Tag Archives: Lord Ormsby

The Crooked Kiss

Something has happened to my face.

On Saturday, I went to the grocery store.  I got groceries.  It started to rain.  I didn’t want to wait for it to stop, so I ran to my car, threw the groceries in, put the cart away, got back inside and was soaked… It’s rained a lot here lately.  This was the second time I’d been soaked in my car in two days in a row.  Pulled out my phone to take a selfie to send to Ormsby and noticed that my mouth was off.

Like… crooked.  I checked to make sure I wasn’t accidentally holding it that way.  I wasn’t.  Tried moving it.  It moved back in place (yes, I realize I sound like Potato Head here) but then went crooked again.

It wasn’t that bad… not that noticeable… but I noticed it and I didn’t send the selfie.

By the time Ormsby got home that night, it was even worse.  My right eye was droopy.  My mouth was curved into this involuntary half-smile.  I looked like a stroke patient.

I attributed it to stress.  Because this is what happens when I get stressed out.  Well, not this specifically, but weird shit like this.  In 2006, before my wedding, I lost my ability to walk.  My legs started just… burning… from the inside out.  Like if you imagine a log that’s thrown onto a bonfire and it’s hot and red underneath the bark that’s not really burning yet… that’s what it felt like.  The doctors thought I had MS or a brain tumor.  I definitely did not have a brain tumor.  A second opinion ruled out MS too.

But as the wedding got closer, it got worse and worse until I could barely walk.  My father had to practically support me as I got down the aisle and if it hadn’t been for the prednisone and the valium I don’t know if I’d have made it at all.

It dissipated after several months.  I’d have flare ups now and again, but never like that one time and I joked (after the divorce) that my body just as an adverse reaction to marriage.

It happened again in 2012 when my company was being transferred to Allstate and I was I was in a relationship with 3.0 (who never seemed to be satisfied with who I was or what I was doing).  I didn’t think it was that stressful, really… but then I woke up one morning with double vision.  And a droopy eye.  I think it might have been my right eye then, but I don’t remember.  Again, I got diagnosed with a potential brain tumor or with MS and I went through the whole MRI thing again.  No brain tumor.  Four Xanax and a Contrast MRI later, no MS.  No one could figure out what it was.  We attributed it to stress.

It disappeared by November.

Then Saturday happened.  I spent all day Sunday on the couch… sleeping mostly… waking up once in a while to look at my face.  It was severely depressing to look at – swollen, pulsating (twitching), I did, in fact, look like a stroke patient.  Ormsby begged me to go to a doctor; I didn’t want to at first – I knew what they’d say.  More MRIs, only to find that there’s nothing visibly wrong with me except that I have an anxiety disorder (which we all know).

But by Monday, when this wasn’t any better, and actually got worse the second I walked into work, I told HR that I needed to leave to go to a doctor immediately (she agreed… I looked like shit).  And so I spent the afternoon in the doctor’s office.

Long story short, she thinks I have neuropathy.  Caused by stress and anxiety.  I’ve been referred to a neurologist so they can do some electro-test thing on my brain.  But it’s hard to get into a neurologist here so by the time I get seen, the symptoms will probably have dissipated again (like they do) and I can only hope this partial paralysis doesn’t last.

I think the worst thing is what it’s done to my self esteem.  I don’t even like to look in the mirror anymore.  I hid away in my office all day and internally cringed when my coworkers called me “Droopy.”  Even though I know they didn’t mean anything by it, it brought up too many memories of getting made fun of at school as a child.

Ormsby still seems to be attracted to me, and things are fine here.  Better than fine, actually.  Unlike 3.0, he’s told me he’s not leaving me just because I have some stupid neurological disorder.  And I believe him.  Still, I can’t help but wonder if, when we kiss, it feels as crooked to him as it does to me… Though I know that, even if it did, he’d still kiss me anyway.  Because that’s what love is.  And he’s pretty fantastic that way.

BotCon 2016

Flashback to about three years ago – The Botboy Era.  He was away.  I was taking his newly-purchased toys into my bedroom closet for safekeeping.  He kept talking about this convention called “BotCon” (a convention for all-things TransFormers (and their collectors)) and, when he got his Golden Ticket (an exclusive pass to the convention), he was over the moon.  The only concern was whether he was going to get back in time to go.

Things happened – we didn’t talk for awhile.  I assume he went – he certainly spent enough money on that ticket so that it would have been a shame if he hadn’t.  After we got back in touch, I may have even asked if he went; I don’t remember.  I wouldn’t say I quite forgot about the convention, but it was held in San Diego… far away from me and, while I became interested in the toys, the comics, and even the original TV show (until Netflix took it down – Fuck you, Netflix), I wasn’t interested enough to get on a plane and fly all that way for something like that.  (BlizzCon?  That’s a totally different story.)

Flash-forward again.  I’ve since left Tampa.  I don’t talk to Botboy anymore… haven’t heard a word out of him since August 2014, before I moved and when I told him about Ormsby.  True to his word, back in early 2014, as soon as he found out that I was seeing someone else, he’s never spoken to me again.  As tempted as I was to reach out to him when I was there for a visit a few weeks back, just to see how he was doing, I resisted it.  Sometimes, maybe, the past is best left in the past, I thought.

