Back (look I did a pun or is it a double entendre?)

Soo….. I am back.

Like, really back. For real.

I know what many of you are thinking. And frankly, you’re all a bunch of pervs.

But seriously.

Something pretty bad happened and it’s taken me a while to feel capable of being funny about it. But I think I’m there now. Lucky for all of you.

I am sure you all remember that time I fell down a flight of stairs and hurt my back. If not, feel free to read about it here.

So, I recently had to get a new MRI. My back pain has been getting worse. And my doctor wanted to see where we were. I mean, I knew where I was. In lots of pain.

When the results came back my doctor sat me down for a serious talk. My disc is herniated and pressing on a nerve that goes into my groin. So she asked me, “Are you having any issues with incontinence?”

Now, you guys all know that I totally am. *cough cough* Here.

But like any responsible adult, I lied my ass off to my doctor.

She explained to me that incontinence is a sign of serious nerve damage. And that if I am experiencing it then I would need to see a neurosurgeon about getting back surgery.

Nothing like being threatened with surgery to get the truth out of me. So I told her I was having issues. Needless to say, my doctor was not pleased. Hell, I wasn’t pleased.

She also told me that my vertebrae were also pressing on my spinal cord (called spinal stenosis and is a result of the disc herniation). And that, untreated, it could cause me to become paralyzed.

And some combination of those three things are causing my constant back pain.

I’m not sure what my response was at that point. I believe I may have bragged about winning the genetic lottery. I know it isn’t fair to rub that in people’s faces but I really am a sore winner. And then I got the hell out of her office so she couldn’t see me cry. 

She referred me to a pain management doctor to see about getting shots in my back for the pain. And she referred me to a neurosurgeon to see about getting back surgery.

I left her office and cried for basically the entire day. I also texted a bunch of my friends some whiny self-pitying bullshit. Sorry, friends!

But then I started joking about trading in my body for a robot body. Like, a sexy lady robot with 8 foot long legs and laser gun arms. And I had to admit, that was pretty cool. But unlikely.

More likely was that I would be paralyzed and get a wheelchair. So I started thinking about that instead. But my wheelchair was going to be bitchin’. I wanted like, a glow in the dark human skeleton frame. And I would knit and embroider all the panels and spokes. And maybe carve some Enochian spells from Supernatural into it.

That wheelchair would be cool as fuck.

That night I lie in bed and thought. It’s not like back surgery would be worse than five heart surgeries. It’s not like being paralyzed would be the worst thing to ever happen to me. Not even death was scary to me. I had already made my peace with it years ago.

So what was the big deal?

Turns out nothing. I waited for my doctor’s appointments and tried to pretend like I was fine. Not facing the reality of my life is a finely honed skill. And I am on some expert wizard level at that.

But, I found out this week that my neurosurgeon wants to wait on back surgery. My pain management doctor wants to put some needles into my spine (which sounds metal as all hell).

And now I am just waiting to make sure I’m not allergic to the drugs I’ll get pumped full of. Which would be my luck.

In reality, nothing much has changed. My back doesn’t hurt worse now that I have names for my problems. And I’ve been making a lot of pretty dark jokes to everyone about it.

So I am back!

And I decided to dye my hair grey to match my tired, shitty, old person body. That story will be next!

My Three Nipples (NSFW)

If you looked really closely at this picture in this post, then you are a bit of a creeper. But you also probably noticed my third nipple. I’m not really interested in posting another picture of it, so that one will have to suffice for all your third nipple-y needs.

I wish it was magical.

I was born with the thing and honestly never thought much of it. It’s not like I was going around naked for people to see it. And I didn’t start wearing a two piece bathing suit until I was 10 or so, which was more than old enough for me to be ashamed of my body in other, more debilitating ways. My third nipple was barely on my radar.


I hated being touched then even more than I do now. And, unlike now, that hatred extended to anyone in the medical field. I had many bad experiences with doctors and dentists growing up.


Nowadays, I’m just like “You want me to get naked? Okay.” And then I start taking off my clothes with the door still open. Also, they have told me to undress before and I take off everything, including my underwear. Because they don’t specify not to. I truly do not care anymore. It’s made for some awkward conversations with nurses and doctors that are confused and disturbed by my nakedness.

James Bond’s fake third nipple.

But, when I was 14 or 15, my mother took me to see our pediatrician. We’d only been seeing her for a few years and I hated her. She was rude and dismissive. She treated my body like I was an unfeeling piece of meat. Alway poking and prodding at me. She would talk to my mother about me as though I weren’t even there. And her biggest crime, was that her handshake was like a cold, limp fish.


