Twitterdee, Twitterdum, Yes, Indeed, I’m Twittersome

I cannot share my feed, though, as it is a bit too revealing and while I do not mind sharing my innermost thoughts with you, random people who take a wrong turn, get lost, and find your way here… no one in my life knows I do this.  It is not a secret, though, I just haven’t figured out how to tell them.  I told my husband that I was going to start a blog (after it was already started, like, months ago), but he is not a “reader” and has not asked about it since, so we can assume that he will not be visiting.  As for my friends, well, how’s that supposed to go down?

Hey, y’all!  I’m a closet narcissist!  Read my blog where I talk about myself all the time!

Hey, friends, why don’t you take time out of your already busy lives to read my blog?  Because you can never get enough ME!

I guess if they asked, I would not lie about it, but you know, how does that question arise?

And there is no way in hell I’m telling my family.  My sister can’t keep a secret, my mother would NOT approve nor would that be a welcome commentary, and my brother is a DUDE.

I can, however, tell you all about who I follow on Twitter.  Here are some examples:

@johncusack   Because it’s John Cusack?  And he’s awesome?  He tweets a LOT, he responds to some tweets, and he is SUPER political.  Who knew?  What he lacks in humor, he makes up for in earnest activism.  I thought I was in love with him before, but now I really am.  Because he fights with trolls.  And wins.  He will not tweet me back, but that’s because he’s all smart n shit, and I’m all “you’re so cute, John, I love you and want to have your babies, John”.

@stevemartin  Because he is charming & funny, even on Twitter.   He does not respond to tweets, as best I can tell.

@nathanfillion  Because he is Castle.  And hot.  And sexy.  And sometimes he devotes entire days to twittering mediocre, oversimplified advice (his words) to questions random people tweet him.  He does it well.  He has staunchly ignored all of my tweets to him, but I will wear him down.  Mark my words, I will wear him down.

@HonestToddler  Because even though I do not have children, this is the funniest twitter shit I have ever read and I believe this person truly does channel the inner thoughts of their toddler.  Toddlers, of course, are borderline sociopath.  Cute!  Probably going to turn out okay!  But sociopath.

@TheBloggess  Because she is the most charming and disarming and hilarious of bloggers, and, frankly, I adore her.

@DalaiLama  Because.

@JimCarrey  Because he really is insane.  And maybe not in the good way.

@salmanrushdie  Because he is Salman. Fucking. Rushdie.

@Meryl_Streep  Because she never posts so it doesn’t clog up my twitter feed, but when she does, it’s Meryl… tweeting.  Can you imagine?

I know these are all celebrities or famous bloggers or whathaveyou, but what can I say?  Who else am I going to tell you about?  Aunt Mary?  Cuz she’s boring and you probably don’t want her giblet dressing recipe 140 characters at a time.

If you have any fun twitterers that you follow, I am game!  I try not to just add everyone willy-nilly because I want to be able to stay current on my feed, but I got some folks I could boot to make room, if you know what I mean.



Wherein I am wrong, and also addicted to Twitter

I was on the fence about publishing a post discussing my menstrual period, because, well…  I’m sure you understand.  Anyway, it may have been in bad taste and all, but I felt compelled to publish it anyway because I have updates which would not make any sort of sense if you did not have the back story.

I did end up going to the gynopoke and it went pretty well.  I mean, I had to take my clothes off and wear a backwards paper gown and spread my legs for a stranger (without cocktails), so it did not go super-fantastic, but as far as it could go well, it did.  The Doc was not all that happy with the condition of my feminine health.  No reason to think dire thoughts just yet, but she did send me home with pamphlets and prescriptions and a book recommendation.  It’s nothing so glamorous as an STD – it’s just plain old PCOS.  Of course, it’s totally untreated and always has been, but I will not take total responsibility for the lack of attention to my disorder.

The thing is, this whole obesity epidemic did not exist as we know it today, back in the 1980’s.  Back then, I was just a somewhat chubby chick.  So the only thing doctors would ever say to me was that I needed to lose weight.  Over and over again they said it.  And back then, a diet was grapefruit and Tab and possibly some OTC speed.  And dieting has never been my thing.

