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Picky's Got a Brand New Dig!

June 28, 2020

So I finally CAVED and moved to WordPress... I'm not entirely loving it just yet... but it's growing on me. This was necessitated in part by my GROSS negligence with regard to updating the autorenewal for the web domain and my GROSS forgetfulness with regard to username and password details. MUCH STRUGGLES and GREAT AMOUNT of infuriation, yall, and it could not have come at a worse time.

I WILL pop in here from time to time to do some journaling, because ultimately that IS what Picky is for... but I'd also like to make some money from this thing... circumstances have necessitated that.

My father is in congestive heart and kidney failure... issues that came to a head the week of the anniversary of my older brother's death. We would have most likely lost him that weekend had it not been for the urgency and insistence of my mother, his doctor and myself.

My mother was diagnosed with A-fib two years ago... and her condition worsened about six weeks after my father's health issues became prevalent. Also... there is some issue with her liver.

I have lost hope, yall. I have LOST it. And so now I am clambering for anything.

So anyway... the new digs: smartassdirect.com. Because after those struggles and frustrations, I reclaimed this site's fifteen-year-old identity... and in doing so... the smartassdirect dot blogspot dot com became its own entity. Also... because of those struggles and frustrations... I also own, for the next year anyway... smartassdirect.net... though I don't think that address goes anywhere so...

Links on this site may not always function. Most probably won't, actually. I'm not going to mess with that. TOO much of a hassle for this girl. Sorry yall.

The new digs will be undergoing constant cosmetic scrutiny over the next few weeks or months as I adjust to learning WordPress and bringing over those posts I'd like to keep... not much new content there yet... be patient with me. I'll be on top of that soon. Thanks for understanding. THANK you for reading.

Gibberish

May 4, 2020

I feel like typing, yall. So here... have some nonsense.

One of my favorite scenes in Top Gun is when Iceman tells Maverick, You can be my wingman anytime, and Mav responds, Bullshit! You can be mine.

My girlfriends can't understand why I'm single. It frustrates them, some much more than others. I want to tell them what I know from what men have told me, but I figure their responses would be to shrug those comments off as idiocy. But yall, it's not idiocy. I don't like wasting people's time. Never have. I'm too quick to move people through the lines as a cashier, too quick to get them off the phone, too quick to get them gone, and I'm good at it--getting them gone. It's my best talent. I can lose a dude in days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. It's easy. All I have to say is I have cerebral palsy, or I've only had sex with one dude. Poof! I think this is a defense mechanism. I want love, but holy hell does it terrify me--so much more than physical intimacy does, and yall... I'm damned near phobic of that, and it's not just because of what could happen... it's because I'm afraid I can't do it. I'm more afraid that I can't love. That the feelings would be too big in me, and I wouldn't be able to contain them, and... so I say the other... but only when the dude interests me. Never when I'm trying to tell them to fuck off. How weird is that? The ones who don't deserve it get the drama, and the ones who do don't. Maybe it's that the ones worth knowing... I know their time is valuable, and I know I will waste it, and I forget who I am for a second. I forget the fear and the imperfections. And then all the sudden... Poof! There they are again... there I go again. And there he goes.

I say I don't like bullshitting people... I'm the queen of it, yall. I excel at that shit.

I say men have been disappointing. I wonder how many I have disappointed. Or is that hubris in me to imagine that I have that kind of power? Because really, I don't think I do... and yet... still I wonder.

Yall... I don't have much passion for anything anymore. In fact, I don't know that I have any. I can't even rouse some for football and film, and I think yall know how fond I've been of such things. I put a shit ton of Packers crap on my Amazon wishlist in hopes I could rekindled some enthusiasm.

The words a pastor once spoke to me have been circling for days... Go hard after Jesus for ninety days, and see who's still standing. It's a fine idea. I wouldn't know how to begin.

Some dude used the word dastardly in conversation. That's a never-before-seen thing for me. I was impressed.

Five favorite films... there's the five I say are the BEST: Star Wars: Episode V-The Empire Strikes Back (and NO, I have not seen Rise of Skywalker. I WILL NOT. I read the general plot, and it's shit, and it ruins the whole shebang for me, and I'm clinging HARD to the love I've had for this film for practically four decades); Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Director's Cut); Star Trek (2009); Serenity; Steel Magnolias. But they're not my favorites, necessarily. I mean I FREAKING LOVE them. BUT... the ones that have made room in my heart are: Life Itself; Playing by Heart; Steel MagnoliasDedication; Gifted. But most people will only have seen maybe ONE of those, so... I say the others because they're more commonly known.

