Physical Therapy

You guys know I am pretty open on here about everything. I mean, I talk about my vagina. All. The. Time.


And puking. And having sex. And even peeing myself.


But there is one thing I am still pretty hesitant to talk about. And that is pooping and farting. I’m actually blushing just typing those words. I don’t know why I am so weird about that and apparently nothing else. It would make more sense for me to be shy about some of those other things.


My sister J loves to talk about those two subjects. And I do for her sake. Pretty much constantly. And it doesn’t embarrass me to do so with her. But with most other people I shy away.


So I have been putting off on telling this story for over two years.


You guys probably remember me falling down the stairs and hurting my back.


Well, the first thing I did. After having an allergic reaction to my steroids and staying the night in the hospital. Was to go see a physical therapist.


I had never been to one before and had this idea in my mind of what it would be like. Based 100% on movies. Which are really the best thing to base everything on, right?


So, if movies taught me anything it’s that my physical therapist would be a sexy but tough woman who would help me learn to walk again. She would be firm but fair. I would be in intense pain. We would fall in love. Cue to me haltingly taking my first steps into her open arms. End film.


Turns out my physical therapist, J, was a very attractive lady. Who was happily married with two kids. Also, she was maybe five feet tall. For those of you that don’t remember, I am six feet one inch.


So I meet her and explain about how I hate people touching me. As I do the first time I meet any doctor or person that has to touch me for their job. I like to set the right tone in my relationships.


J takes me back to one of the therapy rooms and does an examination of my back and has me bend and stretch and do all sorts of things. Just to see what I’m about. And what I am about is that I do a lot of yoga and she said she was impressed with how flexible I am. For my height (whatever that means).


She has me lie down on this little bed that looks like a weightlifter’s bench. And she’s telling me what she wants to do to help me with my back and my pain and all.


I’m cool with it. So I tell her to go ahead.


She reaches under me and kind of wraps one arm around me in an awkward way. Her hand is directly beneath my spine. My arms are crossed over my chest.


With absolutely zero warning, she throws herself down and kind of propels herself onto me. She was like a tiny WWE wrestler trying to take me down.


Two things happened at once.


She knocked the wind out of me. And…she knocked the wind out of me.


I farted. So long and loudly that there could be absolutely no mistaking what had just happened.


Despite my extreme mortification, I also immediately started laughing. Because I am an immature child.


She was very mature about the whole thing and pretended to not realize what I had just done. So she stood there over me, arms crossed. Patiently waiting for me to stop.


But I couldn’t. This was our FIRST meeting. I had known her for all of 10 minutes. This physical therapy was not going as planned. But most things don’t.


After a solid 10 minutes of me laughing so hard I couldn’t speak, my eyes filled with tears and my face getting redder and redder. I finally stopped.


She had barely cracked a smile. I don’t know how she managed it. But once I finished she just kind of nodded and said “Shall we?” And got back to it.


I saw her every week for over a year and she was kind enough to never bring it up. Ever.
And I did my part by making sure that little incident was never repeated. Ever.

Ambien Sleep

This is basically just a continuation of my last post. I really wanted to tell you guys THIS story but got all hung up with how gross I was. Sorry.


After I got all shaved up, I was left to my own devices. Trying to fall asleep the night before my first heart surgery. I have terrible insomnia even at the best of times. And this was not the best of times.

I was 26. I was not emotionally ready to have heart surgery. I wasn’t ready to be talking about living wills and death. Unfortunately, I had to do all those things and more.


So I was lying there, wide awake and knowing sleep was never going to come. Soon it was 9pm and I was still awake. I had a 5am surgery that they wanted me to be well rested for. And that was just not going to happen.


Finally, I pressed the call button and the night nurse came in. I explained to her about my insomnia. And I told her that I didn’t know what to do. How was I ever going to sleep?


She checked my chart and found that I was allowed to take an Ambien.

So innocuous.

Now, I’m sure many of you have heard the stories about Ambien. That it gives you crazy dreams. That it makes you sleep walk, sleep talk, sleep eat. I wasn’t too worried. I already do all those things (except sleep eating, I hope).


I had also heard (from a source that will be unnamed but you know who you are) that trying to stay awake while on Ambien can make you hallucinate. And all of that sounded pretty funny to me. Especially in the hospital, strapped to an IV, with a dangerously elevated heart rate.

I think I got off easy, honestly.

