When Life Hands You Lemons

Another article has been posted on Patient Worthy! The picture is of lemons from my tree in Phoenix, something I dearly miss. My body is rebelling and my dates are in retrograde. Where’s my unicorn??

Hello Tremors, My Old Friend

You Spin Me Right ‘Round, Baby, Right ‘Round

Okay, I admit it: These words together make absolutely no sense to me. However, they keep popping up as a successful search phrase that someone is using to plug into a search engine and then be directed to my site:

“fragile handle with care name that porn”

No, it’s not two phrases – “fragile: handle with care” or “name that porn.” It’s all of those words mashed together. I suppose the fact that I am posting the phrase to call attention to it is also going to lead that party back here a third time, but seriously, weirdo, that’s messed up. A phrase that is normally used to ship expensive art work doesn’t normally immediately precede a phrase about porn. Porn isn’t fragile. I actually dislike a lot of porn that’s floating around because it always looks like the women are in pain. They do their best to hide their discomfort and disgust because they’re trying to make the big bucks, but at the first sign of acting, I lose my lady boner. Maybe it’s not the naming part you need to worry about, Anonymous.

I got another voice mail from Nashville. His voice sounded all hang dog, like “Gosh, I’m real sorry.” (Make sure you say that sentence in your mind with a twang, so all of the words are at least two syllables – “ree-yawl”). Oh, wait, that’s what he actually said. Then he followed that up with, “I know I didn’t call you (“yee-ooo”), I just got real busy with work and all (“aw-wall”).” Nashville ended the message saying he wanted to talk to me. Now I’m just flat out irritated that he is going back to his original lame excuse. Did he think I wouldn’t recognize it? Did he think I’d forget that I know he has a minimum of 3 days off each week, and which days those are? Now I know I can’t call him back, because I’m going to talk to him like he’s a flat out idiot, and he’s not going to like it. Oh yes, I’ve made grown men cry, usually because I don’t take their shit.
Lastly, I got a text on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning at about 12:30 a.m. from Hidden Creeper (https://thesickandthedating.com/2016/02/04/crouching-tiger-hidden-creeper/) saying, “Sweet dreams.” Wednesday night at about 9:30 pm I wrote back, “Thanks, you too.” He must have been waiting for my reply, because it took him two seconds to respond with, “Good night babe I want to see you :|”

Here’s the problem with technology: it’s a lot easier to analyze the shit out of everything that appears in front of your face in writing instead of having to improvise with someone in person. I had already established that he does not respect women’s boundaries since he couldn’t honor my repeated requests to not be addressed as “cutie.” Now he’s calling me “babe” as if we have actually exchanged bodily fluids, when in reality, I’ve never met him. Also, he’s making it sound like we had a couple of dates and he is now pining for me. Sorry, Hidden Creeper, your texts and phone calls are now going to be hidden from me permanently (unless I’m looking for entertainment, then I’ll peruse my spam files).

Lemme Tell You a Wake-Up Story

Warning: Adult Language

The Shit Theory

Nashville (https://thesickandthedating.com/2016/01/18/i-saw-another-ghost/) sent me messages saying, “I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me.” When I asked him why he ghosted me, he just said, “Don’t be mad” again. He “hates to fight.” Then he said he didn’t call me back for a few weeks because he “had his dog.” Zero explanation, unless that dog dials his phone for him. No response at all to my repeated asking of why he disappeared. I even resorted to saying, “Did my infection make you uncomfortable?” I mean, seriously, I would say the words for him if he couldn’t. But he couldn’t even respond to that. So I told him that if he can’t communicate with me, then there’s no point in seeing each other anymore.

I know he’s sleeping right now because he wakes up right before he has to go in for his third shift hours. When he wakes up, if he gets all whiny again, I’ve decided I’ll have to lay the shit theory on him. It’s something I’ve thought up just this afternoon that I think will explain what I see happening and what I think he needs to do.