But, then, randomly, I found out that in 2016, for some absurd reason, BotCon was coming to Louisville.  I was sorely tempted to go – but Ormsby and I already had plans out of town.  When those plans fell through, however, it was like a green light signaled “go” and I began to seriously consider going.  Understand: I wouldn’t have if the convention had been anywhere EXCEPT where I live.  I still have an interest in Giant Robots, I need to revive the Adventures of Prowl series (and I will soon), and seriously, the only real regret I have about Botboy is that I did not ask him for the full reading list of those comics he started me on years ago so I could continue on my own, because I’d be lost if I started them now.  Further, as much as I heard about it in 2013, as integral it was to the conversations (and the websites I’d visit, and the phone numbers I’d call, trying to investigate when those Golden Tickets were going to go on sale), I felt like I NEEDED to see it for myself.  I had no interest in buying a Golden Ticket – they are very expensive, and while I like the Robots, I am not a mega-enough fan to justify spending that kind of money on something like that.  But General Admission would be Saturday and Sunday and I could swing that.  And pay for Ormsby’s ticket too.

So on Saturday, it was decided that Ormsby and I would first go to the U of L Honors Book sale on campus, and then head downtown to the Galt House for BotCon.  I didn’t have any desire to go to any of the panels.  Watching the people dressed up in TransFormers costumes was pretty awesome (and also pretty hysterical).


And we had fun trailing through the rows of things to buy.

Retail Area

Ormsby found instances where TransFormers met Star Wars and he was happy.  I found a woman who sews and embroiders Giant Robots and bought Starscream.  A few rows down, I found Bumblebee (in a Red, VW Beetle).  I purchased both, because they both have meaning for me – Starscream being my favorite.  Red VW Beetles being an interest that my father and I share.  Though, when I sent my father a photo of it, I think I was more amused than he was.  Dad might get more excited about it if I ever took it out of the box and let him play with it, but I simply can’t do that.  Even I don’t take it out of the box.  Those damned habits picked up well in the past (that have little to do with me) are hard to shake sometimes.  I should have purchased two.  Then I’d have one to play with.  But Christ, that shit is not cheap.  And bills.  Fucking bills.

SSPlushie  TakaraRedBB

Then, happy but a little more broke than I intended to be, we left.  Because my god, if we’d stayed longer, I’d have spent my entire paycheck that I’d gotten on Friday and I had bills to pay.

If Botboy came to Louisville for this, he didn’t contact me.  I didn’t expect him to. And when we were at the convention, I didn’t see him meandering around, either.  Preferring to avoid the awkward, I was really ok with that, but Ormsby was a little disappointed (he, apparently, would like to meet him for some odd reason). He really wanted me to tell him where to find his Facebook profile so he could send him a message and tell him that he should go to dinner with us… Because a dinner with Botboy, Lord Ormsby, and Crazypants (me) at the same table would be… loads of fun… yes.  :S

I don’t know if I was expecting to run into him or not… I guess I was prepared for the possibility that we would.  Or, at least, prepared in the same way the way that water is prepared to move through a tube – seeking the path of least resistance… meaning if he’d spoken to me, I’d have responded.  If he didn’t, I wouldn’t have pushed it.  It didn’t really matter.  Running into Botboy wasn’t the point in the first place.  I knocked something off the bucket list (more cheaply than I would have if it had been in any other city, at any other time).  I have some things to remember the experience by.  I’m good with that.

Next on the list is BlizzCon…  and for that, when I finally manage to make it happen, you better believe I WILL be buying a fucking Golden Ticket. Or whatever they hell they’re called there. And I’ll be costumed as some of my own characters.

Ashley Madison’s Revelation

Cheating is stupid.

Cheating on people that have the know-how and the motivation to find what they need to find (ie: nerds – particularly the hacker kind) takes the word “stupid” to a whole other level.

And the people that made profiles on Ashley Madison… a site that bases its money, its reputation, its livelihood on selling extramarital affairs?  Well… let’s just say that, in my opinion, they got what they deserved.

Because cheating… no matter the circumstance… is never okay.  “What about the people in open relationships?” you may ask.  Well, if they are open to begin with and both parties agree to that openness, then you can’t call that “cheating.”

Cheating is done willfully, for many motivations, but, no matter how you spin it, it grows out of ego… out of selfishness… out of an inability to consider the other person in the relationship, and to put their needs, their feelings above your own.

And if it’s retaliatory cheating?  It’s still not an excuse – because cheating is something you don’t EVER have to tolerate.  You can just leave the relationship… Leaving solves a lot of problems in that instance: the spouse/significant other that was cheating is no longer cheating, you don’t have to deal with their selfish ass anymore – not to mention you’ve opted out of all of the suspicion and drama you’d probably deal with after you “worked it out.” And, of course, there’s the knowledge that, if you find someone else you want to date, you can do so freely – without the constraints of another relationship, without worrying about the lies, and the sneaking around, and the bullshit that is inevitably associated with something that is dishonest.

So I didn’t feel sorry for the people that had all of their information published.  Why should I?  I do not cheat.  Even when I was in a marriage that was completely and totally useless, I never cheated.  And if I find out that someone has cheated on me?  I fucking leave.  End of story.

Still… I have a lot of exes.  And there’s been some suspected infidelity involved with those exes (theirs, not mine). I got a little curious… and I tried to get my hands on that list.  Or, at least, a way to filter through that 10 gigs of data, because even I don’t have that much spare time or inclination to look at EVERYONE’S names (though admittedly, that would have been a wealth of blog fodder to go on for the next five years).

