo-boo.”  So I’m first going to have to travel to a large city, take my computer to the top of a tall building, and THEN throw it out.  Then it will shatter everywhere into satisfying pieces, but it also might injure some passers-by.  Then I’ll have to deal with the criminal charges and/or the annoyance of knowing that my computer used its last bit of life to ruin someone else’s day in addition to mine.

OR…you could help me, and then I can avoid the technologically murderous rampage I just described.

I’m relatively new to this blogging thing (this baby blog isn’t even a year old!  We’re still on milk over here – it doesn’t even sleep through the night).  I’m trying to figure out how to work some things on WordPress, and it, erm, isn’t going well.  If you are able to answer one of the following questions for me, you could possibly save my computer.  Also, I will open my window and yell to the neighborhood, “I LOVE (your name here) BECAUSE (your name here) IS THE BEST PERSON EVER!”  I’ll really do that.  Scout’s honor.  Or I’ll yell whatever you want.  Dealer’s choice.  I just have to figure this crap out.

  • How do I add a button to my page?  I’ve recently been accepted to the Bipolar Bloggers’ Network (cheer!), and I’d love to put a button on my page for that.  Also, I’d love to trade buttons with other bloggers (I was a trading card guru back in the day – ask anyone who knew me in fifth grade.  I carried my binder around everywhere like the supernerd I was).  Trading buttons is basically like that except for grown-up and less bulky.
  • How do I make a button to represent my page?  I HAVE NOTHING TO TRADE.  This is awful.  Do I have to be a computer programmer to do that?  I didn’t do so well in my computer programming class in high school…but at least I didn’t make out with the class computer nerd in the back of his car to get him to write my programs (my best friend at the time did that, which she still claims was a good idea because she got an A in the class.  I guess people have prostituted themselves for less.  Maybe).
  • How do I make it so that followers will receive e-mails of my new posts?  A couple of my followers have asked me about this.  I know that on some other blogs when I clicked “follow,” I started automatically getting e-mail updates when they posted.  I want my followers to get this too so that I can lurk in inboxes all over the world like the creeper I aspire to be.  I know people who specifically sign up for e-mail can get them, but people who click “follow” are not getting e-mails.
  • What if people don’t want me lurking in their inboxes?  Is it annoying if I have posts e-mailed to my followers?  How do you feel about these bloggers?  I’d feel a little spammy, but at the same time it’s like, “If you don’t like me, don’t follow me.  Retreat back into your mundane, Hazel-free life.”  I won’t hate you.  Probably.  And you won’t care either way.
  • Why is your blog so much cuter than mine?  I have one of the standard blog formats, but it makes my blog feel a little amateur-y (which it is).  I want to be a cool blog, like yours where your title is all decorative and cool, you have a bunch of buttons (see question 1), and your design looks so fancy that you probably made out in the back of a computer nerd’s car to get him to make that for you.
  • How do I convince my husband that he should let us get a pug puppy?  Okay, this one isn’t directly related to WordPress, but it is still VERY IMPORTANT.  I wouldn’t have these technological rage issues if I could go play with my puppy, so therefore it is related.  Also, I could maybe train her to moderate comments for me, which would be very cool.


Please help me out with these if you can…remember, I’ll scream whatever you want out my window!  I’m that desperate!  I’d even scream”VOTE FOR TRUMP!”  (Please don’t make me scream that…I don’t want to get egged.  Full disclosure: I might whisper scream that if you make me do that one.  I realize whisper screaming is cheating, but I just admitted here that I would do it, so now you can’t complain).

Thanks in advance!

Now We’ve Got Bad Blood

The title of this post is an obvious reference to a Talyor Swift song, except I’m pretty sure she was writing about a guy.  I’m using the title to write about my brain tumor.  Despite that difference, Ms. Swift and I have a lot in common.  By “a lot,” I mean we both know what it’s like to get unfortunate phone calls from men.  A Jonas brother broke up with her in a twenty-seven second phone call, and I got a call from my endocrinologist last night in which he told me my blood work came back with bad news.  Her bad blood was metaphorical, but mine’s literal.  Let’s not compare our pain.

He was, after all, a Jonas brother.

The doctor called at almost ten o’clock last night, which should have tipped me off immediately that it was bad news.  Doctors never call that late.  If they do, it’s never to say something like, “Just thought I’d let you know – you’re totally and mysteriously cured!” or “I found a stray puppy and thought it might cheer you up; I’ll be dropping him off in ten minutes.”  Nope.  They always do that sigh where they  don’t want to say what they’re about to say, but they can’t pass the unpleasant task off to a lesser minion.  Then your heart sinks and you wonder, “Oh no, how bad is it this time?”

Is it bad that I am familiar with this process?  That I’ve gotten enough of these calls to know exactly how they go?  I could probably do them myself.  I should tell the doctor, “Next time just e-mail me the numbers and save us both the trouble.  I’ll call myself and break the news gently.”  I might put my husband’s lab coat and square-rimmed glasses on my dog and pretend he’s the one telling me.  Bad news would be less scary if it came from a beagle.

The bad news is that my blood results showed certain hormone levels four times above normal adult levels, which probably means that my tumor is growing.  There’s a bit of irony there: I can’t keep plants alive (at all), there’s a good shot I can’t ever get pregnant, but my body apparently does a damn good job at nurturing a tumor.  Thanks, body. You’re a gem.  I’d rather you had the ability to grow some healthy cilantro, but I don’t get to choose these things.

Anyway, the doctor’s trying to devise our next plan of attack on this little dude.  It’s not cancerous, it shouldn’t kill me, but it does a pretty fabulous job of messing up my life.  It’s like I’m in a dysfunctional relationship.  “It’s not you, tumor, it’s me.  Actually, no it’s you.  I think it’s time for us to break up.”  Then, just when I think my brain is rid of him for good, the tumor comes back and my brain is all, “Come here, ya knucklehead.  Let’s give this thing another shot.”  Because my brain is frickin crazy, that’s why.

I have to go back on a med I was on a while ago, and I need to double the dose.  I told the doctor that last time I was on that pill (taken once a week), I would be sick for the entire day after I took it.  It was pretty bad, stuck-on-the-couch-waiting-for-it-to-end sick.  I usually took the pill on Friday nights, spent my Saturday on the couch, and then recovered on Sunday to get ready for another week.  The doctor says I have to take it anyway because we want to be “aggressive” on getting my numbers back to healthy levels.  Now I’m supposed to take that same pill, and I have to take it twice a week.  I’m supposed to torch two days a week for at least the next six months?!  How am I supposed to do that?  I think I’ll torch Mondays.  Everyone hates Mondays.  Imagine a wonderful pill that lets you skip Mondays!  This is going to get complicated with work and everything, but we’ll figure that out later.  Right now I’m dreaming of a Monday-less life.  Who knows?  Maybe this drug won’t make me sick this time.  That was years ago.  I’m practically a new woman now.  Since that time in my life I’ve traveled the world,  I’ve voted for a Democrat,  I’ve learned how to make the perfect apple pie,  I’ve dyed my  hair purple, and…I’ve trained my body to better metabolize drugs?! (something like that…)

So. I’ve got bad blood results, but at least we have a plan.  I lamented to Andy last night that with all of my health issues, my life expectancy has to be quickly dropping.  I sighed and said I’m probably not going to live to see forty.  “Don’t worry about it,” he told me.  “Neither of us are even going to live to see thirty if Trump becomes president.  The rest of the world will nuke us off the map.”  And that’s why I love Andy – because he can make me laugh when I would prefer to kick a wall.

Keep your fingers crossed for me.  New pills start this weekend.