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RoMedicated Lady has decided she needs a dog. Although she was sure 2 labs would make the perfect pets, she decided that perhaps two dogs as big as she is was not necessarily a good thing.

ML has spent days looking for a doggy at various shelters. She thinks it’s fine if other people want to pay for certain breeds but she personally thinks the money should go toward adopting them and for supporting the rescue organization. Plus, these dogs can be in these places for years.

ML has decided she wants a Beagle named Rosie. She doesn’t love the name but she doesn’t hate it either. Bryan says it would be too traumatic to change it because she’s an adult dog. Medicated Lady wonders if she can nickname her “Ro.” She does not know why this name seems better than Rosie but somehow it does.

Ro is supposed to be a calm dog and she’s a little thing. Although there’s a bit of fear for her mental health but ML can offer love and extreme emotional responses to both minute and grand-scale trauma/drama.

Bryan and another friend say she is adorable. They say she is perfection. ML can’t help but agree.

So the only impulsive behavior ML feels is to just go and adopt her as soon as possible. Forget formalities.

I sometimes wonder if I’ve made an impact on any of the men’s lives I’ve dated. I don’t understand man emotions because they have never been explained to me, but I wonder if I’ve caused them pain or sadness. In such times, I take comfort in the possibility that I might have mattered in some way. Not enough to come after me. Not enough to not let me go. But maybe I mattered in some way that I’ll never understand.

I remember.
Comfort is completely self-serving.

What keeps coming to mind is this guy I dated once who was really nice (I’ll call him Larry Kerry because he had a name that rhymed just like that). I liked him, but the other guy I was dating was just more exciting and I had a greater chemistry with him. The other guy, I ultimately chose, and he turned out to be an asshole of astronomical proportions.

Larry Kerry was a computer analyst and former Navy man. He tried out for the SEALS but had to drop out due to an injury. He pondered working for the FBI. He was tall, graying a little early but it was sexy. He was always so nervous around me. I felt flattered and sympathetic. He wore a little too much cologne. And he downed a glass of red wine right before we left a restaurant and I realized once I was in his car, I should’ve insisted on driving.

Still. There was nothing wrong with him. He just wasn’t an asshole or The Asshole I wanted. I let him go and do not regret it. I do not think of him with any particular fondness. I mainly feel nothing.

Which is why comfort is completely self-serving because I imagine I’m the Larry Kerry of most of the men I’ve dated.

I feel as though you and I, dear reader, are beyond polite conversation. That’s why I say I probably will not have a sustained meaningful or sexual relationship with the guy who sent me an email to say hello and that he was surprised he could read the email I sent him through a dating service because said service has been acting up and he can’t read it on the site but the email came through to his real email account so he was able to read it. Then, he signed his name. I tend to attract the socially awkward or the pathologically damaged ones and am beginning to realize that these sorts are not to be fucked. I’m just saying. (Note: I ain’t no ho, I’m just saying.)

Which suddenly reminds me of the guy who stuck his dead fish tongue down my throat. I just don’t recommend doing that on a first date or ever. I was so shocked I didn’t beat him with my purse but I vow to lay the smack down on anybody else that does that. World, consider yourself duly warned.

I don’t like leprechaun hands either. If a man’s hands are smaller than mine, it will never work. I’m sorry. I ain’t trying to hate.

Okay, now that I’ve got my ghettospeak done with, I wish you peeps a good day.

  • “Don’t you think orphaned Asian children are the cutest things ever?”
  • “I have been wanting to introduce you two for a while now. This is my lovechild, Bunny, who I share custody of with his other mother, Bryan.” [It’s the Other Mother part that is confusing, not the Honey-Bunny part.]
  • “Do you ever have questions about questions?”
  • “What is your stance on double snaps?”
  • “Will you hand me the fuchsia scarf? No, not the lilac scarf. No, not the dusty rose one. My God, are you color blind?”
  • “I don’t think we want the same things.”
  • “    .” (silencio)
  • “Tell me again, because I do not recall, who are you?”
  • “I know exactly what a Phillips screwdriver is and where you can find one.”
  • “I would not like to cook you dinner. I do not cook for anyone.”
  • “I feel that you’re a little too needy, yes?”
  • “Um, no.”
  • “I do not appreciate your lazy ass.”
  • “I will not tolerate your lazy ass for one more second.”
  • “I would encourage you to remove your lazy ass from my house before I send you to the pokey, motherfucker.”
  • “I do not like huntin’.”