As the years have gone on, my weight has climbed.  And climbed.  And climbed.  In fact, if my weight were a person, it would be incredibly fit because it is a damn good climber.  It’s a fucking mountaineer.  Sadly, my weight is not a person, although it weighs as much as a person.  It’s just the suit I walk around wearing.  The other women in my family are all tiny, both in height and circumference, so I caught a whole bunch of flack for my weight.  That flack was more the normal sort of flack, but there was one person who served up some abnormal flack.  The details do not matter for this particular post, but suffice it to say that my father was not always a nice man.  He is dead now, so I’m free to talk about him.

But Daddy is a whole ‘nother topic.

Anyhoo, all doctors have treated me as if I were a lazy slob who needed to go on a diet and stop eating her way through box after box of Little Debbies.  While there may have been a grain of truth in some of the judgment I was subjected to, upon reflection, I do not believe that I am all that different from my friends or relatives.  I just have a metabolic disorder and they do not.  So if I eat a Little Debbie and my sister eats a Little Debbie, I end up wearing it around on my hips and she uses it as rocket fuel.  My hips then slow me down even further while she rockets ahead and the gap just keeps getting wider and wider.

I suspected a long, long time ago that there was some sort of disorder at work and self-diagnosed myself with PCOS ages before I ever had a doctor confirm my diagnosis.  I actually had to go through a handful of doctors before one even consented to considering it an option.  Then they saw it on the sonogram pictures clear as day.

My confidence in doctors’ abilities to see past their prejudices and actually diagnose illnesses has been pretty low, needless to say.  Plus, every time I found a gynecologist I actually liked, they either moved to Florida to take care of their ailing mothers or I lost my benefits and could not keep seeing them.  Not that I really cared because I had been undiagnosed and untreated for so long I figured that a few more years could not hurt.

I believe it may have cost me the chance to have children, though.

And I bet a lot of people will not believe what I am saying about the way doctors treated me, but hand to (probably enlarged) heart, it is the truth.  A younger relative of mine was diagnosed with PCOS in her teens and has never gone untreated.  But she had a parent who cared and a doctor who did not believe PCOS was a made-up condition.  She’s chubby, too, though, even with treatment.

The gynorast is most definitely the most disappointing of all medical experiences for me, so although I worked hard to talk myself out of going through with it, some damn grownup part of me insisted.   So I went.  Big dumb stupidhead.

Sidebar: by the way, my gyn…?  She is anti-birth control?  And pro-Natural Family Planning?  Because she’s super religious?  Have you ever heard of this?  Because I haven’t?  But whatevs?

Regardless, bless her pious heart, she actually took me seriously and started TREATING me.  Maybe she is a good doctor or maybe the medical community has, at some point in the last 10 years of my medical neglect, actually embraced PCOS, but hallelujah.  If I do not die soon, I may actually live!  Of course, I may have some other, more-pressing concerns to deal with, but we will not know about that until after further testing (coming soon, too a vagina near you!), but as for the PCOS (which I pronounce PEE-Cose, to annoy the doctors), she is all up on top of it.  Prescriptions and charts and “you have to come in for follow-ups” and whatnot.  Whatever, lady.  If you want to be all Doctory about it.

Also, she confirmed that a lot of what I’m doing nutritionally is a good idea and that I should keep on keeping on.

So anyway, my main reaction to all of this is, “oh, so that’s what it’s like when a doctor wants to help you get well.”   Who knew?

The table, the stirrups, the paper gown (that I took off Hulk-style, hell yes I did), was all super awkward, but was made so much better by good ole, trusty Twitter, which is able to provide entertainment in almost any situation!  However, the gynecologist, in a very embarrassing moment, did have to take my phone out of my hand and put it on her little speculum table because it was causing me to interfere with her attempts to scrape cells and whatnot from my uncooperative cervix.

Perhaps I have a small Twitter problem.  Or just a gynecological one.