Most of us who have had chronic illnesses for years (or even decades) are familiar with the “spoon theory” that a very clever woman came up with on the fly to teach her good friend about what it’s like to have a chronic condition that greatly affects the quality of life. Sufferers have even self-identified as “spoonies,” which makes it hella easy to find each other online.

I don’t expect this theory to find the same fame, but it would be funny if it did.

Okay, let’s say Nashville got up from a full 7 hours of sleep and did his business in the toilet, including a #2. (I know dudes are super regular like that, all of them that I’ve lived with are like clockwork.) But instead of flushing his shit down the toilet, he reaches down into the bowl and picks up the shit. He looks around the bathroom, and then he starts smearing. He gets a good amount on the floor and the shit cakes up a bit in the grout between the tiles. He also goes for the walls – big smears, maybe some letters. He even saves some shit for the sink and the dookie gets into the joints of the faucet handle. Nashville stands there for a minute, looks at the shit on his hands and fingers, and then yells for me. I come to the door, take one look and I say, “What the fuck, Nashville? Why did you smear shit all over the bathroom?” He says, “Don’t be mad at me. I have to go watch my dog wag her tail.” I say again, “Why the fuck did you smear shit all over every single part of the bathroom instead of just flushing it down the toilet like a healthy person?” Nashville says, “I don’t want you to be mad at me. Can you stop being mad at me? I love my dog.”

Nashville (as well as many people in general) claims he hates chaos. Chaos = shit, in this story. He could have just flushed the shit down the pipes. In other words, if you don’t want chaos, then don’t bring it into your world. You have a choice. If you choose to reach down into the bowl, cradle it in your hands and start smearing it around, it’s not okay to 1. Keep doing it until it’s in every nook and cranny of your life (no matter how much you B.S. yourself that you’re keeping it separate), and 2. Ask for someone to clean up the shit that you chose to spread. Certainly don’t ignore it (as Nashville did when he ignored my questions). All it’s gonna do is dry where it sits and be even harder to clean (aka all I’m going to do is get pissed, and he’s STILL going to have to deal with it). Sometimes a person has to hire a plumber (psychiatrist, psychologist or counselor) to help figure out clogs in the pipes (brain), but it’s better to take care of that sort of thing before the problem becomes completely out of control.

So, Nashville, the moral of the story is: Clean up your own shit.

The End



A Step In The Right Direction

There’s a little release party going on for Barbie, and it signals a change in awareness and acceptance. Hooray for that! All of those years of articles explaining that Barbie’s measurements would leave her on all fours with missing ribs to account for her mind-blowing tiny waist have finally been heard. Barbie will come in petite, tall and curvy, as well as different hair colors and skin tones to be a more realistic reflection of our American society.


I quite like Quartz in general for human interest stories, including the Barbie makeover. Here is their take on it (and incidentally, whomever dressed Barbie in the first shot should be shot, because the cutesy tank top says “Be Your Self,” with no hyphen to indicate that it should be “yourself,” as in, one word with a hard return between syllables):

Curvy, petite, and tall Barbies will do nothing to empower our girls

I think they may have felt a little pressure and saw true competition from the Lammily doll, which was created through a crowd funding site and is now going into large-scale production. The Lamilly has far more realistic measurements, flat feet and honorable career outfits. I hope that the “new” Barbie doesn’t push the Lammily out of the market. Options must be celebrated, and small businesses supported. It shouldn’t take crowd funding to get a sensible role model to girls and boys for mass consumption. Every little message we send out into the universe regarding women’s bodies, who owns them and who has a right to dictate what they should look like makes a difference in how children create their own values. Why not embrace inclusive standards rather than exclusive? (BTW, some of the pics on the Lammily site depict girls reflecting on periods – something you’ll never see Barbie doing, but every female with a functioning uterus and ovaries goes through. Why not make it a safe and open topic?)