The nurse came in and broke the Ambien in half and gave me one half. It reminded me of when I was a kid and my mother would make my sister and I share a piece of gum.


So I spoke up, “Excuse me. I am a grown fucking woman. I think I can handle an entire pill.”


The nurse laughed and said, “Well, we’ll just put it on the counter here and if you still need it later you can get it.”


So I said, “Listen, you haven’t let me up in weeks. Plus, I have this IV. How about you just let me hold it. I won’t take it unless I need it.”


The nurse studied me for a second and then relented. “Okay, here you go. If you aren’t asleep in ten minutes go ahead and take it.”


And I honestly laughed in her face at the idea that I could be asleep in 10 minutes. I have never fallen asleep in 10 minutes in my entire life.


The next morning I woke up with half an Ambien clenched in my fist. I hadn’t even stayed awake long enough to set it on the tray table.

I was pretty disoriented. I was like, what year is it?

The night nurse came in and I smiled at her, embarrassed.


“How’s my grown woman this morning?” She asked. Then she laughingly told me she had tried to come in the night before to get the pill out of my hand but I wouldn’t let it go.


I started cracking up and asked her if I could keep the other half to take home. Which she did allow.


She was the best nurse I had the entire time I was there. I know I talk a lot of trash about some of those nurses. But she was lovely, caring, and funny.

Though I only got to see her a few nights, she made my recovery better every time I got to interact with her. I knitted her a beautiful white seed stitch scarf and brought it to her once I was released. As a thank you. And she cried when she saw it.

Like this but white as the Magical Ice Cream Suit.


So this one time I was in the hospital, waiting to have a heart surgery. I’m pretty sure it was the first one. To be honest, they start to blend together after enough of them.


The reason I think it was the first one is because I was in the hospital for about a month during that first stay. And I wasn’t allowed out of bed, at all, the entire time.


Every time I so much as sat up my heart rate would jump to over 180 bpm and all the machines would start beeping in a panic and the nurses would run in, sure that I was dying.


This means that I was using a bedpan for a month, which made me feel pretty sexy. Also, I wasn’t allowed to bathe. Or brush my teeth. And no, I wasn’t getting any sponge baths either. I was just marinating in sweat and body odor the whole time. It was gross.


I get that when you are on the verge of dying, having fresh breath and clean hair isn’t a priority to the hospital staff. But I felt repulsive. And I had always been obsessively diligent about cleanliness, so it was extremely frustrating. On the plus side, it almost completely broke me of my OCD.


But, since I was bedridden and also on loads of blood thinners, I also wasn’t allowed to shave. So, the night before my surgery, a nurse came in to shave my pubes.


Being me, I tried to lighten the horrifying situation.


I mean, her face was down in my unwashed vaginal area. I’d had a period come and go, and no bathing. I could smell myself from where MY face was.


Now that I think about it, I just realized this is where my vagina smell complex started.


So, this older lady came in with an electric shaver and I said, “I hear you’re going to give me a trim and a perm.”


Nothing. No smile. She barely even acknowledged me.


So, I tried again. “Actually, I was hoping you could do something fun down there. Maybe a mohawk or a Charlie Chaplin?”


Still no response from her. It’s possible she didn’t speak English. Or that I am completely unfunny.


She yanked the covers back, lifted my hospital gown and shaved me totally bald. When I looked down and saw it I said, “Oh, the old Bruce Willis. I dig it.” And then I winked at her.


And I need to tell you guys right now, that I have invented my own winky face emoticon. Because when I wink, I don’t smile, like this  😉 . Or grin, like this ;D . I kind of make this face ;V .


It’s really awkward.


She just kind of rolled her eyes at me and left the the room. Leaving me alone with my newly shaved vulva and insomnia. But that is another story.


Very “Inspiring” Blogger

Vic of JustPlainOlVic nominated me for a Very Inspiring Blogger award. I am not sure exactly what I inspire him to do, but I am not one to argue with getting an award. He says I am his muse but I am too scared to ask exactly what I am inspiring him to go do.

I’m supposed to tell seven things about me. And that is tough because my whole blog is just random shit about me. So I think I will make this more fun for you and easier for me and tell you seven times I was so very wrong about something.


  1. Song lyrics: Not only am I wrong a lot of the time. I often prefer my own lyrics (because I am conceited)  and will intentionally sing it incorrectly. It’s as annoying as it sounds. For example: Dancing in the Moonlight the lyrics are “you and me endlessly.” But I’m like “you and me and Leslie” because I prefer to think of him having a three way dance with his girl and whoever Leslie is. I’ll also sing multiple parts or chorus’ or even the instrumental parts. I’m the worst.