When I finally found a search engine that would let me find users by the email addresses they used to subscribe, I knew which address I wanted to run first.  Botboy’s.  I can’t say why… I can’t even say that I was going to be surprised if it did.  Because if any of my exes had a profile up there, I knew it would have been him.  And something in me knew exactly which of his many email addresses he’d use if he were going to sign up for that site…

And on my first try, I got a hit.  Photo attached for those of you that need proof – or as much proof as I’m willing to give.  You’ll have to trust me here.


Now… like the site says, I can’t prove that he signed up for this (perhaps it’s not him at all).  I can’t even prove that if this really is him, he signed up for this when he and I were talking… this could be a holdover from his prior marriages for all I know.  Or it could have happened long after I left Tampa.  But that’s not the point.  The point is that this speaks volumes about his character.

And, as I also predicted, I wasn’t surprised.  I laughed, actually.  And when Ormsby asked me who that email address belonged to, I told him.  And he laughed too.

Because, you see, I made a decision over a year ago now based on one conversation in a parking lot that I had with Ormsby.  It was June 2014, and I was getting on a plane to go back to Tampa.  Ormsby and I had spent that weekend together and, not wanting to leave him hanging… the way that so many of my predecessors had, I asked him what he wanted me to do about it.  I gave him the option, you see, of having me… of foregoing the “waiting” that I was doing for a (or so I thought) deployed Botboy.

Rather than take what I was offering, Ormsby said the thing that set him apart from any other person I have ever dated: that he didn’t want to do anything, or make any decisions, as long as I was waiting for Botboy… that he could not do that to someone that was in his position.

And as I sat there on the plane, heading home, back to work, back to waiting for Botboy, I realized something: Ormsby was the better man.  Because what he’d said, what he’d done for Botboy – a man he didn’t even know… a man that, truthfully, didn’t even deserve that kind of consideration… that is something Botboy would NEVER have done for him if the tables had been turned.

This Ashley Madison revelation… it was further proof of what I already knew.  And now that that’s all behind me, I didn’t really NEED the proof.  I already HAD the proof – a year and a half of waiting for absolutely nothing, of being left hanging, of being, in essence, the fallback girl… that was all the proof I really needed.  And even though the Botboy chapter has, in all honesty, been closed ever since I chose to fly up to Louisville in July of 2014 to save Ormsby instead of waiting for the Botboy, who was due back in town at any moment, it still felt good to see the confirmation, in all its glory, on a computer screen.

The Start of Something New

I’d really been missing Tampa lately.  And for the life of me, I couldn’t really figure out why.  Because the weather in Kentucky during the summer is just as hot as (if not a little smellier than) it is in Florida.  The humidity is still sticky, the roads are just as crowded.  And of course, when I was in Tampa, all I ever really wanted (or worked for) was a stable relationship… and I never truly found it.  But, then, I had enough income there to keep me satisfied… and so the only thing I really NEEDED to work for was finding a relationship that was great enough to keep.

Some days I’d miss the weather (who wouldn’t?).  Other days I’d miss the Dunkin Donuts that I’d stop at once or twice a week on my way to work.  Or I’d miss getting to hang out with my friends on weekends. Most of all, though, I’d miss my apartment.  It was the first place that I’ve ever had that *really* belonged to me.  That I had outfitted all by myself.

I’d walk in the front door, into my living room.  My TV, with its cable box humming happily below as it recorded stuff on the DVR, would be the first thing I saw, sitting next to my five shelf bookcase.  To my right would be my constantly-extended futon (it seemed more practical to have it in bed mode instead of couch mode) with my laptop sitting on top of it, waiting for a World of Warcraft session.  On the far right wall would be my seven foot tall bookshelf, and the floor to ceiling (pretty much) windows) – a lamp in front, on an antique table, my grandmother’s old trunk at its base, as well as  book overflow that did not fit on the two bookshelves. (Books organized alphabetically by author’s last name.)

On the left would be my dining area, with my kitchen table (circa 2002 – when I got my first condo) set up neatly… sometimes looking as if it were a dining room table with tablecloths and placemats.  Or, sometimes, depending on the phase of the moon, would hold my altar cloth and candles… oils… tarot… whatever I’d be working with that month.  The kitchen existed next to the dining area, with a fridge full of whatever it was I’d be eating that week, and a pantry that held not only dry and baking goods but also my laundry machines.

Further back you’d have my bathroom, decorated in Alice and Wonderland décor (most of it things I created myself).  And my bedroom… with its red and black comforter and sheet set, my filing cabinet, my nightstands and another (much older) TV with my Roku and Netflix for watching before I fell asleep.

And let’s not forget my balcony… a screened in porch that sat off my living room, where my cat and I would sit, watching the water spray up from the lake behind the complex… she’d be watching the ducks.  I’d be painting.

You could walk in the door and you’d know, immediately, that I was a girl who liked to read.  I was a girl that would occasionally relax with the television (for select shows) but more often than not spent the evenings whiling away her time on the patio with her paintings and creativity… or gaming… or else cooking up something in the kitchen. And that’s what Tampa stood for to me… it was a life I’d created all on my own, it revolved around me and what I wanted to do, and my house, like everything else, reflected who I was and the things that were the most important to me.