PS.  In my younger years, I used to steal liberate the occasional plastic speculum from the gynecologist’s office and leave it on a coffee table or side table at my house, just to perplex people.  FYI, plastic speculums do not hold up to very much abuse and, in fact, do not make great duck puppets.  Just saying.

My pancakes bring all the boys to the yard…

Right, so I don’t cook well and by “pancakes”, I mean boobs.  Flat boobs.

I had my first mammogram today (jazz hands).  Yep.

First off, I have fears on the boob front.  I am big and my boobs are really big.  They are a cup size of the alphabet that a scrap of fabric cannot contain (e.g.G).  “H” on a bad day.  And Mom had boob cancer which she kicked to the curb handily, but she’s smaller and healthier and richer and retired.  And lucky.  And did what the doctors told her to do.  It takes a village.

Anyway, so big fears to go with my big boobs because of family history and my seemingly chronic fatigue and weird bumps on them and all that jazz.

Mammogram.  Jazz hands!

Second, I had no idea what to expect.  Now I do.  No biggie.

I took some pictures.  The first two I took accidentally.  Not sure how it happened, but okay.  I can roll with that.

Here is where you take your top off.   I may have cropdusted this room a little bit as my nerves make me toot.  And I had homemade burritos last night so you can guess the wake of stank I left behind me.



My head’s down in shame here for aforementioned cropdusting.



These were some handy instructions (get it? handy? eh? eh?) posted in the dressing room.  There is no hand-washing involved in a mammogram, but thankfully, this sign explains that washing your hands means washing your hands.  There was some pit-washing however, in my case, because DAMN.  Burritos + nerves + not allowed to wear deodorant = B. effin O.  And no little boob-fondling xray lady needs to smell that crap.


And lastly, here she is…  the Squishomatic 4000…


It didn’t hurt.   I hear the little-boobed ladies have more trouble with it.  For me, it was more of a… plop.  There you go.  Get to squishing.

Now the hard part… WAITING.  I hear tell that a lot of first mammograms require follow ups because they are trying to figure out if all your little booby-quirks are normal and not dangerous, but that seems pretty crazy-making in light of the fear machine that is steadily pumping worries into my brain.  My doctor swears she is going to call me tomorrow, mostly because she felt really bad that last time I went in for blood work it took her TWO MONTHS  and FOUR PHONE CALLS to get her to tell me my results.  Of course, in light of that experience, I am understandably doubtful as to her potential to deliver on her promise.

But she damn well better or I will go all bitch on her ass.


Well, any old excuse to be a bitch will do.

So, I have not watched Oprah since she went and tried to be her own network, but I was browsing around on the TV’s guide and saw that she was going to be discussing past life regression on some show.

Wait wait hold up, before I get to that, can I just tell you that I believe Oprah has made a terrible, really ginormous, bad mistake naming her network OWN?  For realz, people, because we all already feel just a teensy bit owned.  And she’s calling us out on it.  She has so much money she gives cars to theaters full of people.  I, however, am too broke to even win a car from Oprah because it would require travel and hotels and tickets and not working for a day.  At any rate, she would have been a lot better off naming her network OWW (Oprah Winfrey World) or NOW (Network of Oprah Winfreyness) or WIO (Whatever, It’s Oprah) or WOW (Wow) or virtually anything besides her owning some shit.  She has a whole bunch of people working for her, right?  Like, the best and the brightest, I would assume.  And access to test audiences and survey people?  You have to know that someone, somewhere along the way must have felt a little uncomfortable with Oprah OWNing it, but I bet they were just too afraid to say anything because you don’t want to look like a whiney ass in THAT meeting when everyone else is all, “oh yes, Oprah, that sounds wonderful, but Carl over here is afraid that someone might take it wrong that the richest lady in America wants to own OWN.”  I guess the intention could be about “owning” yourself or your life or whathaveyou, but there’s no divorcing the word own from its most common meaning.

And I believe the ratings for OWN could maybe prove me out.  Amirite?