  1. Our company holiday party was two weekends ago and I kind of got lost. But I finally found it. And parked. And went to the ballrooms trying to find my party. And then went to the front desk looking for my party. I was pretty embarrassed to learn I was at the completely wrong hotel. In my defense, they were both from the same hotel group and started with the same letter. But still…


  1. My first act as a supervisor at my current job, I had to put someone on a final. Which is the last step before a termination of employment. I called my new employee of one week in and had him hang out until my boss was available to sit down with us and issue the final. The employee sweated it out for about 2o min with me, awkwardly making small talk,  until my boss walked in and told me I had pulled aside the wrong guy. I got so embarrassed I thought I was going to cry.


  1. I didn’t know what an exotic dancer was until I was 15 or 16. I thought it meant a flamenco dancer or something…you know…exotic. My brother told me and I didn’t believe him. But the internet settled that one really quickly.


  1. Once when I was 21 my father had a cardiac event and was hospitalized. I got a frantic message on my phone from my mother and rushed down to the ER. They couldn’t find my father and I threw the biggest fit I think I ever have in my entire life. I was yelling in the ER at the check in nurse about how irresponsible they were to lose a patient. And how I couldn’t believe people trusted them with their lives. They called around and finally found him for me. He was in a different hospital. In a different hospital provider group. In a different county.


  1. I was at a previous job, painting houses, and I was out in the yard trimming back a bush. I thought it was covered with Virginia Creepers. I basically touched it all over my hands, arms, face, neck. Then my boss came running over to stop me. It was poison ivy. And that’s how I found out that I am immune to it. Thankfully.


  1. I could mention basically every guy I have ever dated for this one. But it’s a cheap shot and I am above such things.

So thank you Vic for the nomination. I know I am supposed to nominate more people but I really don’t feel like it.  I decided some time this year to stop doing things I don’t feel like doing. Like eating right, exercising, or being around toxic assholes. And I am much happier for it.

In Love

I want to tell you guys about the only time I have ever been in love. I have dated a lot of people. I have slept with a lot of people. I cared about a few of them. I loved a few of them. But I have only ever been IN love with one person.

That might sound bad considering how many people I have dated. But I think after this story and this story, you guys might have started to realize I haven’t really dated anyone worth falling in love with. And none of you have even heard the worst of it.


This was during my heart surgery phase. I love that expression. It sounds like my heart surgeries were just a phase I was going through; like wearing glittery eye shadow or side ponytails.

That scrunchie is a nice touch.

As soon as the anaesthesiologist pumped me full of magical knock out drugs, I was out. I could have been dead for all I knew. The last thing I’d see was some random forest scene on the ceiling of the operating room. Then I would suddenly be riding out of the operating room on a stretcher and into the recovery room with no memory of the passage of time.

And I’d always be like, I don’t want to die looking at pine trees on a screen.

It was in the recovery room that I fell in love.


There was a perianesthesia nurse there in that room. He was the same person every time.  And this may partially be the drugs talking, but he was the loveliest human being I have ever met.


Waking up from anesthesia is traumatic. I would be wheeled in with IV lines in my arm or neck (or both) and heart catheters still hanging out of my groin. I also had very bad reactions to anesthesia every time.


But that nurse would talk to me with a voice that washed over me like a soothing balm. He was calm and soft spoken. I knew he would keep me as safe as he could.


He never put his hands on me without warning me first. He never lied to me. He told me it was going to hurt for a few minutes while he pulled my caths out. And it did. A lot.He told me it was going to hurt while he put pressure on my groin to keep me from bleeding to death with all the blood thinners I was on. And it did.

Apparently he was pulling this thing out of my heart. No wonder it hurt.

While he was hurting me and helping me, he was also talking to me. He would joke with me. He actually made me laugh in my miserable state. He made sure I felt okay, he would check in with me every few minutes. He didn’t try to rush me out of the room. He treated me like I was the only person in the world. Like I mattered. And he gave me some amazing drugs.


He told me I was brave and strong and good. And when he said those words I believed him. He made me feel brave and strong and good. He told me I was going to be okay. And I believed that too.


I think it is hard to not fall a little bit in love with someone when they are so good at their job and that pride and skill shows in their work. I think it is hard to not fall a little bit in love with someone that helps you through one of the worst experiences of your life.


