You ok, fatty?

I'm feeling crabby today and managed to remember this day sucked last year, too. Because even medical people can suck when it comes to their lazy assumptions.

Today has been really, really bad for more reasons than seem possible.

And it's weird how your mind handles things. I don't know how to process the rest of the bad yet, so I'm focusing a bunch of rage at an orderly right now.

Here's the fun thing about having been not fat, being borderline, and being fat all in the same lifetime - you get a front row seat to how blatantly obvious people are about the fact that they see you as fat before the see you as anything else.

I was in a waiting room for a couple of hours today for a reason that didn't include me hurting myself. While there, I watched a couple of orderlies pushing people around in the wheelchairs taking them here or there or wherever they needed to be. They had families in tow and were chatting about various things along the way. I probably know too many of those various things because I people watch a little too closely sometimes.

Eventually, it came time for one of those chatty orderlies to come for me and my waiting partner. They decided he needed a wheelchair and loaded him in. Mr chatty orderly didn't have much to say this time, and while I thought he was walking a little too slow, even for someone pushing a wheelchair, he kept slowing a little more every 20 steps or so to look at me and ask, "are you ok?"

By the third time he asked, I realized this jackass thought he was maybe pushing the fat girl too hard. I mean, he had no way of knowing that I have a couple of crippling diseases, I had no issues with my gait or with my hands or any other problems that might have stood out to someone dealing with patients all day, hell, I'm on steroids, I feel pretty flipping good right now in that respect. Anyway, I let him ask two more times before I stopped smiling and said, "yeah, I was hoping you'd pick up the pace a bit" in my impatient, I'd rather be anywhere but near you voice.

He glared for a split second then checked himself. Almost like he'd never been busted in his ridiculous assumptions before. And really, he probably hasn't.

I know full well there are a lot of fat people who are just lazy but there are plenty of skinny people who are equally as lazy who just got lucky enough to take a swan dive in the gene pool. But it sucks that for more people than not, when they look at a fat person, their first thought is, "well, this bitch hasn't moved from the couch or put down her bag of chips in at least three years, she obviously can't walk an 1/8th of a mile without passing out cold."

Because some of us are out here fighting off the effects of seven medications at a time, going to the gym three and four times a week, and are depriving ourselves of our favorite foods to celebrate losing four pounds in just under two months knowing full well it's a stupid fucking celebration but it's the first time in months the scale has decided to move in a downward direction. Some of us aren't diabetic and don't have high blood pressure or cholesterol...we we were unlucky enough to end up with a shitty immune system, some bad genes, and the inability to walk like a normal person for a couple of years until we finally happened upon a doctor who said "maybe we should run some tests." And some of us may be going to the gym multiple times a month celebrating every time we get a little stronger even while it devastates us that the weight isn't dropping because we know that's a *huge* part of the reason we are still able to function. And I passionately despise the people who make me question the significance of that for no reason other than the fact that I don't fit their definition of acceptable.

Six years ago, it was a good day when I didn't need help brushing my hair. I still have a hard time admitting to that. But hey, the scale reads the wrong numbers.

Fat Ass

Before I took my last dating site break, I accidentally matched with someone I didn't mean to. I was scrolling to read and apparently pulled just a little to the right and matched with the idiot.

Besides the fact that he expressed a shitty opinion about people who have to use online dating while completely missing the obvious fact that he's one of those people, his favorite insult is fatass. And for obvious reasons, I didn't mean to match with him.

But I matched. Accidentally. And even though my pictures don't hide that I'm fat and that I'm pretty clear about the fact that I am (because if online dating has taught me anything, it's that not much matters more than fat) (and dick pics. It's taught me about dick pics) he started sending me messages. Rather than get into a pissing match with him, I opted to ignore him.

I've since closed and opened a new account again.

So last night he found me and started messaging clips from my profile with an insult for each clip. I was off of the site for a few months and it seems as soon as he saw my picture he was overcome with childish rage and had to spend the night showing me.

I gotta tell ya, online dating in general sucks, but something about this area makes it extra trashy.

So happy day. Perfect strangers get their rocks off sending me a dozen insults over the course of seven hours while I sleep because I didn't answer a stupid message months ago.

Age matters

I so wish the dating site didn't remove all of the messages when someone blocks you.

A few days ago a 30 year old good looking guy with nothing on his profile sent me a message saying hi and calling me beautiful. I immediately assumed it was a scammer so I didn't respond.

A few minutes ago, he sent another messages saying, "you're the type that thinks you're better than dating black guys. Lol"

So...I choked back every urge in me to be a complete asshole in my response and replied, "I think the age difference matters a little more."

"Nice way to deflect the question"

"It was a stupid thing to say. I'm old enough to be your grandma, you had nothing on your profile, and you didn't say much in your message. It was a stupid leap."

"You're just dumb if you think racism doesn't exist. Age doesn't matter, blah blah blah, bitch, hog, pig, I don't need to talk to you."

"Read your childish response and tell me age doesn't matter."