So anyway, I caught a blurb about a show on past life regression and set my DVR to record, stat, because hello?  How do you NOT watch that?  But when I went to watch the show it was about some lady I had never heard of who was saying some kind of really wacky stuff about shadows and light chasers, so I held my channel-changing hand back a minute.  I admit, I did expect something ultra new age involving light sabers.

Apparently, this Debbie Ford person that Oprah was interviewing has written some books about embracing the shadows that live in all our souls.  And I have shadows.  Like, at the end of the day, it is probably fair to say that I am a bit of a bitch.  No, really.  That is not to say that I am also not a nice or good person, it’s just to say that the word “bitchy” is not entirely inappropriate with regards to my personality, on occasion.

I have struggled with it –  this being bitchy business.  I mean, it’s a terrible thing to be so of course I agonize often about what to do to cure myself of being a bitch.  Who wants to be a bitch?  Plus, it really pisses me off when someone calls me one.  Most of my friends never experience my bitchiness (because I like them?), but my husband does (no escape).  My coworkers do (insufferable).  Random strangers who cross me (mistake!) and people at the cable company sure as shit do (obvs).  I tell myself that I am assertive or direct or honest, and those things are true, for sure.  (Not honest in the “gee, you look so ugly with that new haircut” sort of honest, because I’m not a bad person), but you know, you never really have to wonder if I’m mad at you or not.  You definitely will know if I am mad at you.  It will be clear the moment you step over the line with me and you may get smacked-the-hell back onto your side of the line.

Let me be clear, though, I am not some sort of feelings-assassin or anything.  I do not lay in wait and look for opportunities to snipe at people or attack out of the blue and say cruel things – that is not the sort of bitch I am talking about here.  I am talking about the kind of person who is good and decent at heart, but ornery and not willing to take your shit.  You know, the kind of woman who is getting real. sick. of your shit.  That kind of bitch.  As much as I try to overcome my bitchiness, I just can’t seem to be NOT a bitch.  The harder I try, the more I remain the same.

But here is this Debbie Ford person talking about embracing your dark side.  What?

Oh boy does THIS sound like a good idea!  Clearly, in the near future I will be trying to track down one of her books, because if someone can let me off the hook, that’d be great.  And how did I not know about her before?  I don’t really travel in self-help circles as a rule, so it’s not completely inexplicable that the existence of these books would escape me, but I do get around a bit – enough to think I would have heard at least a little about books that give you permission to be a bitch.  If that’s what they say.

Let’s hope that’s what they say.

Actually, if I’m completely honest, I might travel in self-help circles a teensy bit as my mother is a psychologist and a certified smarty pants who probably has read every book in the self-help library.  But I don’t listen to her too much because…

Wait wait hold up.  Huh.

Now HERE is a crossroads.

Do I tell you about my mother?  Do I assume that I will blog with the aegis of an unknown and unread blogger forever or do I assume that someday it will matter that I wrote, not necessarily flatteringly, about my mother for all on the interwebs to read?

That is quite a dilemma.

Suffice it to say that the rest of that unfinished sentence would, whether I intended it to or not, make my mother uncomfortable at a minimum and possibly really hurt and/or angry with me.  Which might make me a bitch.

Anyhoo, stream of consciousness is really a lot of fun, by the way, but let me circle back for a second and inform you that Debbie Ford, a person that I never knew existed until yesterday, actually died about a week ago, so if you know who she is or have read her books, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.  She had cancer and the cancer won.

And not to make light of it (truly), but I heard Norm MacDonald tell a joke once about dying wherein he stated that in his opinion, one does not lose a battle to cancer, because if one dies from it, the cancer also dies from it, so in fact it’s a tie.  He has a point.

But I really am not making a joke about Debbie Ford dying of cancer.  It’s not funny, it’s sad.   That said, I cannot control where my brain goes.  Although, I probably could control where my fingers go because I don’t type on a Ouija board, but I chose to not do so does that make me a bitch?


Meanwhile, here’s what it looks like when I watch OWN while working.


If menstruation bothers you, stop now…

How is it that I can go eons without a real period and then right after I pull the trigger on a long-overdue pelvic exam… I turn into a hallway of the Overlook Hotel?

