Jaaaames …

I was laid off the first time back in April 2019. I ain’t gonna lie; I welcomed the time off. I filed for unemployment and made zero effort to do anything outside of what I wanted. A month later I was back at work. Damn.

Listen, I get along with everyone once they get past my face. Truth. Seems that everyone thinks I’m cunty until they meet me then they love me! All of my friends have eventually told me how they thought I was a bitch when they first met me. I mean, I get it. My face tells on me. If I’m thinking you’re an idiot, it’s gonna show. I even had Botox a few times to control it…. it didn’t work. 😂 Truthfully if you leave me alone and mind ya business, we’re all good. But if you piss me off, or hurt one of mine, I will attack you like an Asian murder hornet and I won’t stop stinging until there’s nothing left of you. I guess it can be considered a character flaw hahahaha I mean, who’s perfect? 🤷🏻‍♀️

Anywayyyy…. James… that’s his real name. I didn’t change it to protect his identity because why would I? He wanted to make sure everyone knew, “I’m James the General Manager,” so shout out to James the General Manger. Jaaaames probably wished he an Asian murder hornet but he was more like what was left over after a swarm of murder hornets attacked. Jaaaames was a blob fish. (Google it). So lemme tell you about the day I whipped my stinger out on Blob fish.

There was this attractive, 55ish, seemingly wealthy woman that came into our shop. She was driving a $100k SL Roadster. It was a custom pearl white convertible with camel interior that had been scraped down the side. A car like that brings a lot of money into a body shop. Blob fish, seeing her pull into the lot, blobbed out the front door and splatted about the parking lot like he had something to offer Ms. Benz.

Blob fish was out in the direct sunlight, on black top for quite a long time. He took all the photos and jotted down all the crap he needed to remember, then he came back in to write the estimate up for Ms Benz – while she sat talking to me. I learned about the accident that landed her in our shop, all about her job and her wife. (Wife. Poor blob fish. Hee hee.)

After a short time, Blob fish and Ms Benz walked back outside and I watched as the sun have zero mercy on him. He was all sweaty and pink. You see, blob fish is a red head with skin the color of milk. The sun is NOT his friend. Very entertaining to watch.

Once Ms Benz left, Blob fish decided it would be a good idea to open his mouth and let words come out. He said he wondered what her husband did and did we see the rock on her finger? He made it seem like she couldn’t possibly have those things by her own hard work. I decided then that his attempt at words was not a good idea. I PVA’d Ms Benz’s $500k house. I googled her employer and a photo of her wife.

Once I had all of my venom perfectly packed up, I did what all good murder hornets do … I attacked. I matter of factly explained that Ms Benz didn’t need a husband because she had a wife and they lived in a $500 house that’s in Ms Benz name. She was an executive at an oil company and I’m sure that’s how she paid for everything including that rock on her finger.

Blob fish and I didn’t get along after that. We weren’t of the same species. I was clearly an Asian murder hornet and he was clearly a … blob fish. Gross.

Ms Benz did her her Roadster repaired with us. The repair took longer than expected and many times I had to act as a liaison between her, the insurance company and parts vendors. We had many conversations over the 6 weeks. At the end of it all she called to speak to Jaaaaaames the General Manager …. so that she could tell him how helpful I had been through the whole process. He HAAAATED THAT!!! (Insert belly laughs here)

The moral of the story. Don’t be a blob fish.

I found it!!!

But what did I lose?

About 6 months ago I took a break from all social media. I no longer wanted to see the same gif, meme, recipe, political ad. I was tired of all the bitching, complaining and the attacks on others. I was definitely over all the filtered, cropped, stupid looking, duck-lip selfies. And please don’t get me started on all the photo of others peoples food. Everyday, no matter what time I took a peek, it was the same horseshit over and over. No thanks. I quit.

It’s now 2021 and this year I’m doing things differently. Taking the time away from all social media has given me the chance to declutter and find the things I lost.

