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I Won’t Respect You in the Morning

I won't respect you in the morning


“If I have sex with you, I’ll never see you again.”


“Sure you will. I’m not that kind of guy.”


Isn’t that cute? He thought I was worried he would not respect me the morning after our “third date.”

The Dreaded Tip-Toe of Shame

the tip toe of shame the morning after

Shame on you.   You talked a little too much or a little too loud or in front of the wrong person.   You laughed a little too hard or a little too long or about the wrong person.   You drank a little too much or ate a lot too much because of the wrong person.   But other than a stain on your sleeve, the day ended with no damage.   Whatever you over-did is over-blown in your mind.   You went out by yourself.   Which, my friend, is not a crime. Or a sin. Or even noteworthy to anyone but you.   Everybody woke up where they were supposed to, in the appropriate attire, in the correct order.   You didn’t slink down the street after dawn or become a feast for gossip-hungry nosy-bodies.   You said...

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What’s it like to be Single At THIS Age? Hint: it doesn’t suck

Single at this age

What’s it like to be single at this age?


Even for someone who writes and reads and thinks about single* life in America, this is a tough question to answer.


Not because of my age, or yours. Because, regardless of age, the question I actually end up answering is, what is it like not to be married?


And that, my friends, drives me BAT. SHIT. CRAZY.

The Swede Who Loved Me

This is the story of the Swede Who Loved Me.


This is not a “ain’t single life fabulous” story. I hate them.


Don’t get me wrong; the unmarried-way works for me. I am even fabulous on occasion. But alone and awesome tales are usually considered pathetic attempts to convince myself that I am happy, while “what we did on vacation” is all the evidence of bliss a wedded couple needs.


Let’s get one thing straight. I am not happy. That’s my nature, not my marital status. I’m ok with it. Anxiety is my go-to emotion. If I am trying to convince myself otherwise, you better believe it’s on doctor’s orders.


If my marital status makes me anything, it’s interesting. Interesting as in, “your new haircut is interesting,” or “you are so cool and do the most interesting things.”


This is a story about the latter.

Why I Stopped Blogging

why I quit blogging


Blame the first doctor who told me I don’t have breast cancer for why I stopped blogging.




Or the second one, though the third was the most unpleasant.  Seeing her was not my idea. I was a mere cog in the Protocol machine.




Ironically, Protocol did not improve Dr. #3’s manners. Doctors should not scold patients. Especially when they can’t be bothered to read the notes they took the last time you were naked and examined.




Blame can also be placed on the fact that even not having breast cancer puts the hell in hellth-care. That bitch Protocol says I have to do drugs for half a decade, get felt up twice annually and expose the rest of me to enough extra radiation to nuke pizza.




If that die-namic duo is not enough to zap a gal’s blogging ability into oblivion, let’s add that oldie but goodie, the universal place to lay blame for every 8-year-old whose writing assignments also didn’t get written:




“The dog ate my homework.”

If This is Medical Protocol, I’d Rather Be Uncivilized!!!


Neither of us have been around here lately. Thanks for being polite enough not to mention how I haven’t given you too many reasons to stop by since the summer.



I’m going to assume you are also too polite to ask about the dearth of posts, not that you didn’t notice. You obviously adhere to protocols for a civilized society, which means you will also politely indulge my delusion of grandeur.



Pardon the expression but the last six months sucked. S.U.C.K.E.D.



Quick recap: Last time on, my left boob, aka the center of the universe, was under assault by medical professionals and their protocols, which, take it from me, are far from civilized.

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