As you can tell, I care less about the World Cup than I do about … almost anything. Which is saying a lot, because I really only care about three things: 1) my people (Sgt. Lucky, family, friends), 2) books, and 3) sleeping.

It has come to my attention, however, that some of you like teh futbol, a lot. And so I present to you a short listicle of things you might do, now that the endless season of ball kicking has come to an end.

1) Stop boring me. Seriously. Anyone who’s asked me to come out for a beer in the last few weeks knows that I hate televised sport so much, I will actually ask you if there are TVs at the bar and then decline to participate if soccer is being shown. This is as much for your sake as for mine. You think you know what “party pooper” means, but you really don’t. Because I haven’t inflicted myself on you at a sports bar.

2) Get some exercise yourself. I am by no means an athlete, but I can’t help but remark on the irony of you spending so much of your time watching magical ab beasts run to and fro kicking at things. Because you’re watching these gods of useless exertion while you yourself are sitting on a bar stool growing blubber pants.

The vuvuzela planter? Could not be more terrifying than this.

3) Give the old liver a rest. Again, I’m totally throwing stones from my glass house here. But, OK, wait, maybe not. Because if I look at your beer consumption and think, “Whoa, buddy, maybe give it a rest,” well, you probably should.

4) Vuvuzela? Looks like a long skinny planter to me. Now’s your chance to introduce a few plants into your apartment, just like you’ve always been meaning to do.

5) Catch up your regularly scheduled crappy TV. Yeah, it’ll rot your brain, too. But at least most sitcom dads are in worse shape than you are.

GOAAAL!

Jeans planter picture via 7gadgets.com.

Me: Yeah. It’s just my gross plantar’s wart. Remember? I made you buy the medicine for me and pretend to have the wart yourself. Just like when I wanted to read Twilight and I didn’t want to buy it so I made you buy it for me.

Sgt Lucky: Jesus. What’s wrong with it? It looks gross.

Me: It’s dying. I treated it, and now it’s gonna fall off.

Sgt Lucky: That’s … that’s disgusting.

Me: Ha, ha! You wanna throw up now. I win.

Sgt Lucky: I mean, I can deal with a lot of shit. But I don’t like holes, for no reason. No. That’s not OK.

Me: I-

Sgt Lucky: No! Don’t do it. You’re going to do it again. Just like when we were at the bookstore, and you wouldn’t stop telling me about … what were you telling me about?

Me: I have no idea, honestly. I don’t even think that was me.

Sgt Lucky: It was you. What did you say?

Me: I think it was some other fast little article.

Sgt Lucky: It was too horrible. I don’t even remember. (Pause.) My taint itches.

(Later.)

Sgt Lucky: Am I distracting you? Am I bothering you while you type and blog?

Me: No.

Sgt Lucky: Is my love disturbing you? Is it keeping you from getting your work done? I have a beam of love for you. It’s shooting out of my head. Did I get love in your eye? (Uproarious laughter.)

I’d confiscate the whiskey. But this way, I watch less TV.

I, of course, am lazing around in my underpants in front of the AC. But if you’re not lucky enough to live in a nude household and/or have an air conditioner, you’re probably wondering how you can achieve a similar level of sangfroid. Well, fear not. I live to serve you, my twelve loyal readers:

1) Steal an ice cream truck. This has been a childhood dream of mine for the entire 34 years that I’ve been a child (so far.) The truck itself is air conditioned, and once you steal it, you can have all the treats you want, for free! Let me know what that red, white, blue rocket thing is called, and how it tastes. I’ve always wanted to know, but who’s going to give up a lemon italian ice for an unknown? Not Mrs. Hubley’s baby girl.

2) Put ice in your pants and run around the neighborhood screaming, “I have ice in my pants!” This will attract attention for awhile, provided the ice cream truck doesn’t come by. Or that 90-year-old knife sharpening cart we have in Brooklyn. It won’t keep you cool, but that’s some old skool shit. You can’t expect to compete with that.