But then I realized… when I really got down to it, when I really thought about it, it wasn’t TAMPA I missed at all.  It had very little to do with the town itself, but more or less the fact that I was missing the things that I had created, had specifically chosen, to do because they represented who I was.  It was going to the places downtown that I loved because I loved them.  It was having my little quirks and hobbies.  It was having my apartment, full of my stuff, that I had created into a refuge for myself to exist in, on good days and bad days.

I’d chosen to leave it for Ormsby.  And I don’t regret, not even for a minute, doing what I had to do to make Ormsby a permanent fixture in my life.  Because if I had not moved, he and I would not be doing this.  Life with him has been worth it.  But that’s the thing… my life has, at least since I moved, revolved around him.  Around his business.  Around his hobbies.  Because I have to save money; I still have to pay my bills (particularly my storage one, because some day I WILL have my space back, and I will want all of my things). Until then, what I had was World of Warcraft and the running that I do.  WoW was paid for.  The running is free.  It wasn’t everything, but I was pretty satisfied.

Finding employment, at least until this last week, has been a challenge.  And so I re-enrolled at the University of Louisville as a full time student last month, hoping to get a second degree that would make finding a job easier.  I’ve been looking forward, since then, to having those classes… having something that I could do on my own.  I kept applying to places, but was content to settle with a part time job that would coincide with school.

At least until last Friday.  I got the call that changed everything – a law firm that I’d applied to and interviewed with two months ago called me at 8:30 to offer me a position.  It was exactly the position I’d been looking for ever since I moved – Training and Technical Writing… full benefits… and a salary that is equal to the salary that I left behind in Tampa.  I thought about it for a weekend… only because I was dead set on school and I wasn’t sure whether I could balance them both.  But today I accepted it.  And I downgraded my school schedule from full time to part time… I still want that degree.  I see the benefit in HAVING that degree. For the sake of making myself more marketable in the field I’m in now, but also for the possibility of branching into others.

I don’t intend to move out of the apartment I now share with Ormsby.  This was only supposed to be until I got on my feet, but we like living together. And to be honest, I can’t imagine my life without him anymore.  But I have the essence of myself back… or at least I have the part that made self-sufficiency possible.  Because, see, I like being with Ormsby because I CHOOSE to be with Ormsby… not because I depend on him for survival.

My stuff is still in storage, yes, and it will stay there for the foreseeable future until I can pay down some debt and recoup my finances from eight months of job seeking, and until I can find a bigger place for us to live.  But I don’t have to consider which necessities to sacrifice for others.  I don’t have to stay away from Victoria’s Secret or Smoothie King anymore.  I can, in essence, afford the little things that make life pleasant, and therein, be more satisfied (even though I will be crazy busy).

Everything (school and work) starts August 24.

I can hardly wait.  🙂

The Difference A Year Can Make

Almost a decade ago, I met a photographer in a coffee shop to talk about a magazine he was starting up in the Louisville area.  We became friends but lost contact when I got married.

Eight and a half years after we met, we reconnected and shared our first kiss in the parking lot of the hotel I’d rented for the weekend.  Two days after that, we decided we couldn’t keep our pants on around each other anymore, had really awesome sex, and I extended my trip by a day so we could have more time together.

We lived in two different states, and neither of us thought (or planned) for things to go anywhere beyond that weekend, except maybe a rendezvous when I visited Kentucky for the holidays.

Boy were we wrong.

Six months after our first kiss, I moved back to Kentucky and in with him, and we made things Facebook official.

A full year after that first kiss and nine and a half years after we first met, we are on our way to New Orleans – for both business and a vacation.

Life is pretty good.

Ten Ways You Know You’ve Found the Right Guy

10.  He loves your cooking. Like… even if you think you’ve completely fucked up a dish, he’ll eat it anyway, and will genuinely like it.

(Granted, it probably STILL tastes better than anything he could possibly make for himself.)

9.  You feel like you won the fucking lottery every morning. Even if your bank account is on Empty, you have no viable job offers, and the only real plans you have for that day are making him a toasted turkey sandwich with bacon and maybe watching “Grace and Frankie” that night.

8.  The sex is so amazing that you’re still thinking about it hours later. In fact, it’s so amazing that thinking about it hours later got you both so turned on that you did it again. And the cycle continues…

(Also, you can do it every day, multiple times a day, and you still aren’t tired of him.)

7.  Conversations sometimes take the form of completely incoherent noises and you both still understand each other perfectly.

6.  When planning vacation budgets, he budgets for all your oddities… like Voodoo supplies and a new Tarot deck. Even if he has no idea what any of those things are for, and thinks you’re weird for using them.

5.  He makes your boobs grow. Not because you’re pregnant. Not because you’ve had work done.  But because you’re going through another puberty.  And neither of you has any legitimate explanation for that other than maybe once he thought to himself, “I wish these were just a tad bit bigger.”

4.  He tells you you’re sexy. Often. Even when you’ve just rolled out of bed wearing sweatpants, a baggy shirt, your hair is a royal mess, and you haven’t decided for sure whether or not you’re actually awake for good.

3.  The best part of your day is waking up with him… and going to bed with him… even if he smacks you in his sleep in the middle of the night.