We were alone in the exam room. I was always alone with doctors as my mother passes out at the sight of blood or needles (even for shots). She asked me to lift up my shirt, and I reluctantly did. Uncomfortable and embarrassed at even this basic level of undress in front of a stranger that I hated.

This is really fun! Famous third nipples!

She noticed my third nipple and with no warning, she began touching it. It is just below my left breast, and she was making me very uncomfortable. It was too close to my breast for my comfort. And she was touching me without my permission.


She then left the room and came back in with literally the ENTIRE staff in the building to show them my third nipple. Nobody had ever seen one in the placement that mine is in. They oohed and ahhed over me like I was a Barnum and Baileys exhibit. They all came over and also tried to touch it/me. None of them even acknowledged me as a person.


And I flipped the fuck out. I was a terrible advocate for myself in those days. I was an insecure, shy, sad child. But I could see no medical purpose for this and also, it was just plain rude as fuck.

Mark Wahlberg actually has three nipples! Welcome to the trip nip club!

I got up from the exam table and left with my mother. I never told her what happened as she would have been just as dismissive as the doctor. And I refused to ever go back to see her.


My third nipple has caused plenty of other awkward encounters for me. If I am at a water park, children stare at it and whisper to each other about it. I’ve had people try to touch it. I’ve had “friends” try to rub it for luck.

If I’d had open heart surgery Krusty and I would be third nipple/heart surgery twins.

My sister, J, wants me to pierce it. I’ve had exes try to get me to get it removed. And friends have wanted me to get it tattooed.


And on one memorable occasion, my brother T’s ex girlfriends* wanted me to cover it up when I was in a bathing suit around him as it was “indecent.” T jokingly suggested I start wearing an eye patch over it, which I have to admit, would be fucking cool as shit.

Like so.

I recently bought a new bathing suit that is incredibly flattering on me and covers it up completely. I am not ashamed of it. But I am annoyed by the way I am treated because of it.


To answer a few questions that I always get asked: No, it doesn’t have any extra nerve endings like a regular nipple. Yes, I can feel when you touch it, just like if you were touching my skin. It is smaller than my other two nipples. It is an actual nipple, not just an areola.  It probably wouldn’t lactate if I were to lactate as there are no milk ducts behind it.

In writing this story I learned several things. #1 Third nipples are significantly more common in men than women. #2 They used to be considered a sign of witch craft but are now seen as a sign of sexual prowess in some cultures (wink wink). #3 Nipple tattoos are a thing. On women. And they are beautiful and painful looking and now I kind of want one!

I seriously love this.

Feel free to ask any other questions about it in the comments. Or maybe some of you have third nipples. Please share!

*I should make a disclaimer that this ex of T’s was insane. That is not a term I use lightly. She once accused us of cheating on her. With each other. We are full siblings. What the actual fuck?


Hey guys. My throat has been hurting for about a week. I finally looked at it in the mirror on Saturday morning. You might ask who is irresponsible enough to wait a week to investigate their throat pain? Me, apparently.


What I saw was horrifying and I instantly regretted it. It looked like those slime monsters from Adventure Time.


My tonsils. Sexy!


I went to Urgent Care, because why would any regular doctor or Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor be open on a Saturday? They looked at it and immediately recognized it as strep. I am a bit of a frequent flyer with strep throat.


The lady doctor told me I might want to think about getting my tonsils removed since I was habitually getting it. Apparently it can move into the heart and cause issues. Like I need any more of that. Also, I hear if you get them removed all you can eat is ice cream.


This is how I want to imagine it. Don’t correct me in the comments, please.


But my throat looked so bad it reminded me of something that happened with A. This isn’t really my story, but I was there and that relationship turned out so badly. The least I can get out of it is a good story. So here goes.


This was in February of last year. A and I had broken up in January, but he was refusing to move out. Luckily, there were two bedrooms.


He had  been complaining of a sore throat for a few days, but refused to go see a doctor since he had no money or health insurance. Finally, he could barely talk and his voice sounded weird. I offered to help him pay for the visit since it was his birthday and I was starting to worry that he was going to die.


We went to an urgent care, but the doctor there sent us away. He said it looked like he had Peritonsillar Abscess. Which is an internal infection that can occur when Strep or tonsillitis goes untreated. And his voice was a symptom that was sometimes called ‘hot potato voice’ you can look it up online, it sounds freaky. He said we needed to see an ENT.

Every image I looked up was nasty. So, no thanks.

So, we went to see this ENT. She took one look at his tonsils and told us there was nothing she could do for us. She referred us to another ENT. She even called and set up an emergency appointment for us with him. That’s when I suspected this Perio-tonsil thing was serious.