3) Sprinkler time! This is even better if you don’t actually have any outdoor space of your own. Steal a neighbor’s spout and then claim a spot on the sidewalk. (Note: Given how expensive water is, this will get you arrested even faster than the ice cream truck.)

4) Spray your jeans with hairspray and light them on fire. This actually might be better in towns other than New York. I assume someone might actually take a minute to put you out where you live.

5) Got a roof? Got some tequila? Get yourself a kiddie pool and make yourself into the world’s biggest human cocktail. By the time the ice melts, you’ll be too drunk to care.

And that’s all! Never let it be said that I’m afraid to be servicey.

“Does that salt have iodine in it? Because Gerty really prefers that.”

“Does this necklace make Gerty look fat? She’s very sensitive.”

Etc.

Only, there is no Gerty. To be honest, I was so happy that my neck was OK, I didn’t even remember about poor old Gert until Sgt Lucky pointed out that she didn’t exist.

“That’s right!” I said. “There is no Gerty.”

“She was imaginary after all,” said Sgt Lucky. “You have an imaginary friend, and I’m not at all surprised. ‘My name is Jen. I don’t know enough people in real life, so I’m inventing new people who live in my neck.’”

I was totally cool with this at first. Sure, put goopy stuff on my neck and run a wand over it. In the course of what I am now calling Fun With Hypothyroidism, I’ve been through plenty of undignified visits to the doctor. At least now we might be getting somewhere.

That’s until I remembered a few things. Namely:

1) I’m a hypochondriac. No matter that the vast majority of thyroid irregularities are benign. It’s difficult for me to imagine that I’ll be part of the lucky majority. Most people in my spot would think, “Eh, it’s probably just a nodule.” I think, “It’s a tumor, and I’m going to wind up in a special turtleneck like poor, poor Roger Ebert.”

2) My neck is swollen anyway. So it’s less than comfy to have someone press on it with a plastic thingie.

3) Getting an ultrasound in New York means going to a standalone ultrasound/MRI shop, which means waiting for an hour in a waiting room with people who think Jerry Springer should still be Mayor of Cincinnati. Seriously, they were watching his show and hooting like extras from Idiocracy. At first, I thought they were kidding, but no, they meant it.

The actual exam was probably less uncomfortable than waiting in the waiting room, so maybe that’s part of the psychology behind it. Anyway, soon I’ll know if my thyroid is really enlarged, or if I’ve just convinced myself that it is, via panic attacks and too much research.

Coworker Dennis: hahaha

Coworker Dennis: if only i knew the rules to basketball

Coworker Dennis: they don’t teach you those in gym class

Coworker Dennis: you’re expected to know

Coworker Dennis: i would just run around. it’s not like anyone ever passed me the ball.

Coworker Dennis: nor did i want it

Jennie Smash: i had my period for eight years

Coworker Dennis: i wish i had had mine

Jennie Smash: “your period? again, hubley?”

Jennie Smash: “yes.” feigned sniffle. “i think … i think it’s FEMALE PROBLEMS”

Coworker Dennis: yes, after my 12th grandmother died, my vagina exploded in tears of blood

Jennie Smash: ha ha ha

Jennie Smash: oh NO

Coworker Dennis: there were a lot of dead grandmas on staten island

Coworker Dennis: preventing athletic activity

But when my thyroid got all effed in the ay, my period went bye-bye. Like completely. For months.

This meant that every month I’d have to buy a pregnancy test, which was annoying enough. (More annoying is that I’ve reached the age where clerks will look you in the eye when selling you these tests, and say, “Good luck!” I much preferred it when they assumed I was an irresponsible teenager and looked sadly at their own fingernails.) Eventually, I started buying them in bulk, to the point where Sgt. Lucky had nowhere to store his razors or his manly skin lotion.

Worse was the total absence of relief. I love having PMS, because when it’s over, it’s OVER. You go from being a loon that screams at pharmacy techs to a person who thinks smelly old winos on the bus are a beautiful part of humanity. When I was hypothyroid, I was basically premenstrual all the time, but the sobbing, achy version, not the fun, pissed off, “let’s burn the fucker down” version. (Punk rock periods! Hey, ho! Let’s go!)