I lost spending real time with real people. I lost building things in my workshop. I lost knitting. I lost shopping for real books in real bookstores. I lost blogging. I lost being in nature. I lost myself. I knew it was time for a change when I thought capturing a photo took priority over being in the moment. SMH.

Truthfully when I hit all of the, “deactivate” buttons I felt a little nervous. That’s because I’ve had some sort of online social interaction since AOL chat rooms were a thing. I wasn’t sure I knew how to interact in the “real” anymore. I’ve had MySpace then Facebook. Vine, Instagram and Snapchat and I can’t even tell you all of the apps and time-wasters I’ve had in between. I seriously thought giving it all up cold-turkey was going to be difficult especially since I was laid off at the same time. I didn’t know what I’d do with my time. But guess what? It’s been really.. REALLY great! Learning that social media didn’t make me happy was “it” for me. I allowed true joy, my real friends, and time with family to be stolen away each time I was forehead deep in my phone. Minutes turned in hours. What a waste.

Since my social media purge I have learned to make breads. Not one kind but a few, and I have mastered them! I have learned (and still learning) a new language. I have taken classes in EKG, Phlebotomy and Medical Assisting. I have spent more quality time with family and friends. We hang out and play actual board games. We have our own “sip and paint” sessions. I even taught my youngest daughter to crochet and I am excited to say she has completed her first blanket! I found “it.”

I’m proud to say that I’ve grown a lot. I’ve been able to reprioritize, reorganize, and restructure my entire life. I am now ready to re-enter the social world but on a much softer scale. I will never again have FB or any site where my person is felt to be validated by a “like” or a “❤️.” Even with this blog site you should know it’s not about you. Your opinions are welcome however, I do not care whether you like me or not. And just let me put this out there..I absolutely don’t care if things are spelled wrong or if I use the wrong punctuation. I can promise you that you will find all the errors because I refuse to proofread. So I tell ya what, don’t like what you see here? Well there is a little button somewhere around your screen that you can click on at anytime and you never have to see my name pop up again. Trust me, I won’t be offended. But if you chose to stick around, I think you’ll see I’m just like you. I’m here to say what’s on my mind and read the thoughts of others. I’m here to be free with my words and embrace yours (even if I disagree). I found “it.”

Do yourself a favor and take a break. Learn something new. Be happy. Find your “it.”


Swiffer pads and Leggings

About a month and a half ago I was having a lot of pain in my back; where my kidneys are located. I did what any normal person would do, I called my general practitioner and made an appointment. The receptionist couldn’t find any open appointments but said she could “squeeze me in” right after lunch if I could get there. Ugh. I knew exactly what that meant… a long wait. I was right. After waiting forever in a large room with disease-riddled people, (and y’all know how I am about germs) my name was called. The nurse hurried me from the vitals area to the bathroom for a piss sample and then into a patient room. Ok, let me esssplain something to y’all. I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, but on this day I was somewhere between the sad face and the “talk to me and you might die” face on that stupid pain chart hanging on the wall next to the otoscope. Out of curiosity, why in the hell do they use a pain chart of smiley faces anyway? Who comes in to the doctor feeling like a happy face? NO ONE! No one comes to the doctor feeling like a happy face. I think I need to come up with a new type of pain scale chart- one with real pain indicators, like maybe the sad face, the crying face, the punching fist, a bus with a bam, a gun, and definitely a skull and crossbones. Anyway, little Miss. In-a-Hurry asks me 50 million questions, types a lot and says, “Doc will be with you in a few minutes,” and she leaves the room.