"Don't ever contact me again"

And he blocked me.

At least I got to see his anger issues before I knew him.

Sounding ok?

In today's episode of being stupid with Michele, I had to call a guy I work with.

I scrolled through my contacts, dialed the number and very professionally introduced myself because we haven't spoken very frequently so I don't take for granted that he immediately knows who I am.

I could hear the confusion in his voice and knew his didn't sound quite right and asked if he was sick.

Nope. Not sick. Not even the right guy. In fact, it was some guy I talked to from a dating site and blew off a year ago or so.

So that wasn't at all awkward.

This is one of the reasons why I typically give people I don't talk to odd names in my phone.

Online Dating: Holiday Edition

I've started receiving emails requesting holiday nookie when some pigs, err...men, get to town to visit family. I don't know why I haven't learned to expect this.

Two of them specifically have requested a playmate for their time in town.

"Sure!! I've been wondering what would happen if I stick my penis in one end of a finger cuff and you put yours in the other and we pull. Do you think we'd climax or injure ourselves?" is most definitely not the answer they were looking for judging by their reactions.

And now, I kinda want an answer to that question. I fear that question will remain unanswered unless I run across a couple of willing volunteers though.

I'm sure there are people out there into it but I can't imagine standing around a crowd of holiday shoppers asking, "hey, I need two people with penises to satisfy my curiosity!" while seductively pulling finger cuffs out of my pocket and holding them up.

Actually, I can imagine it. And I'd love to see it happen!

Losing a friend

It's a strange thing when a good friend dies. Everything kind of jumbles and there's this weird disconnect from reality. Almost as if you don't think about it maybe there's a chance it's not true.

But you do think about it. The good, the bad, the weird. And if you're like me, you avoid talking about it until you give yourself repeated migraines and explosive diarrhea.
Because, you know, party is my middle name.

My friend was an intensely private, insecure, flawed, wonderful person. I have so many stories she was a part of. She would have hated having her life told with her in a starring role as the idyllic, perfect friend who is a thing of legend. Hell, she'd probably hate having her life told at all.

She was stubborn and judgey and spiteful and confusing. She made no secret of the fact that I became a little more stupid in her eyes because I am so amused by Will Ferrell movies but we once got into a huge, screaming fight because I couldn't make her understand that 300° is 300° whether it's in an oven, a grill, or a convection oven because she couldn't separate it from the wattage of a microwave being more or less powerful so one minute in one microwave might be the same as three minutes in another because they were different sizes. And at the same time she could be counted on to be my biggest supporter and cheerleader (when we weren't fighting over stupid shit) who regularly told me and believed I sold myself short, dated beneath me, that I never give myself enough credit for who I am, and she treated me like an emotional genius for things that would be her stories to tell, not mine.

She was funny, and caring, and supportive.
We had amazing times together. When she was in the moment, surrounded by friends, she was joy. I sometimes regret, and probably will more so now, that I always took so many pictures because she hated... hated...pictures of herself. She judged herself so harshly that it would put a smudge on a memory that didn't deserve to be there. But she's not here now so I'm glad I have them.

And maybe it's because of that as much as anything that for all of the parties, and the fights, and the good times, and the extraordinary times that I'm choosing to remember me falling out of her car, stone cold sober,  ass first. There I was, ass on the pavement, feet in the car, looking up at her confused and in hysterics and there she was laughing so hard she hit her face on the steering wheel asking, "how do you even do that?" And all the nights we spent getting ready for the night in her little apartment in St Petersburg, singing along to whatever weird song popped into my head. And we rocked those songs. Which, for some reason always included Ohh, Child. It was always in the mix. Like we were partying in the 70s instead of the 90s and 2000s.

At those times, there were no cameras, there were no crowds, there was none of that nagging self doubt that told her she was a burden on everyone else that you could see if you watched her just a moment too long. At those times, she was unguarded and happy.

I hope that whatever has met her in the next life includes a lot of unguarded and happy.

https://youtu.be/_DHRGrIqmb0

Gym and junk food

I went to the gym at lunch with a headache.

I hate Doritos. I can't even stomach the smell to try to get them passed my lips.

What do Doritos have to do with they gym, you ask?

Well, gross smells would be the first thing. And the guy who worked out next to me today.

A guy came in, jumped on the machine next to me and the assault on all of my delicate parts began.

He reeked of Doritos. Immediately, my stomach started churning and my head reminded me that it was there and controlling my ability to function today and thumped in protest. Still, I powered on.

Then he started sweating. I do not know if he had eaten so many Doritos that it was oozing out of his pores or if  Dorito dust just creates a film over one's flesh that intensifies the stench of everything trying to escape one's body, but I was certain I was going to add to the nightmare by losing my breakfast.

I gave up. I walked away. He won the workout wars today. I cut it short and let  him savor his stinky victory. On the machine right next to mine. Because he couldn't have have opted for any of the others that were open for at least ten machines down and not right next to me.

Oh yes, he was the victor today. But I will remember. And I do hold a grudge. And I have a disturbing imagination.