When life hands you lemons, I suggest
• having narcotics on hand
• having a friend-spouse who will tell your business to the world
• cocooning
• curling up a ball and rolling yourself somewhere dark and safe
• blocking all light
• you think about those people who are allergic to sunlight
• giving to a charity of some sort
• reflecting on your distinct dislike for lemon-flavored anything, aside from Dum-Dum suckers
• sending lots of emails
• posting lots of posts
• stealing office post-it notes
• adding junk to your already junked-up car
• watching your tan fade
• showing your tan who’s boss by applying tanner
• you make a list of every possible response you can have to every possible situation in your life
• you complain to everyone how tired you are
• asking those around you for some good knock-knock jokes

Which reminds me. Do you know any good knock-knock jokes?

I mentioned in a previous blog that I would post the finest confusing rejection I’ve received in my relational career. It is from one Nuclear Luke.

Background: He winked, I winked, he said, “great smile,” I said, “thanks,” he said, “sorry for not getting back to you sooner, I’ve been studying,” I said, “okay, what are you studying for,” he said, “a nuclear test,” I said, “oh that sounds pleasant, are you originally from here?”

And then his last correspondence (July 3):

sorry i saw you emailed, ive just been busy and honestly didnt take the time to respond. im headed out of town to visit family for the 4th. have a great weekend!

No, I am sorry, dear Nuclear Luke, because I deserve more than this. You can’t capitalize the first letter of a word starting a sentence? You can’t bother with apostrophes to signal contractions? You dare send me a run-on?

Dearest Nuclear Luke, you are the biggest piece of shit I’ve had dumped in my lawn today. [Note to readers…this was prior to the ex’s dumping of steaming shit via bulldozer, which completely smothered the lawn. Nuclear Luke’s shit was overruled, I’m afraid.]

Ha. I wrote this post yesterday. This morning I had an email that said, “ok I suck at email. here’s my number.” And I cannot tell you how amused I am. I forgive his lack of punctuation and capitalization simply because he acknowledges that his previous email/response time is oddball. Of course, I have the urge to call him. But then Jade, rightly, points out that how can he possibly have time for me if he doesn’t have time for email. But then, some people are major duds electronically-speaking, yes? And then, Bryan says, see? He loves you because you ignore him. So then I think I want to be loved so I should just ignore him, right? But then I wonder how am I going to ever snag a man if I’m so busy ignoring him. Bryan says it’s a game. I’m pretty sure I’m hopeless.

I considered my options. I wrote them all out. I tried to be measured instead of impulsive. I decided that 1) I did want to respond to him, but 2) only to ask if he really had time to get to know someone, and 3) I put the calling back on him and gave him my number, should  he decide he has time. I won’t call him.  There is no sense wasting time. We’ll see if he can man up. I am willing to consider that he’s not an emailer…although I met him ONLINE. I am perfectly willing to overlook him for distraction’s sake. Still, you know I get myself in trouble when bored, so let’s hope he just says he doesn’t have time. I hate being ignored, that also gets me in trouble.


I’ve accepted paper clips, rusted

when I should have chosen binder clips, the fancy kind

bigger the better, easier to keep all of me in one place.


I’ve kept myself in messy stacks

papers sticking to other papers and other stacks

useless copies, rereading what I’ve written twice already.


I’ve favorite pens that I neglect

Leave the tops off, shortening the lifespan

losing them besides, lost are all the sharpened pencils.


I’ve settled myself in disarray

chaos is the only proof there’s order, a cosmic alphabet

no need refiling, misfiled is worse.

I wrote this some time ago about the heat of texting I sometimes feel. It’s a love/hate relationship I have with technology, though I can admit underneath it all, it has nothing to do with technology. (Note: I feel as though I might have posted this before but my glance-through revealed nothing…but I didn’t look that carefully. If this is a repeat, apologies.)