2.  He’s worth breaking every single one of your dating rules for… and the only time you even think about them anymore is to wonder why you stuck to them so rigidly in the first place.

1.  Almost a year after your first date, the only real regret you have is that you didn’t get together sooner.

Snow Misadventures: The Shitstorm

A continuation of Part I: Snow Misadventures: The Lost Tampon


Part II: Snow Misadventures: Lord Ormsby’s Story

Once again, a reminder: I am Accident Prone

And, again, a forewarning.  This post really IS TMI in nature and you are easily grossed out or offended, you might not want to read this one.

It was close to 1 a.m. when we found the place he wanted to go to.  My stomach was feeling kind of weird by the time we got there, so I decided to let him do this one by himself while I stayed in the car (that was still on, so I’d stay warm) and waited for him.  He got his gear and disappeared into the dark and I sat there, watching YouTube, reading Facebook, reading books on my phone, playing poker, doing the shit I do to keep myself amused.  An hour passed.  He wasn’t back.  And that little stomach twinge?  That was quickly turning into a situation.  I had had to pee for a while… but now it looked like a shitstorm was coming, and if he didn’t get back so that I could find a bathroom, his car was going to smell like an outhouse.

I called his phone.  The cold makes his phone battery die.  He didn’t answer.  I dialed it again for good measure.  No answer.  Fuck.

I tried to honk the horn, but couldn’t find the sweet spot on the steering wheel that would make it work.  Also, being a highly paranoid individual, I didn’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention, so I may not have tried all that hard.

I opened the car door, got out, and yelled for him.  Like for a good five or six minutes.  I didn’t walk very far because the car was running and it would be just my luck that I’d come back and it would be gone and I’d be stranded there, with my coat on, a shitstorm brewing in my pants, with my one source of heat (not to mention all of his expensive equipment) gone into the night.

No answer.  No camera flash (which is how I usually find him when we’re in a crowd and we get separated).  Nothing.

He had parked next to a building that had bathrooms, but at this hour I wasn’t even sure they’d open (though I could see light peeking out from underneath the men’s restroom door), and walking much further would mean that I’d be in trouble.  I decided I could maybe hold it a little longer and decided to get back into the car and pray he was done out there… but then my stomach lurched and I realized that waiting was not going to be possible.

I debated on what to do, since I didn’t want to leave the car running and unattended.  But I didn’t know where he was.  I certainly could not walk around trying to find him.  That bathroom was the only place I had that I might (MIGHT) be able to go, and if I could not go there, I’d simply have to dig a hole in the snow and hope to god that someone mistook my pile of shit for a pile of dog shit that didn’t get scooped up.

I got out of the car again and yelled for him as loudly as I could.  Desperately.  I looked around for the flash of a camera, a flashlight, anything.  ANYTHING.  I saw nothing.  I looked at the bathroom door and decided to shut the car door behind me, make a run for it, and be as quick about my business as possible (if I could even get in there).  Now, realize, there is almost a foot of snow on the ground and under it is ice.  I’m prairie dogging it at this point and I knew that if I slipped and fell I’d experience an explosion in my pants to end all explosions.  But I ran anyway.  Because like it or not, it was coming.

I made it to the door (meaning I ran, praying I didn’t slip on the sheet of ice underneath the snow), and found it unlocked.  Inside, I found a stall, didn’t bother to shut the door, and barely got my pants down and sat on the seat in time.  And by barely, I mean that while I had, in fact, shit my pants (my underwear and first layer of leggings were coated in it), the majority of it made it into the toilet.

And once it was over, I knew I had to clean up quickly. His car was out there, running, and unattended.  Like, there was no recovery time.  I cleaned up as best as I could (which meant I wiped the residue off my ass, scraped the underwear and leggings clean as thoroughly as possible – which wasn’t an easy task, either), flushed and washed my hands, then went back out and hoped that I’d find the car where I’d left it.

For a second I could not see the car at all.  Because, snow or no snow, it was darker outside than it had been in that bathroom. Not gonna lie.  I had a minor panic attack.  Because the car was our only means of transportation (and all of his gear was in it).  I did not know where he was.  His phone was dead.  My gloves had been in that car.  And all I had on me was my purse and a nearly-dead phone.

I forced myself to slow down, stop panicking, and breathe (because if push came to shove, I could always go back into the bathroom, which was heated, and call someone from there – that didn’t solve the problem that I couldn’t find him, but at least I could report the stolen vehicle). But, thankfully, once my eyes adjusted, I found it and, relieved, went back there.

But I still needed to clean up better than I had.  I needed to find a way either to clean this shit off the inside of my pants or remove them.  I needed to change my tampon again.  In essence, I needed to ensure that I wasn’t going to sit in my own shit all night. Because, again, I’m accident prone.  I’m susceptible to UTIs.  Bacteria anywhere near my urethra is NOT a joke.  I started calling for him again.

This time he heard me.  And he came to me.  And stayed close enough to the car so that I had time to go back in the bathroom and properly clean up.  Having no other options but to remove my underwear, I stripped completely from the waist down in the bathroom and removed my panties from my layers of clothes so I didn’t have to spend more time than necessary sitting in a pile of my own shit.  I didn’t have any spare leggings, and it was cold out there, so the ones I was wearing would have to do.