I think we all want to be with someone that makes us feel brave and strong and good. Someone that makes us believe we are going to be okay. I never wanted to leave that recovery room. Each time I would stay literally for hours, just listening to his voice.


He never told me his name. I never saw his face. All I know is that he was a man and, judging by the ring on his finger, he was married.
I don’t want to find him. I don’t wish I knew who he was (though I do hope he knows how much I appreciated him). What I wish is that I could meet someone that made me feel as brave, and strong, and good, and safe, as he made me feel. But preferably without all the drugs and hospitals and surgeries.

Tour My Apt part 2 (This time it’s personal)

Due to popular demand, two very kind people humoring me, I decided to go for part two in the series:







This is a seeder. It’s used to evenly spread seeds. I kind of love industrial equipment. I find it fascinating. And my mother grew up on a farm.




This is an Appalachian door harp. I found it at a thrift store not knowing what it was. It was just cool looking and pretty. Now I love it; it makes a lovely chime whenever I open or close the door.





Can I post art? Oh well, I hope so. This is Princess Peach and the Pea. The Princess and the Pea was my absolute favorite fairy tale. It was made by the insanely talented the P is for Penis. Check out his stuff. I met him at ComicCon. A lot of my art comes from there.





In case you didn’t know, I am almost legally blind. This makes me feel better about looking so nerdy with my thick frames. Another ComicCon original.




Ladies, space, octopi. Need I say more. Again, from ComicCon. P.S. I am an awful picture taker.





This photo doesn’t do Bette Davis justice. This is a massive oil painting. Maybe five feet by four feet. Some crazy person at a job was going to throw it away. Now she watches over me.





One of my most prized possessions. My sister, J, made these paper flowers for me during my first (15 day) hospital stay. It took her over 4 hours. When I see them, I am reminded of how much she really loves me. And how worried she was about me.









Mother of pearl button wreath I made. I adore it.




I make these ridiculous things. My apartment is covered with them, but this one is a favorite. I love the spanking cover. Best/worst thing about being a crafter.




This was a graduation present from my gay first boyfriend. He was a German exchange student. I love it.


I have lots more but I feel this post is getting a bit too long. Maybe I’ll do another one to add to this series.


As a special bonus though:




I went to this amazing beach for my birthday last year. I thought the rocks were just telling me they loved me, in a platonic way.




Until I saw Penis Rock. Calm down there, buddy. (My brother was uncharacteristically unappreciative of this). But I dare you to tell me that doesn’t look like a penis.


And, yet another post I have gotten out of doing any real writing on.






Search Terms

There are some wonderful bloggers out there that like to talk about the search terms used to find their blog. And I laugh until I can’t breathe when I read them. But I know I am not clever in that way and am not good at that kind of funny. In case you were wondering, my kind of funny is more talking about how idiotic I am. I am really good at that.


However, the shit people have been looking for lately is too good to not share. So, you’re welcome wayward searchers. I hope my blog was able to answer your bizarre and smelly questions.


List of characters from giant monsters and dra- I don’t even know what this means or why it took you here. I should say both of you.


Body odor of rotten potato- I have smelled rotten potato and the only way to kill that smell is with fire or acid. Sorry about your body odor, though, that’s tough.


Have you ever fucked your sister doll- Um, no. Are we talking about that kid sister doll or what? Or maybe I don’t really want to know.


Good roach killer- I am the opposite of this.


Barbie fuck- I know why that would lead you here, I just don’t know why you were looking for that.


Gas stations without bathrooms- Those are ideally, the best kind. It’s probably better to just pee yourself.


How to tighten your retainer with the key- My mother did mine. I can’t even imagine trying to do this to yourself.


Fingering hospital story- I could not be more proud of this. I should change my headline on this blog to this. Thank you, dear internet searcher.


What to do if your car smell (sic) like rotten potato- As I mentioned above, the only solution is fire or acid.


Bedpan use myself- I hope you haven’t been sharing these.


Old Cabbage Patch dolls with vagina- I guess I missed the production of that line of Cabbage Patch dolls.


ECG taking inner the vagina whole part while fucking- Were you looking for a really specific porn? It reminds me of Mary Roach’s book: Boink. What a wonderful book about the study of sex.

Wizard of Oz tattoos- Man, mention Wizard of Oz one time and the internet never lets you forget it.