At the second ENT’s office we met the ENT I like to call Dr. DudeBro. He came in with a popped collar and was possibly younger than myself. He talked like a surfer frat boy.




Totally, bro.


He looked at A’s tonsils and told us, “it like, totally needed to be lanced.”  It was going to be $500 to do. He could do it right then, if we wanted. Which he “super recommended.” Because that infection could go into A’s brain and kill him.


But A didn’t want to spend the money. And he didn’t trust Dr. DudeBro to lance his tonsils. And he didn’t know what ‘lancing’ was.


Dr. DudeBro left the room so we could “discuss or whatever.” And that’s when I snapped. Just so you guys know, I am not always sweet and understanding (Ha! Did any of you think I was?)


I had just about had enough of A’s shit for one day. We weren’t dating anymore. He was abusive. And I had spent the whole day driving him all over to various doctor’s offices. I am pretty uptight about germs, so hanging out with sick people gets me extra freaked out. I am sure he was having a worse day as it was his birthday and he felt terrible. But I had lost the little sympathy I had for him.


I whirled on him and told him he was getting his fucking tonsils lanced or I would leave his stupid ass here and he could walk home. And then he was going to die and it would serve him right.


After my little pep talk, he decided to borrow the money from his father to get his tonsils lanced. I fronted him the money since the ENT needed it upon checkout.


Dr. DudeBro came back in. He had a scalpel and a suction tube. As you guys may know, I am totally fascinated by medical procedures. I wanted in on this lancing action.



Here is an old timey tonsil remover. I love the case.


Dr. DudeBro sat A down in the chair. He didn’t use any anaesthetic or painkiller. He peered into A’s mouth. There was a tension in the room as he slowly drew the scalpel closer and closer to A’s tonsils. He moved so slowly. I was holding my breath in anticipation.


Then, like a snake striking, he punctured A’s tonsils. The movement was so quick, had I not been staring so intently, I would have missed it. He shoved the suction tube into A’s open wound and started vacuuming it out.


They make those tubes clear so I could watch all the blood and pus get sucked out. It was shocking how much was in there. And why are they always clear?


He put A on a round of antibiotics and I never saw Dr. DudeBro again.



After this post, I figured I may as well bite the bullet and finish what I started. So, here you go, the next humiliating thing that happened on that hospital stay.

Two days after the fingering incident, the hospital and my doctor were interested in releasing me to go home and recover in the comfort of my own bed. Where the TV  isn’t censored. It’s a religious hospital and I can only go so long without seeing adult language, adult content, and nudity.

Displaying 20130613_033839.jpg

I took this beauty from the same chain of hospitals. I wish I had taken a picture of the 20 foot tall mosaic at my hospital. I may go back and get one. It’s worth it.

Some of you may not know this, but you aren’t allowed to leave the hospital after a surgery until you have a *ahem* bowel movement. (I won’t be offended if you choose to skip this post and move on to the next one).

The problem was that I was not having one. Between the reaction to the morphine, the physical pain, the emotional humiliation, the medicines, and the terrible cardiac ward food, nothing was forthcoming.

Every time the nurse came in she would check the toilet to see if I had had one. Because in the hospital you are not a trustworthy adult. You are a petulant child that must shit into a pan to get released.

Another day went by. Waiting to be released from the hospital is exactly how I imagine hell to be (if it existed). You are in serious pain. They wake you up every few hours all day and night to poke you with needles and press on your wounds painfully so you never get a goddamn minute of sleep. They humiliate you. There is no much bullshit and red tape. And then, you can’t leave. Ever!

Finally the nurse came in to talk to me directly. This was the same one from the fingering story and she had been avoiding me in an obvious and humorous way. She told me that it had been 4 days with no movements and it might be a good idea to take a suppository.

I didn’t know what she meant by a suppository, I mean, I knew what one was. But I thought that’s how you gave pills to horses and how teenagers get really fucked up on ecstasy.

Fun fact: A suppository can be administered not just up the anus but also in the vagina or the urethra for men. You’re welcome.

For my five male readers; there you go, gentleman.

But she was talking about giving me some kind of stool softener suppository to help me “go” so I could get the hell out of the hospital. I really really did not want to do this. But I wanted to go home more.

She got me the suppository. It was huge! Which I guess makes sense because it’s not like I was trying to swallow it.

Like a fucking missile!

I went into the bathroom. Remember the whole serious agony/heart surgery thing? Yeah, there was no way I could contort myself to get this pill in my own ass. I could still barely bend at my hip bones.