Five favorite books: Eleanor and Park and Landline by Rainbow Rowell; The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh; Lovers and Dreamers and Irish Born by Nora Roberts; Right Before Your Eyes by Ellen Shanman. Now here, I don't give a damn that they're maybe not all so widely known. How interesting is that?

Five favorite bands: Van Halen; U2; Depeche Mode; Def Leppard; Tori Amos.

I've only watched parts of No Country for Old Men and The Big Lebowski. The first was too intense for me; the second too bizarre--I think that one you've got to watch with friends, and I was by myself. I did see Alien. That might surprise some of yall--I can't often do skeery, and it was kind of skeery. I damned well won't watch others in that series, no matter how the storyline might intrigue me. And I finally got around to watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles. SO good, yall. I miss John Candy. I am a perfect mix of those two characters. Odd, oblivious and annoying like Candy's character... uptight, impatient and angry like Martin's.

FYI: I just used the above bullshit (and yall, how awesome is it that I don't have to make this shit UP?... because really... what writer could come up with all that tragedy and heap it on a gal's shoulders?) on a dude I have little interest in knowing. Twenty bucks says he's gone by the time I finish typing this post.

I've since changed it again, by the way, from what it was on that most recent post because I got tired of dudes swiping right just because of the words rack and ass--I used a film quote from the film Dedication.

Some dude remarked that my profile had gotten his attention more than most and his instincts told him there was a strong personality there, so he had to see for himself. He thought he was right. I sure wish he was. I sure wish I wasn't.

I like baseball well enough. I can't stand basketball.

The best place I've been is London, England. I'd live there if I could.

That's enough for today. That dude I've little interest in knowing... his mug's still in my Bumblebee line.

I wish I could find Han Solo. I wish such a dude existed. I wish, were he to exist and were I to find him, that I wouldn't fuck it up from fear.



Icarus

April 20, 2020


I've written about this before. April fifteenth is the day he'd asked me to be his girl. April sixteenth is the day he broke my heart. April seventeenth would've been an anniversary of sorts. April nineteenth is the last day I saw him. And these damned numbers are EVERYWHERE. I really hate it when it they're tied to the month, too. I LOATHE the coincidence. I hate how desperate I've become to lessen its significance. How futile those attempts have been.

Eighteen years ago yesterday I went on the last date with the only man I've ever loved--three days after he'd broken my heart; nine days before he'd crushed it. Would that I could know love. Would that a man could love me.

I lived in San Antonio and worked as the merchandise supervisor at Borders. It was one of those rare Fridays that I didn't have to close--not sure how that happened, actually. He'd called me the night before to make sure we were still on. We went to a Greek restaurant.

And then we went to Amy's at Quarry Market for ice cream. And then he drove me by his parents' house (again)... because he wanted me to meet his folks, and I was willing, but he was afraid to introduce me... and then we went back to his place, only this time I didn't stay for awhile.

But I didn't leave right away. I stood in the parking lot, smoked a cigarette. Decided I wanted a Dr. Pepper. He kept a stash in the refrigerator for me, even though he didn't drink them. He smiled, was happy to see that I'd come back, had thought I'd changed my mind. But I hadn't. I didn't come in, made him get a can out of the fridge for me. That's the last time I saw him.

The strongest memory from that day: when I'd gotten to his apartment, I'd told him I wasn't touching him. He had a goldfish named Icarus. I'd set my things on the counter beside the bowl. We were getting ready to go, and I'd stopped to get my stuff and was staring at the fish, floating the water. I thought of Greek mythology...

I thought, You've flown too close to the sun, Jennifer. And right then, he stood behind me, inches away. If I'd leaned back a fraction, we would've been touching. Those chills you get? They were a flood from head to toe, and I'd wondered if he felt them, and if he did, why they didn't matter.

I'd wanted to weep. Wanted to say I can't do this and leave. I should've. But I tried to play it cool, like a goddamned fool.

Revision

April 14, 2020

First of all one of my oldest friends shared this gem with me yesterday when I'd expressed frustration about how I keep trying, even though it seems so pointless:

Because as much as you want to quit sometimes, you don’t. And I mean that about a lot of things. And for those of us that love you, it’s one of the biggest reasons we love you.

Secondly, a Bumbler reminded me that I'm really not so bad (not that I needed the reminding so much as I needed the encouragement). And after his gentle nudging, I tweaked the damned thing so it didn't sound quite so sad.

So now, it reads like this:

I've soft hair, a sexy voice, great rack, nice ass & long legs, a nature equally creative and analytical, romantic and realistic, sentimental and cynical. I've heard I'm intriguing. Not here for hookups or husbands. I love me. I need to believe a man can. Remember boys: No points for second place. Childhood celebrity crush:

Han Solo. Still... Must see movie:

Life Itself. The first forty minutes are excruciating, but the last forty are extraordinary. Ideal night out...