I didn’t have any backup tampons, so I had to deal with the one I had (not sanitary, especially with the string dragging in the remnants still on my leggings, but if we left soon, I thought I’d be okay).  I put the three layers of pants back on, stuffed the underwear in a pocket in my purse, and washed my hands again.

We left shortly after… me with relief, him with reluctance.  We ran into a patch of fog on the way out that he simply had to photograph.  I begged him to let it go.  I mean, I was freezing.  We’d been out all night.  And while I am not a complainer, that night, I’d had a little more than I could take.  But he stopped anyway and got out of the car, this time leaving the window open.

So again, I sat in the car, this time panty-less, and pissed off because nothing is worse than having to worry about sitting in your own shit and contaminating your lady parts and urethra with E coli, and freezing because Ormsby had forgotten and left the window open and the heat on (but I didn’t realize the window was open… I just thought his heat wasn’t working for some reason.  Granted, I didn’t tell him that I’d shit my pants.  He knew I’d had an issue, but I didn’t tell him how BAD the issue was because, like the tampon thing, you’d think at 32, you’d be pretty adept at dealing with these things by now – and also, I’d already lost my dignity.  Admitting to the loss of my dignity would have added insult to injury. Another forty-five minutes later, he returned to the car and finally, finally, we were on the way home.

Now, all that said, once we got home, I cleaned up and went to bed.  I couldn’t share his enthusiasm for the photos this time because it’s hard to trump the trauma of a lost tampon and shitting your pants and it had been a rough thirty-six hours or so for me.

But seriously, I’ve come to the realization that I need to do SOMETHING different about period management.  I hate pads.  They’re like wearing diapers.  Tampons can (obviously) get stuck up there too easily (and then I have to go find someone to either fish them out or tell me I’m being paranoid)… not to mention the string that perpetually hangs down that can get shat on, pissed on, soiled, pushed up into my vagina or frayed before I’m ready to use it for removal.  There has to be something better.

I’ve stumbled onto something called a Diva Cup and it’s designed to collect the blood before it ever exits my vagina so that I can dump it, clean it, and reinsert it.  When I first heard about these, I thought they sounded gross.  But I’m starting to feel differently now (desperation and bad experiences can do that to me).  And with a 4.6 out of 5 rating on Amazon, 1400 reviewers can’t be wrong.

So I’m ordering one.  Because with this?  There’s no string (so even if I do shit myself again (hopefully that won’t happen), the bacteria being soaked up into something that is literally a centimeter from my urethra won’t be a problem.  I won’t have to worry about losing it.  There’s no risk of TSS. And I’ll save money in the long run because this thing is washable and reusable.

Maybe it’ll work.  Maybe it won’t.  I’ll report back once I’ve given it a fair chance.

And in the meantime, I’m buying a camping toilet for those long nights when I’m stuck on a hill, in the snow, bare-assed, and worried that someone is going to steal my only means of transportation.

Snow Misadventures: Lord Ormsby’s Story

A continuation of Snow Misadventures: The Lost Tampon.

As a photographer and amateur astronomer, there are certain cosmic events in the sky, unique weather patterns and conditions on the ground that cry out to me begging to be captured with my camera.

One such rare phenomenon is a full moon over a snowy linen land. While more frequent in the north, a good snowfall happens just a few times a year here, and the odds of it happening during a full moon are rare. But even more unlikely is to have a clear night because of course when there is snow, there are usually clouds, and clouds block the moon.

See, a full moon over a blanket of snow casts enough natural light to see outside in the dead of night with no artificial lights. To literally be able to walk outside at night with no flashlight, no car headlights, no street lamps and see everything almost as well as during the day, is a once in a lifetime opportunity. And of course, I was going to capture it with my camera.

We drove to the park away from street lamps and city lights. I parked the car and trekked across the wilderness with my camera and tripod while Victoria sat inside with the motor running and the heat on. She likes to come with me, but doesn’t like to get out of the car to enjoy the wonderful sights. Weird.

Anyway, it was perfect. With no wind, the night was calm and peaceful. The bright moon cast light on the trees and shadows on the ground. As predicted, I was able to see perfectly well after midnight walking around with no flashlight. I was able to get lots of amazing photos, some that looked like they were taken during the day.

Usually, even with plenty of layers of winter clothes, I’d still be cold, but not this night. While the temperature was of course below freezing, I was warm and toasty, as if being baked by the moonlight. After taking photos for a while, I checked my phone to see the time and see if Victoria had texted. It was dead, but no matter. I was within earshot of the car, so all she had to do was honk.

So I laid in the snow, looked up at the tree branches and the moon and just soaked in the moment, living in communion with nature. I wish Victoria could have been there to join me, but she was happy sitting in the heated car playing games on her phone. It’s too bad that I couldn’t have shared this moment with her, by my side. I don’t know how long I lay there, probably half an hour. It was so serene and tranquil. Despite being outside at night in the winter weather, I really can’t remember the last time I felt so comfortable and relaxed.

To be continued…

Snow Misadventures: The Lost Tampon

First, let’s get this out of the way:  I am accident prone.  Seriously.

So that said, and with the acknowledgement that the following post really IS TMI in content and is not for the faint of heart, please keep reading at your own risk.