Y’all know by now that I have health problems (or you could know that if you went back and read some old posts – not that I’m suggesting you do that because BOR-ING – but since you could know it, I’m going to assume you do).  But none of my health problems are diagnosed (well, not none, some of them were diagnosed a long time ago).  However, being self-employed, chunky and having health problems pretty much means that unless I have a husband with benefits, I can’t get no satisfaction benefits.  I have a husband now, but due to various layoffs and general market economy-ness, we went quite a while without benefits.  I would like to tell you that I am responsible enough to continue seeing a gynecologist without benefits, but I am not.

See, I got it into my head that if I went to the doctor a lot and if the doctor found lots of issues, that I would never again be able to get coverage for those issues.  This idea was reinforced when I had an eyeball issue a while back.  Right before I got married, i.e. right before the day I was supposed to wear a white, poofy dress made of tulle and fairy dust – a day when glasses would have been very-horribly-much NOT what I wanted to wear because I don’t look cute in glasses, I look dumb, I developed a spot on my eye that hurt when I wore contacts.  It was a Saturday and I was all freaked out because, you know, impending nuptial doom and such, so I flipped through the phone book (okay, looked it up on the internet) and found this little guy who was actually open.  He was, however, Korean and did not speak English.  Apparently, on Buford Highway – a very diversely ethnic street in this town – you can find eye doctors that work on Saturdays.  So Eye Dr. Korean squirts shit in my eye in sort of an attack-style of doctoring, peers through various magnifying things at said ball of eye, and says in broken English, “damage cornea, put drops, no contacts several weeks” and sends me on my way.  No idea what sort of damage was done, but I was still psyched that it was a “drops for a few weeks” sort of condition.  So I dropped diligently and then got married in contacts.

But my eyeball problem came back (3 times) and off I went in search of English-speaking doctors.

Right about this time, we got benefits again.  Yay!  So I tried to use them, but I was shot down for pre-existing condition.  Okay, fair enough.  But then every time I went to the eye doctor for anything at all – dry eye, itchy eye, different hurty eye, I was shot down.  Pretty much, my insurance just wasn’t going to pay a damn thing for my eyes ever again.

And that became my best rationalization for not going to the gynecologist.  Which, as experiences goes, is really awful (amirite?!) and, without benefits, really expensive.  So I skipped it.  For.. uh… several years.

I have KNOWN gynecological problems, so not-going has turned into this sort of pathological mix of shame and terror and knowingness that I must go someday and probably should make it soon, but am unable to make myself do so.

Now that I have benefits again, I have made every doctor appointment that I can think of and most of them are this coming week.  Including the gynomonster.  Which I dread with a dread that is akin to checking into the Overlook Hotel, by yourself, at night, after Jack has gone crazy and hacked up all the other guests.  And irony, now the halls are gushing blood.

Clearly, I cannot keep this appointment – what is she going to do, part the red sea and swim up to my cervix?  Probably shouldn’t let my primary care lady take blood this week, either, because, you know, blood loss…

It was damned hard to make those appointments in the first place, people.  Fat girls with lists and lists and lists of health problems do not want to go to the gyno or the primary.  It ain’t nothing but an exercise in humiliation and judgment for us combined with dismissive treatment and no real help for our problems.  Both hopeless and disheartening, if you know what I mean.  With a side of abject terror.  I may never work up the gumption to schedule it again, I swear it.

I told you I would over share, right?  Pretty sure I said that.  And now I’ve done it.


1st visit to the farmer’s market after all my education…

I did end up getting to go the Decatur Farmer’s Market !  So nice!  It was really windy and cold (you know, for Atlanta), but it was still fun. Turns out, I actually like talking to the farmer’s market people and asking them about their stuff.  It was lean pickings, being February and all, but most of the stuff I expected to see was actually there!  This makes me excited for Spring and Summer ventures to the various markets around here.

So I got this stuff:


Butter, raw cheddar cheese, and homemade whole wheat sourdough.