I’m glad I got to use this picture.

I called the nurse back and told her the situation. The look on her face was one I will treasure for many long years to come. I swear to you, I could read her mind at that exact moment. And she was thinking “Seriously, bitch? I already had to root around in your nasty vagina. Now I have to put my hand up your ass? Fuck this job.”

But instead she tried to convince me that I really could do it if I just tried harder. And I assured her that there was no fucking way I could bend like that without re-opening my wounds.

I did not feel the slightest bit bad for her. This was her job. And if anyone was going to be embarrassed it was me. And I had instead chosen to find it all very hilarious. But that may have been the drugs I was on.

At this point, A stepped in. He offered to do it.

I tried to talk him out of it, mostly to fuck with the nurse. But he was very insistent on putting that suppository in my ass (you men, so obsessed with anal).

So we went back into the bathroom and he assisted me. I assume nobody wants the gory details of this, it was pretty straightforward anyway.  I have never taken anything for constipation before or since. But I can say it definitely works as intended. I was released later that day.

Of course, I developed a huge hematoma and had to go back in to the hospital almost immediately, but that is a story for another day.

First date

I have been really busy looking for a new place to move to. But don’t worry, I still managed to find the time to have this happen to me:

This past Saturday an anomaly occurred within the universe. I was out enjoying my day when an incredibly handsome man that I know asked me out. He and I are not friends, but I know him through another friend.

Let me tell you right now, that I have always been a bit judgmental towards attractive men. I spent most of my life believing that there was no way a conventionally good looking man would ever like me. And if he did, it would either be as a joke to humiliate me or he would be abusive.

I always preferred tall, chubby, hairy men. Nerdy guys with glasses and bad clothes. Older men. Beards. I liked faces with character and people that were interesting looking. Like sexy  ugly, if that makes sense.

I think he is super hot and my friends are like, no Nathan Fillian is the hot one.

I never found these “handsome” men to be attractive. I always likened them to paintings in a museum. I could stare at them all day and appreciate their beauty and artistry. But I could never own one.

Gorgeous! But out of my price range.

This lead me to act like myself around handsome men. They didn’t make me nervous because I knew I had no chance. I was only ever going to be their super cool friend.

But I realized how weirdly shallow this was of me. Good looking people can’t help their appearance any more than bad looking ones can. It was actually pretty rude of me to assume that someone good looking was a bad person. Besides, I have been dating my ‘interesting’ looking men for 12 years and quite a few of them were abusive. So I decided to allow handsome men to date me (I’m a giving person like that).

When this gorgeous dude asked me to go to the beach with him, I was like: “Sure. But just so you know, I hate the beach.”

J and I texted back and forth for a few hours. He was interesting and we had a lot in common. But warning bells were already going off. Not enough to make me change my mind. But enough to make me realize there wasn’t going to be a second date, for sure.

He started telling me all about myself. Maybe this is just me, but I don’t like it when men I don’t know very well tell me how sweet I am. What the fuck do you know about it? Also, I think ‘sweet’ is code for ‘doormat.’ Don’t call me sweet, call me kind. That’s what I am.

Then when he didn’t like how I responded to a question; he told me how I was supposed to respond. He had just unleashed my inner bitch.

“Why are you even bothering to text me? If you already know how you want this conversation to go, just write yourself a script and act out both parts. You don’t need me for that.”

He did not like that one bit. How’s that for ‘sweet’, motherfucker?

He apologized. By this point I was having serious doubts about the beach. But, he was the friend of a friend. And the friend hadn’t said anything negative about J. I was willing to let it go. I haven’t been on a date in a very long time. Did I also mention that he was hot?

The next day he texted me.

“I’ll be leaving for the beach tomorrow at 8am. 8:15 at the latest.”

I responded. “That’s a bit early for me. I have a doctor’s appointment in the morning. Can we push it back to 9 or 9:30?”

“No.” He replied.

I was surprised. “Well, can you at least come pick me up so I have time to see my doctor.”

“No. You need to meet me at my place.”

Now, I was really stunned. “Well, I won’t be meeting you at 8, so I guess I am not going to the beach.”  I sort of expected him to relent at this point or maybe make plans to meet up with me later.

Instead he said, “Fine. Please delete my number and I’ll delete yours. I won’t bother you anymore.”


Now I was shocked. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Who the hell acts like that?

All I could say was “Okay.”

He said a few things about how he didn’t have any hard feelings and hoped I didn’t either. But, could I not tell anyone that he had asked me out. (Which is exactly why I am telling all of you right now).