I started my period the other day.  I was happy when it was on time (because it hasn’t been, ever, since I’ve moved back to Kentucky and I was beginning to wonder if Florida was some special place where my period was always regular and the sun was always shining).  I put in a tampon, like I do, and went about my day.  But, see, the thing about periods, is that I’ve been having them and using tampons so regularly throughout my life that I don’t really think about it anymore.  I just put them in, change them, get on with my life, no problem.  So with this one, I could remember putting one in, I could remember taking one out, and I thought I could remember not replacing the last one with another one because the flow was so light that I didn’t think it was needed.

But I wasn’t certain about that.  I was fairly certain.  But not 100 percent certain.  So when Lord Ormsby and I had sex that evening, I just took it for granted that I hadn’t replaced the tampon and that the only thing that would be keeping company in my vagina that evening was Lord Ormsby himself.  I wasn’t worried.  Not at all.  I mean it’s hard to worry when you’re having multiple orgasms and can’t remember your own name.

Until we were finished.  Because when I looked at the trash can in the bathroom, I saw TWO tampon wrappers.  I didn’t remember putting two in.  I only remembered putting one in and taking one out.  Frantically I dug through the trash can looking for two tampons to match the two wrappers.  I found only one.

Not gonna lie.  I panicked a little bit.  Checked all the trash cans in the house.  Still didn’t find it.  I panicked more… because if a second used tampon was not in the trash can, in my mind, that could only mean that it had gotten pushed way, way, way back in my vagina. I dug around in there as far as I could reach.  I couldn’t feel anything, but you know, that’s still not the most comforting thing in the world because it’s not like I can just pry it open and look in there myself.

We don’t have a bathtub, but Lord Ormsby, who is kind of a MacGyver in that he can rig up pretty much anything, created a system in the shower stall so that it would fill up enough to maybe help me saturate that thing with enough water to make it expand so I could fish it out.  It sort of worked, but I still couldn’t find it.  He offered to create a speculum out of spatulas from the kitchen and his flashlight and look for it himself, but I declined.  I’m cool with him MacGyvering a lot of things, and he’s good at MacGyvering up a lot of things… but I was NOT going to let him MacGyver my vagina.

This was a big fucking deal.  Because Toxic Shock Syndrome is a BIG FUCKING DEAL.  It’s a rare bacterial infection that can be caused by the extended wear of a tampon. It can be fatal, quickly, and losing a tampon in my vagina is just the sort of thing that would cause it.  And I’m just accident prone enough to get it.  And look… while I’ve accepted the idea that I’m going to die, eventually, of something, death by tampon is NOT what I had in mind.  So I told him I wanted to go to the ER or Urgent Care the next day to have them look for it.

Except that night it snowed. A lot.  And the next day the urgent care center that we normally go to was not open because of the snow.  I had already slept very little the night before and I was sitting on pins and needles the entire day, obsessively reading about and watching for TSS symptoms.  I kept pushing, I kept feeling around, I couldn’t find it, and I was convinced that it was stuck behind my cervix somewhere, compacted because of the fucking, and at the same time flagellating myself for not just pausing everything and double checking for it before I sat on top of Ormsby.

Now, the other thing you have to remember, is that Ormsby is a photographer.  So the fact that it was a full moon with clear skies and there had been a big snow was a pretty big deal to him.  He decided he wanted to go out and photograph it.  He asked if I wanted to stay home, but I elected to go with him (despite the cold), because I figured if I was going to go into shock and die from this stuck tampon, I’d be better off doing it while I was in the car with him instead of home alone with my cat (See??  This is how my brain works.).  That’s every recovering cat lady’s worst fear. So I got in the car with my gloves, three layers of clothes, and a blanket, and we went out.

While he worked, I sat in the car and searched for 24-hour urgent care centers that might be open.  I found one and during a break while we waited for the clouds to clear, we decided to find it so I could get this taken care of.  We stopped for dinner at Steak and Shake and then traveled out to the location to see if they could take care of the problem (and if there was no problem, at least put my mind at ease by telling me for sure that there was nothing in there).

Once we got to the center, I somehow had to find the words to explain to the woman at the desk what had happened.  Not my proudest moment, because at 32, you know, I’m supposed to know how this shit works, but there you go.  My stomach was also beginning to rumble.  Like not in a, “I’m hungry” way, but more in a, “Hey, I’m thinking that I might have to sit on the toilet soon” kind of way, and you know, shitting on the doctor that has a speculum in your vagina while he searches for a lost tampon is not an experience I have had (nor one that I want to have).  But I also knew that I could sit on the toilet right then and nothing would come out… not shit… not a lost tampon… nothing.  So, feeling particularly secure in this knowledge, I filled out the paperwork and waited.

Long story short: they looked, I did not shit on the doctor, the doctor did not find evidence of a lost tampon, there had been nothing to worry about all along.  Hooray.  Relieved after a full twenty-four hours of worry, I was ready to go home.  Rest.  Watch TV.  Be near a toilet.  Maybe have sex again.

Not Ormsby.  Nope.  After we got out of the clinic, the skies had cleared, the moon was visible, and “going home” was a long way off.   But what did I have to worry about? There was no lost tampon in my vagina.  I was not going to get TSS.  I could stop pushing.  I could seize the day… or… er… night.  Or something.

To be continued:

Six Months: Sex, Boobs, and Barbecue

It’s not often that I can say that I’ve been seeing the same guy, exclusively, for six months.  And it’s even rarer for me to say that I am still HAPPILY seeing the same guy after six months of exclusive dating.  This is a milestone that I have now met.