Anticipation gives way to relief gives way to wanting more gives way to frustration give way to anger gives way to giving away. I cannot become a slave to the man and technology ever again. I am not sure how to do that, but it’s a necessity. I can’t care. It becomes not about him but validation. It becomes about never getting my fill. If I for once got my fill, got my feel…

I’m three texts in with no response. He says he’s stressed. He says he is flying on Monday and the pressure is on. I believe him. I honestly do. It’s me that ruins it all. Constantly looking and waiting for my cell phone to give me tangible proof that he’s been thinking of me.

I want to hold onto this pleasant feeling. I don’t want it to slip away into the obscurity of insecurity. Does that make sense? Of course it does. If I doubt him, I doubt myself. I worry that I won’t see him again or touch him or kiss him. I won’t ever know the satisfaction of making him sigh or feel good or feel special, and I won’t have that from him. I want to be made to sigh. I want to be made to feel good. I want to be made to feel special. Wanted, care for, safe. It’s too much. Too much to ask.

I’ve told myself, you must wait until you leave work to even look at your cell phone. So that’s 66 minutes from now. On one hand, I’m trying to go for more discipline, to stop looking constantly at my cell. On the other hand, it just makes the disappointment of not receiving a message from him that much more acute. So what can I do? It seems I’m destined to lose….because I really can’t expect him to give me what I want, can I? And then the horribleness of getting a message, hoping/praying it’s from him and then finding it’s from someone else. I’m tired of roller coasters again.

I swallow a deep sob because some things are best swallowed. That’s not dirty, swallowing. Take it down, your medicine.

Kind words make me sad because I can feel the hard edges of them. I can feel the tenderness of my own soul, and I wish I was just a hair harder. Which makes no sense because hair breaks very easily but there is nothing that can be done to make it stronger. It’s already dead.

My aunt died. She’s dead, not dying. I wasn’t around much when she was just living.

What I remember most is how her blue eyes welled with tears when she was in pain and lonely. At the funeral, did they cry for her or did they cry for me? I didn’t go to the visitation. I didn’t want to see her dead. I’d seen her plenty when she was dying. They said she looked as though she were smiling. What I remember are tears that they didn’t see her shed. And then at the funeral, I saw their tears, too, and realized I am maybe only witness to her dying and her death. Her collapse and theirs.

This isn’t a poem, only a thought. This isn’t broken, this is breaking.


At the funeral

it was brief

the service

the prayer

my unmuffled sobs


They were all doing fine

not a sound

and then at the end

my shoulders shook

until everyone’s shoulders shook


At the funeral

they had their suffering too

and then at the end

unmuffled sobs

and shoulders that shook

  • If you have to use Aspercreme on sore muscles, wash and rewash your hands. Once or twice is not good enough, because should the icy-hot fire somehow get around your what-not area, it will burn for hours and you will be miserable.
  • If you haven’t already done so, just get on with it.
  • Eat chips and chocolate.
  • Drink regular Coke and Pepsi.
  • Go to your bathroom stall at work and take out the book you’ve been trying to finish for weeks and go ahead and read a couple of pages per trip. You can make special trips. This will make you especially happy with feelings that you have duped everyone.
  • Don’t hesitate to sleep. Defend your sleep privileges to the death. If you have to tell the Gays they are too stressful to be around right now, so be it. You’re their Princess; they will surely forgive you.
  • Lay out.
  • Jump in random pools. Or at least imagine jumping in pools irrationally over a period of no less than 5 hours of constant “I should jump in a pool” loops running in your head.
  • Find an Air Force John. He will not have the energy to blow you off. He will want to cuddle with you. Except that maybe he only responded because he’s intoxicated and watching “WifeSwap” when he’s a 26-year-old military man. Anyhow, he will respond if prompted and offer distraction, if not frustration and perplexation.
  • Never mind if “perplexation” is a word. It should be. Own it.
  • Even if you know you will have to write about it again sometime, keep your darkness at bay. It’s the only way to keep from crying racking sobs every day.
  • Do not think about your dead aunt.
  • Do not think about your impending summer program.
  • Do not worry about tan lines.
  • Recognize raisins are good for you.
  • Stay conscious for only mere minutes of time until drifting off into something as close to peace as you get.

SOB with me

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