Y’all I am not good at waiting. Patience is not my strong suit and when I’m left alone in a room too long unattended I get antsy and start touching things that I have no business touching. I was playing with the bp cuff, the otoscope, hammering my own knee with that little rubber mallet… I made a rubber glove cow utter, stole some bandaids, and opened every drawer to see what was inside. (That was a fun 5 minutes. Now what? Oh look… a display of a flaccid penis!!) Normally this type of thing would be an educational tool but during this visit is was for pure entertainment.. that is until a testis popped out of the scrotum and rolled under the exam table. (damnit) There I am on the nasty floor peering under the table looking for a testicle that I eventually find but can’t reach. Then it occurs to me that I could use grabbed a swab, and put the lid back on. Trying to hurry before Doc came in, I turned carelessly and my jacket sleeve not caught the top of the jar causing the ginormous q-tips to spill everywhere. (I’ll get those picked up and thrown away in a second.. have to get that nut under the table!!) So there I am, face down, ass up, trying to scrape the AWOL nut out from under the exam table with 2000 q-tip pick-up-sticks surrounding me when Doc walks in. I just smiled at the concerned look on his face, handed him the egg- shaped ball and said… “You see what happened was…” I’m really glad he has gotten to know me and my personality over the last 14 years.

After answering the same 50 million questions I had previously answered, he made a professional guess that it was a kidney stone and sent me for a CT scan. A few days later the results were in and instead of a kidney stone, it was a huge freaking cyst on my right ovary. If you’ve never had one of these little bastards, lemme just tell you… they will bring you to your knees when they pop. Good lord. Who would have ever thought that a tiny water-balloon could cause so much pain in random places? Makes no sense to me whatsoever. Just to make sure everything was kosher, Doc asked me to make a follow-up appointment with my OB/GYN.

A couple of weeks pass before I was able to get in to see chooch doc, which was just fine by me: Not really a place I wanna be, knowutimsayin’? I mean really.. have you ever been inside one of these waiting rooms? Good night. The whole time I’m sitting there I’m looking about the room I’m wondering why anyone would want to look at vagina’s all day. You know not all vagina owners are good vagina owners.. How do gyno’s handle the funky ones? Do you think they just ignore them, or do you think they have a nonchalant chat with the owner like, “Um so it’s a nice day out today isn’t it? I hear that Summers Eve is on sale at Kroger..” Can you even imagine coming across some hairy beast that smells like it was hit by a dump truck two weeks ago? OMG I would die. I’d lose my license to practice for sure.

Fast forward to the exam. The fast speaking nurse gave asked me a lot of questions then gave me instructions to get totally undressed and use the two paper items on the table to cover myself followed by- “The doc will be right in…” (Yeah yeah. I know. (insert eye roll here)) Ok, so there I am, naked except for my socks because why would I need to take my socks off, and I pick up the first folded paper square on the table. It appeared to be a sheet so I tossed it to the side and picked the other one up. It too appeared to be a sheet. (Hold up. One of these things is supposed to be some sort of gown, right?) Picking up the first square again I unfold it, apparently a little too aggressively because now I have two rectangles with weird moon shapes on the edges. (Mother of all things holy, are you serious right now?) Knowing I didn’t have time to look around for a new paper shirt, I sat on the bed, covered myself with the paper blanket and finagled the ripped paper shirt pieces onto my body right as there was a knock on the door. “Are you ready?” came a voice from the already opening door. (What if I wasn’t ready? Damn.) In walks the 12-year-old doctor and her 15-year-old assistant. I’m sitting there holding the two pieces of my paper shirt together in the front while the back is all the way open and flapping to the rhythm of the ac that is blasting down on me from the ceiling- they both smile, which led me to believe I was not the first to lose the paper clothing battle. whatever.

Moving forward about a week this time. I get a call from the nurse who tells me that my pap came back and I had “abnormal cells” and I needed to come back in. (Ok, biatch… imma need you to bring it down a couple of notches and esssplain to me exactly what, “abnormal cells” means.) Of course, I didn’t say it that way but I think she could tell by my tone what I needed her to do. Little Miss. Thang tells me that I have cancer cells on my cervix and they needed to be biopsied. (Well shit.)