Board games at a good restaurant. Splendor? Settlers of Catan? Anyone? Anyone?

It is more like it used to be. I didn't use the three question prompts as tools to talk more about myself. Hopefully I can leave it be for a while.

The Policy of Truth

April 13, 2020

The first time I started using dating sites and such was August of two thousand one. One of my booksellers--at the time I was the inventory supervisor of the newest Borders store to open in San Antonio--suggested I give it a shot. I met quite a few losers--and then I met the only man I've ever loved--and it's been losers, pretty much, with the occasional spark of possibility ever since.

I met that one man in March the following year. So it's been losers and sparks for eighteen years. You would think...

My friends keep saying it's not me it's them... these losers and sparks. But yall... EIGHTEEN years of losers and sparks. I must be to blame for some it. It has to be me to some degree.

So... this post is going to hurt a little bit. You might not want to read it. A very big part of me doesn't want to write it. It's also going to be long... because I need to type, but also because I don't know of a way to get this done without rambling. Bear with me.

I'd had what I thought was a pretty good and incredibly candid conversation with a dude who'd captured my interests one night, and then the next day he was gone. So the day of his disappearance, I bitched and moaned (to myself) because yet another one bit the dust (all because I said I wasn't too eager to jump in the sack just yet, though not with those particular words). I was pissed, but more I was sad. Men give up on me so fucking easily. They've been doing it pretty much all my life, really, since the doctor who'd delivered me recommended I be placed in an institution for people like me. You would think... But no, I keep giving them chance after chance after chance... because my pathetic, romantic, sappy, sentimental, hopeful heart can't let go--no matter how many times apathy attempts to sever the ties.

That night, I lay in bed, listening to fucking Cheap Trick's The Flame (It had popped up in a mix earlier that day, and I was binging it on it in hopes I might grow sick of it... no such luck) on REPEAT, and swiping left and right (more of the former than the latter) in Bumble.

Disclaimer: I LOVE Bumble. LOVE it. It is a fantastic app for this shit. The best of all the sites and such.

And this one dude who kind of made me think of Timothy Olyphant (and yall, I think Timothy Olyphant is SEXY) swiped right for me. I was SO happy.

Tangent: This was my profile text... I'd opted for straight up, no holds barred because that has seemed to generate the best response:

I've soft hair, a sexy voice, a great rack and nice ass, long legs, a nature equal parts creative and analytical, romantic and realistic, sentimental and cynical. I've heard I'm interesting, intriguing and intimidating. Not here for hookups or husbands. I love me. I need to believe a man can. Because that's the thing. I've been single all my life. Men give up on me too easily. It's pretty danged disappointing. The longest relationship I've had lasted four months. I've experienced degrees of physical intimacy with a number of men, but I've only had sex with one. Never been in love with a man who was in love with me. I live with my parents because they're old and their health is failing (my dad is really sick), but also because I can't afford my own place. If you're capable of not holding against me any of the lesser details listed above, I would love to know you.

So... in Bumble, if two people swipe right for each other, the girl then has to initiate conversation. YALL... this is NERVE-RACKING for me. I almost always say the wrong things, and the dudes vanish.

First lines are bitches to write, yall. Writers STRUGGLE with them. So I never feel like I'm capable of wowing a dude that way. But also... I MUCH prefer the simple. So... Hi there, How's it going? I type it and send... and seconds later:

Bumbler: Not bad. Kinda boring. You haven't happened to have seen any intimidating writers with a great rack, have you?

That bit of text was so refreshing to read. He was cute and quick and clever... and HOT.  And then he'd said, I like you already. I was so pleased. And stupidly hopeful. But we're not talking anymore, even though I'd laid clear what I wanted and thought and he'd seemed not just agreeable to but appreciate of what I'd put out there.

WHEN will I learn?

So that one, like all the others, vanished after a couple of days. But I was still swiping... Today some dude called me a prude because I'd only had sex with one man in forty-seven years. Yall, this statistic ain't one I'm proud to admit. He'd said it was one that scared him. I'd said it scares me, too. It does.

So... confession time...

The first time I got physical was when I was nine--with our next door neighbor's daughter, a girl my age... maybe a little older. This was after we'd moved from Hawkins, Texas to Natchitoches, Louisiana to Roswell, New Mexico--and there, in the last place, we'd moved twice (from a temporary home on a base to a permanent residence). This was after the second third grade teacher who'd put my desk in a refrigerator box, after I'd gone from having several friends to pretty much none. I was miserable and angry and confused. Not in a good place.