Although we made things “Facebook Official” on the drive up to Louisville from Tampa (with all my worldly belongings in tow), Ormsby and I had been seeing each several months before that… and we agreed to make the “official” exclusivity date August 2, 2014.

Now this six month thing, while it may seem minor to some of you, is a big deal to us.  For Ormsby, because six months is generally when his previous relationships began going sour.  For me, because any relationship I’ve had that lasted longer than six months already WAS sour, and continued to BE sour, and I continued to stay due to my predilection for masochism and dedication where dedication was unwarranted.  For him, six months usually signaled an impending breakup.  For me, six months was simply another day – not worth celebrating, yet celebrated because that’s just what one “did.”

Not anymore.  I don’t know what’s happened – I don’t know if I’ve finally grown up, gotten a brain, or just gotten lucky in the relationship department (I mean, because seriously, after everything I’ve been through, a little bit of luck is LONG, LONG overdue). But we are now six months in, things aren’t showing any signs of stopping or souring, and I’m uproariously happy.

Why?  There are many reasons, but to name a few…

First?  I really love the guy.  And if that’s not the best reason for being happy and keeping him around, I don’t know what is.

Second: We talk.  Like… about stupid stuff half the time that no one else understands.  But also, when things go wrong, we talk about it.  We don’t fight about it.  It’s quite interesting how constructive those uncomfortable conversations can be when you are actually conversing and not bringing up a billion things that aren’t even relevant to the situation.  I’ll admit… I was worried when I moved in with him that it would be like the experience I had in the past – because with Mr. Ex, once we started cohabitating, we argued from the time we got up until the time we went to bed some days.  I was worried that history really would repeat itself and I’d find that it’d be the same way here.  I was wrong.  I’m glad to say I was wrong, because this is one of those times when I really didn’t want to be right.  That’s not to say we don’t have “discussions”.  We do.  But they are not knockdown, drag out fights that end with one of us saying a bunch of shit we don’t mean.  And that’s pretty awesome.

I mean I guess it helps that we kind of already “get” each other pretty well.  But where we don’t, both of us really make the effort to understand what we don’t understand.  Granted, sometimes it takes a while to get there, but I’m finding that taking the time is much, much more preferable to not really ever caring enough to take the time.

Third:  The sex is AH-MAZING.  And frequent.  Like every day, sometimes twice a day frequent.  And for someone with a high libido like me, that’s a pretty big deal.  He does a very, very good job with keeping up with me (though I think sometimes I wear him out).  But then I did also come complete with a very established, $5000 in value lingerie collection.  I’m like a brunette Barbie that bought out Victoria’s Secret.  They should seriously give me stock in that, since I own fuck tons of their stuff.  Anyway, the lingerie collection certainly helps.

Still, though, it hasn’t gotten boring.  Far from it.  I’d swear it gets better every single time we do it, and considering we really do actually do it on a daily basis (I’m not lying here), that’s saying something.  I keep thinking that one day it’s going to level out, but it hasn’t yet, and in total I’ve been fucking him since May of 2014, which is a couple of months longer than I’ve actually been dating him.

For serious… this is the most sex, and the best sex, I’ve ever had in my life.

Fourth: I don’t have to fight with him to go visit my family.  Of course, it probably helps that my sister’s German Shepherds just had the most adorable litter of puppies.  But even before that, he went with me, he’s friendly, personable, everyone likes him and my friends adore him.

So to celebrate this milestone, you might be wondering what we got each other?  Well, to make the day as special as possible, I told him I wanted him to tell me what he wanted for dinner… anything… and I’d make it.  I cook every night, of course, but usually the menu is planned by both of us.  But we were out that day, we were pretty much out of food in the kitchen, and we were hungry.  Instead of cooking, I took him to Mark’s Feed Store, which is where we ate during one of my visits over the summer.  They have barbecue there.  We ate a lot of it.

And for me?  He got me boobs.  Now.  Let me explain.  I have boobs.  I didn’t always have them.  In high school, the lack thereof was the constant distress of my life, but I didn’t want the fake shit (not that I would have been allowed to get implants anyway).  In college, after I got on the pill, I got them.  I went from like an A to a C in about a year.  It was pretty spectacular.  But still, there’s always room for improvement.

And when I say that Ormsby got me boobs, I don’t mean that he paid for implants.  I mean they fucking started to grow again.  Not a lot.  Thank god.  Because I don’t want to have to completely overhaul my bra collection again.  But they’re definitely filling out.  And it wasn’t noticeable at first, but then I started realizing that my bras were a little tighter.  And my shirts were fitting differently.  And then I asked him if he’d noticed it too, and apparently he has.  We pulled out some topless photos he’d taken of me in Florida in the late summer (not posting them, don’t ask), and confirmed it.  Crazy shit.

Not complaining.  A little more to fill out the dresses, tops, and bras is always a welcome addition.

He doesn’t know how it happened.  I certainly don’t know how it happened.  But I credit him with it, because he’s literally the only change I’ve made in my life and he plays with them a lot.  Maybe he willed it to happen or something.  I don’t know.  Still, it was a pretty nice (if unexpected) six month anniversary gift.

So we’ve hit a milestone.  I am madly in love with this guy.  He has barbecue (or had it, till he ate it all); I have boobs.  Life is good.