And this stuff:


Local honey, white balsamic dressing/marinade, and basil infused olive oil.  So I’m pretty sure the balsamic and olive oil aren’t local, and these were total impulse purchases.  For fun, you know.  But the honey is local and amazingly delicious.  The honey guy had several different types (flavors?) of honey, all of which could be sampled and the wildflower honey is possibly the best honey I have ever had, hence the jumbo-sized bottle.  Plus, allergy season is coming, so it’s time to start honey loading.

And also, I got this stuff:


Sweet potatoes, green onions, and carrots.  I didn’t get huge amounts of these, because the hubs eats none of this stuff unless I sneak it into a stir fry or something.  I think I’ll probably keep the carrots out for salads and make mashed sweet potatoes for myself.  The green onions I’ll never get through before they go bad unless I slice them and tray freeze them, so that’s the plan there.

Notes on prices:  the veggies are cheap.  The honey is pretty cheap.  The fancy dressings and oils are NOT cheap and not something I would buy with any regularity.  If the basil olive oil is good, I may just make my own this summer, so this purchase was more of an experiment than anything else.  I absolutely SUCK (suckity suck suck) at making salad dressings myself, so I splurged here.  For the record, I do not know why I suck at salad dressings.  Everyone on the internet says it’s so easy and that the dressings taste so good, but mine always taste crappy.  I don’t like store-bought dressings, either, but I love all the restaurant ones, so I don’t know what gives.  I guess I’m incredibly picky about salad dressing.  But every time I say that in public, some helpful soul insists that I should just squeeze lemon on my salad, but I gotta be honest… eh.  At any rate, I’m on a quest to find a good salad dressing recipe.  Any help you can provide would be greatly appreciated.

Anyhoo, back to prices..  the dairy is also not cheap, but if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that one should reserve judgement until they’ve tried something (hello, pastured eggs?).  So I will let you know if the jury convicts or acquits on the pricey dairy.

Lessons learned today:

1.  Do not go to the farmer’s market hungry.  You may think that open air markets are exempt from this rule, but they are NOT.

2.  Skip the tables of bottled/prepared stuff, unless you are just looking to blow some money on impulse buys.  I don’t really need them, and really don’t have time to be rationalizing that shit after the fact.

3.  Do try samples of things that you normally do purchase, for example, the honey.  I would’ve bought tupelo honey today, but turns out, the wildflower honey was rocking my world.  I seriously could eat that stuff with a spoon.  I don’t even like honey all that much.  But now I want to find a recipe that calls for tons of honey so I have a vehicle of delivery to my mouth that is not just opening wide and squeezing it in.

4.  Try to have a plan for what sort of stuff you need.  Today is a bad example for me because it was an exploratory mission.  (The honey guy sells pastured chicken eggs, but he always runs out early.  Also, he charges $6/dozen which is exactly what Whole Foods charges, so I guess now I know and can keep it mind.  If I’m at WF and need eggs, great.  If I’m at the market and need eggs, I need to go early.

There you go!


Begging for Xanax on other blogs is the 2nd sign…

The first sign that you are in a really, really, really bad mood is yelling at your husband and halfway through actually pausing to wonder what, EXACTLY, is making you so mad.

You will note that I said “halfway”.  As in, I kept going even after I figured out that I had no idea why the hell I was so mad.

Righteous, poorly-placed, anger!

After a few minutes of reflection, I feel bad about it, although what’s done is done.  It’s not like I can wipe it from his memory, so I guess I just need to wipe it from mine.  Which reminded me of the Bloggess‘ (Bloggesses’?) post yesterday about Xanax, as clearly nothing but pharmaceuticals can help me, now.  I had nothing clever, or even remotely valuable, to add to the comments on her site yesterday, but today it occurs to me that my only real thoughts about it are that I am jealous?  Because I need some?

(Her taking Xanax is clearly about me, people.  Isn’t everything?)

So, yeah, I might have left a comment demanding some of her stash and that is the 2nd sign that I am in a bad mood.

What I have come to realize lately, actually mostly because of this-here blog, is that I am angry.  I call it “ornery”, because I’m southern, but really, I am just angry.  And I am not sure what to do about it!  

And I’m not sure why.