I chose to not respond as the only things I could think of to say would have been very counterproductive.

So, he called me. Our conversation consisted of him repeating his last texts and me telling him to delete my number and never contact me again.

The next day I told my doctor that she had definitely saved me from going on a date with someone that was disturbed in some way.

Who the hell acts like that on an attempt at a first date? Did he think I was going to cancel my doctor’s appointment to go to the beach with him? Where do I find these men? And, most importantly, why do I seem to draw them to me?

At least all is now right with the universe again.

SECOND UPDATE: Damn, I just realized some other point I was trying to make here. I hate when that happens. I always said I didn’t want to be one of those women that ‘tested’ men. But I don’t see how I can NOT do that. I’m starting to see how important it is to find out how someone reacts when they don’t get what they want. And the sooner the better. I think it will help me to avoid guys like this one too.

UPDATE: I just thought of someone better to use as an example of a guy I like that is unconventional. Because Alan Tudyk is seriously hot. Here you go:

Richard Dreyfuss in Jaws. Check off the list: Nerdy, glasses, hairy, beard. Done!

Stress Test

In between the first two of my heart surgeries I had about a month and a half of downtime. All of it spent at home. Waiting for the blood thinners to kick in to the right level to make it safe to have another heart surgery.


It was a rough time.


Especially since I was still having serious physical issues. So serious that some days I literally could not stand up without blacking out. I would have to crawl to get to the bathroom.


I couldn’t drive at this point in my life, obviously. I couldn’t even walk. So I had to convince people to drive me around. But it wasn’t actually that hard. People tend to pity you when you have heart surgery.


One day, my little sister came to pick me up to drive me to the cardiologist’s so I could get my blood levels checked. It was a particularly bad day. It was one of those days where I couldn’t stand.


While we were driving to the doctor’s office I started feeling really really bad. My breathing started to get ragged and my sister started freaking out. She could see my heart pounding through my t-shirt.


We called my nurse and asked if we should go straight to the hospital. I was having trouble breathing. But she said to just come to the doctor’s office.


When we got there, my sister had to get me a wheelchair and wheel me in across the parking lot. By the way, if you have motion sickness (like me) never use a wheelchair if you can help it.


Before you start feeling too bad for me, you should know something. When I am feeling that badly physically, I feel incredible emotionally and mentally. It’s probably the lack of oxygen going to my brain. But I feel amazing I am cheerful and happy and upbeat. I tend to make a lot of jokes. The nurses over there love me. I am the youngest, happiest person they see.


The nurse checked my stats. My heart rate was so high the EKG couldn’t track it. My blood pressure was 60/30. The nurse felt my pulse and said it was somewhere over 200 bpm.


She left the room to cry away from my sister and I. She thought I was dying and didn’t want to upset us.  It turns out I was only having a stroke.


My cardiologist came in and told me that I needed to go to the hospital. But first, he wanted to do a stress test. I had never done one before. And being super high and hilarious in my delirious state; I couldn’t refuse. I was ready for any adventure, as long as I could do it lying down.


So they injected me with some crazy shit to do a chemical stress test. My heart began beating even more rapidly. I was sweating. I still couldn’t breathe and now I couldn’t talk.


My sister was sitting in the room. Watching me. There were several nurses I didn’t know. One I did. And my cardiologist.


My cardiologist began rubbing my throat. It felt really weird. I remember thinking this is what you do to a cat to get it to swallow medicine. But the medicine I was getting was via an IV.


I’m going to level with you here. I was 100% convinced that I was dying. I’d already had two heart surgeries by this point and I knew what abject misery and pain felt like. This was different.


I couldn’t talk. All I could do was look my little sister in the eyes and wonder how scarring it was going to be for her to watch me die. Because I was dying, guys. Really and truly.


Once I could speak again, the nurse that injected me asked, “How do you feel?”


And I told her. “After both of my heart surgeries I wished I had died on the operating table because I felt so awful. If I had had the energy and ability to kill myself, I genuinely would have. And this is the worst I have ever felt in my entire life. I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I did after those previous surgeries. And you have proven me wrong today.”


Then they called the paramedics. The were both young and super friendly and I asked them if they would pull a sheet over my head when they wheeled me out through the crowded doctor’s office lobby. They wouldn’t. Those guys don’t like to joke about death.


I got to ride in an ambulance, across the street, to “my” hospital.


When I got there, I was like returning royalty. The charge nurses remembered me. I was the only woman on the entire cardiac floor. And also the only patient under 60. But the high point of this experience was my cardiologist making the hospital let me wear my street clothes instead of a gown.

And also, being high from almost dying.