Today, however, yes, today, I finally got my geedee period for the first time in six months. I would like to thank the Academy, and also Armour Thyroid, and also Mary Shomon, whose articles I printed out and shoved in my doctor’s face until she gave me Armour and agreed to jack my doses until I felt like a human again.

My doctor, who is very nice and will at least prescribe something other than Synthroid for thyroid problems, is gradually driving me crazy through no fault of her own. This is because no matter what we do – change meds, change diets, add exercise, subtract exercise – I am not losing weight.

Nay, I am gaining weight. Steadily. Six months ago, I was gaining about five to seven pounds a month. Now, it’s about two. But still gaining. I’ve gone from 142 pounds in November of 2008 to 175.3 on the old scale this morning. After the gym. And before breakfast. And I’m only 5′ 2″.

Becoming a fat person has given me some interesting insights into human nature, which I will now share with you, because I love you more than any doctor ever will. Ahem:

1) People are uncomfortable with the word “fat.” If you call yourself fat, they will insist that you are not, especially if they like you. They will keep this up even after you start shopping at Lane Bryant, after you have to buy big girl underpants, and yes, even after your fat jeans split up the back when you bend over. (True story. This happened to me last week. The pants, not the “you’re not fat.” That happens EVERY GEE-DEE DAY.)

2) No one will believe you if you say you’re not overeating. My doc’s latest obsession is having me keep a food diary. “Maybe I can make suggestions for changes,” she said. “Bring it in, and then we’ll see if you’re eating right. And if I believe you.” I decided then and there that I will NEVER bring her a food diary. Not ever. Go be someone else’s Mom.

3) Not everyone who is fat in the world eats a lot. In the past year, I’ve tried 1200 calorie diets, 1500 calorie diets, and 1800 calorie diets. I’ve done juice cleanses. I’ve worked out every day, every other day, and not at all. Doesn’t matter. Still getting fatter.

To say that all of this is frustrating is the definition of understatement. I have a small ball of rage in my chest all the time now. It’s only a matter of time before it explodes, causing me to pelt passersby with ice cream and useless supplements.

So, like I say: I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Pray for me.

This morning, Starbucks proved to me that they’re trying to send me to the funny farm once and for all. And don’t worry, I’m not going to get all late-90s comedian on you and start whining about how the names are weird and the orders are complicated and it’s darn expensive, etc and so on.

No, my issue with Starbucks is that they don’t seem to believe in condiments. They have them, but they won’t give them out, at least at my local store, no matter how you beg and plead.

With this in mind, I’d like to present you with a short play based on my experience this morning.

ME: I’d like a spinach wrap with ketchup please.

BARISTA: OK. (To coworker.) SPINACH WRAP, PLEASE!

ME: With ketchup.

BARISTA: Uh huh.

ME: (Sigh.)

Some moments later.

BARISTA 2: Are you the spinach wrap?

ME: Yes. With ketchup.

BARISTA 2: (Laughs and walks away.)

ME: (Sighs. Opens bag. No ketchup.) Excuse me…

BARISTA 2: (To another customer.) I HAVE A BAGEL HERE, TOASTED, WITH NO CREAM CHEESE?

ME: EXCUSE ME. Sorry. Uh, could I have ketchup?

BARISTA 2: Oh! You want KETCHUP! Sorry, I thought you said extra cheese.

ME: ?

I understand this makes me a small person, but I do believe that this routine, which happens in some variation every time I get breakfast at this particular store, will cause me to lose what’s left of my mind.

Me: Yup.

Sgt. Lucky: The theme of this show isn’t “Everyone lies.” It’s “Nobody loves you.”

A few weeks ago we were watching House and the diagnosis hinged on whether or not the patient was cheating on her husband. If she was, she had an STD, and could be cured. If she wasn’t, she had something else, and would die. The husband was hoping for the non-STD death causing disease.

Quoth Sgt Lucky: That’s some bullshit. If we were in that spot? I’d be all, “Come on, STD! Anyone can make a mistake!”

It’s possible that he likes me.