Fast, fast forward to today. I went in, gave my urine sample and got shuffled into a room where I am greeted with all kinna crazy stuff on the counter… a shoe-stretcher, a few jars with clear liquid, a jar of honey-mustard, some of those ginormous q-tips, a microscope and a paper square on the table. (Good grief) Just so you know, I tackled that paper square like a boss! Of course this time it was just the paper blanket to cover my lower half but still. Doc lady comes in and doesn’t say “good morning.” or “Hey how are you today?”… nope.. she just blurts out, “Go ahead and place your feet up in the stirrups and scoot down.” So I did. Then she sits down on her little stool and raises the bed so she’s at eye-level with my vag and she tells me to, “Scoot down more…” so I do and it’s at this point I feel as though I am going to fall o? the end of the table. “Scoot down a little more.” So I say, “Really? Because if I scoot down one mo’ gin you and I are gonna be best good frannns.” She laughed, I didn’t.

Doc lady pops in the duck-billed shoe stretcher, cranks it open, then uses ginormous q-tips to apply a solution to “dry the cells.” Next I see her scoot the microscope up to my body to peek inside. Her face was a little too close to my junk for my comfort. I say this because I could feel her breathing on me. I thought about asking her if she’d like a tic-tac, or perhaps some gum; a nice minty sensation would be a great substitute for her hot-ass breath. Just sayin. I just kept my mouth shut and continued to stare at the blank ceiling. And that bothers me too; an empty ceiling. Why didn’t she have some sort of scenery painted up there, or maybe a few clever posters to look at? Her ceiling didn’t even have a texture to it where I could find hidden things.. like faces. (I know I’m not the only one). Ok, so there I am just minding my own business when I hear her say, “Ohhh.. well it looks like I’m going to punch out a few places.” (Wait. What? Did she say “punch out?” What does that even mean?) “Ok so on the count of three you’re going to feel a little pressure.” (Pressure?) Last time I heard a gyno say that they were referring to my child’s body through my love tunnel which felt like anything other than “pressure.” She begins to

count, “1- 2-3… CLICK” (WHOOOOOOAAAA hold the hell up! did she just hole-punch my cervix? I did not see a hole-punch on that counter. Sad face. ) “1, 2, 3… click!” (omg SAD FACE! SAD FACE!!) “1,2,3..click..click..” (AHHH!!! BUS BAM… BUS BAM!!!) You know I felt like? I felt like one of those frequent flyer cards, those cards businesses hand out where you get something free on the fifth punch “Click!” (what the… she didn’t even count on that one!! SKULL AND CROSSBONES because she’s aboutta die!) Just when I think the worst is over, Doc lady holds up one of those monstrous q-tips with what looks like honey-mustard goop’ed on it and says, “I’m just going to fill all the little holes in with this. It promotes healing and keeps you from bleeding.” I heard what she said but I got stuck on, “all the little holes,” part. All I could think about now was swiss cheese. Swiss cheese and honey-mustard… and ham. (yeah I went there) I guess on that fifth punch I won myself a vagina sandwich. Gross. Just gross. I’m never eating any of those food items again. Ever.

After all was said and done, she lowers the table and tells me, “Ok so, you might be a little sore, I’ll call you in a few days to let you know what we’re dealing with. Oh and nothing inside your vagina for a few days, no intercourse,” then adds a cheerful, “Have a good weekend, and help yourself to the items in the drawer.,” as she bounced out of the room. (Biiiiiitch, what?) I wanted to esssplain to her a few things like how “we’re” not dealing with anything, I am; and how there’s no room for anything else inside my personal delicatessen!! So no worries there, but instead I just smiled and waited for her to leave the room so I could get into the drawer where cheap, paper-thin tissues for cleaning off the goo.I know for a fact she said “panty liners” which to me suggested something small and very thin but lemme tell you this, the only thing those things were lining was the bottom of a Swiffer mop!! Ain’t no body got time for Swiffer pads and leggings.