Just as a side note, I happened to access my blocked call list today because I had to add another solicitor in my phone (they always find a way to get around the “Do Not Call” government list), and I noticed that Nashville called yesterday. That was the first time in three weeks. I guess he got tired of being milked for money by the fake profile Russian and Chinese “girls.” He’s going to keep singing the same song about how he’s never broken up with anyone, and he just doesn’t understand what’s going on. Sure ya do, Nashville. You got caught jerking off. Here, I’ll get you a Barbie doll…………

I Saw Another Ghost

First and foremost, my ass is healing. The hole used to be the size of an adult thumb, and now I think it’s more child-sized. I have been doing a daily bath with epsom salts, and my body has been doing the rest of the work with the superhealing mechanism that was triggered by the wound. The surgeon does not need to make any more hamburger.

Second, there was a lot of confusion surrounding my bed situation. I saw a doctor at the U of MN on January 4th, during which time I was “prescribed” a hospital-style bed that should also help me avoid further bed sores. I was handed the script and told to do the rest. I pulled a North Carolina and said, “Do what now?” I called my insurance company to find a durable equipment company; the insurance company told me that my doctor needed to call the insurance company first for a pre-authorization. I sent a message to the doctor who prescribed the bed, and got a message back late last Friday; when she called, the insurance company told her that I was supposed to go to the durable equipment company. So it took me a few days, but I finally tracked down a company that was contracted with my insurance company and might have what I need. I called them, the intake person laughed at me and told me that I was doing way more than I should have, and that she would work it out with the doctor and the insurance company.

Nothing is ever easy.

When I developed this issue and got the prescription for the bed, the first thought I had was, “How am I going to explain that to Nashville?” I mean, the surface area is going to be halved, but then again, it’s supposed to be adjustable, so……….

Turns out I worried for nothing. I called him over that first weekend in January and told him that I was due in the surgeon’s office Monday and that there was no way I could make a date happen on that day. We chatted for a while, and he told me about his neighbor attempting to steal his brand new puppy that he paid a breeder $1200 for. We talked about him setting up security cameras. I couldn’t seem to convince him that the neighbor “knowing Nashville was real, real mad” wasn’t enough of a deterrent from the neighbor trying again. Then Nashville made some excuse about it being late (even though he normally works 3rd shift and it was only 10 pm, so he was definitely used to being up then), and we hung up. He texted me the next day to tell me he hoped that I was feeling better, and I told him to give the puppy extra pets from me.

The day after that, I saw the surgeon again, so I had a better idea of the timeline with the healing of the hole in my ass. I called Nashville and left a message.

And then…nothing.

I waited about five days, and then I signed on to OKCupid to see when he last logged in. I hadn’t been on since Christmas, but the system told me that he was online in the wee hours of the morning on the same evening we traded texts. So in other words, Nashville was still cruising for chicks. He totally ghosted me.

I don’t know why exactly, but I’m not bothered enough to blast him. Instead I blocked him on Facebook and OKCupid, and automatically forwarded his texts to junk as well as marked his calls as automatically going to voice mail. I don’t expect him to call or text again since he cut off all communication, but I just wanted to be sure that he would have to go out of his way to figure out how to contact me.

I still have his Christmas gifts.

I couldn’t have been happier to be able to recycle his god-awful work calendar – which consisted of guys with hunting rifles hauling around the bloody animals they just shot.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to confirm this, but I’m wondering if he got sucked into talking to women in Russia or the Philippines like my former hookup did. He is definitely the kind to give them his last penny because of some sob story.

Nashville used to tell me that he thought I was too “high class” for him, or too smart. He also bemoaned the fact that I can’t drive, but as soon as he said that, he would tell me how much he loved my neighborhood and that he would like to move to this part of Minneapolis/Saint Paul. I told him that he had to make some decisions, that there were certain things I couldn’t change, no matter what.

Rather than speaking to me directly, he chose to ghost me. Nashville always used to say that he never, ever broke up with any women, they always were the ones to break it off.

Well, Nashville, those words better stop coming out of your mouth. By pretending I never existed, you broke off the relationship.

I’m still looking for my unicorn.

P.S. – time to recycle my Star Wars cup – Nashville was using it as his spit cup when he stuffed his face with chewing tobacco