We moved again... and again... and my younger brother befriended boys his age in our new neighborhood. I was eleven. By the time I was thirteen, I'd allowed those boys to practice their moves on me... often all at once--in our backyard swimming pool and in my bed. I had no interest in any of them. I had no interest in feeling like a leper, either, which is exactly how I felt with every breath because my peers and even some of my teachers belittled me and expressed their dislike of me at every available opportunity. This promiscuity stopped when I was sixteen or so. I couldn't tell you when it had started, but it happened on pretty much a daily basis in the summer and sporadically during the school years. Years. I let them paw at me for years. And always, my mind did its best to disconnect--like it was hovering overhead or something.

I went about a decade without experiencing physical, intimate touch from a man. The first time I knew it as an adult was with some frat boy I'd met at a coworker's house party, held around Halloween. He was cute. He was also drunk. Sober, he wouldn't have come near me. Drunk? I was there, and he was cute, and we ended up making out on the driveway, well after everyone else had passed out or gone home. Interestingly enough, he'd gotten my number, and we talked for a several weeks after that. That Christmas, I'd gotten pissed at my hair and buzz cut it. He and I made plans to go see a movie. He took one look at me with my shorn hair and plaid button-down shirt and wanted to bolt, but he waited until after the show, after he'd taken me back to my apartment complex, where he didn't park, didn't kill the engine, didn't do much more than mutter goodbye as I exited his truck, and he was out of sight before I'd reached the sidewalk.

Years later... I moved to San Antonio and began stringing together the world's most pitiful dating history ever known.

That man whom I loved? I didn't have sex with him, and it wasn't because I didn't want to do so. That disconnect I'd mentioned earlier from my adolescent experiences? I knew it well again. No matter how much I tried to stay in the moment, my mind always broke away, hovering above, watching like it was recording things for a science report. It's been like that ever since.

I've never known what it's like to be mindless. The one guy with whom I did have sex? This was the jackass I'd dated about five years ago--and being intimate with him resulted in countless clinic visits afterward.

I'm terrified of sex, yall. TERRIFIED of it. I'm pretty convinced I could live my life without it.

I haven't been called a prude since I was a freshman in college.

So many reasons men should steer clear of me. SO many.

I want to be honest & open w/a man about my history & have him not hold it against me & vanish. I want to able to trust the things I've known aren't unforgivable curses. I want to know what love is. I survived a hellish childhood because I had hope I would know love someday.

This afternoon, after that guy said that I was a prude, I took my Bumble profile down. Because if one dude thought I was a prude and men are so quick to vanish... then this aversion to me isn't just because I'm intimidating and awkward and inept... add inexperienced to the list.

I can't get a job because I don't have experience. Can't get a man because I don't have experience. Can't overcome this past because there's not a man willing to risk it with me... and I'm not sure I'd be so willing to risk it with him.

And yet... I'm already missing that stupid dating app on my phone. WHEN will I learn???

Never again is what I swore the time before...


How I Feel About Dating

April 8, 2020

I Can't Do It, Captain. I Don't Have the...

April 6, 2020

Oh, yeah, that's a big fat F for me with regard to quarantining. Two days. That's the best I've been able to do so far.

Friday, April Third. I had to go to my place of employment and collect my paycheck, then take it to the bank (but I chose the one inside a grocery store because I needed to drop some clothes off at a cleaners and pick up a package at my box, and the grocery store was in the same shopping center as both of those places). So I went to pick up the box, then I went to the grocery store to deposit my check (I did wear a mask), then ordered pizza from Papa John's (also in the same center... a small pepperoni for the gals working The Shipping Store, where my box is, that day and a small pineapple with bell peppers for me--I remembered it was Friday and not to have meat), then I went to the dry cleaners to get bags for my clothes (from the store room--too many to wash, and I didn't want to wash them), then I picked up my pizza and took the girls theirs, then I sorted my clothes and took them to the cleaners. And then I went home.

Saturday, April Fourth. Mom didn't want to cook, so I picked up food from Zanti's Italian Cucina (usually delicious... kind of lacking this time... probably because it was take out), and I was out of Coke, so I hit a gas station on the way home and grabbed some of that and some Aleve PM because sleep is a beautiful thing.

This will last about a week... maybe ten days
Sunday, April Fifth. I ran out of Peace Tea Green Tea. I went to two gas stations to grab some. Which I would not have had to do had I kept my subscription to this on Amazon and had it delivered to my home instead of my box (but to be honest, I would MUCH rather things be delivered to my box).

Monday, April Sixth. I got another package at The Shipping Store--food from Nutrisystem (which I haven't been able to do because our microwave has been busted), and I thought it was the frozen food and had to be picked up today. It was not. It could've waited. I could've called first. I didn't think of that until just this very second.

SO... I am going to do my damnedest to STAY IN THIS HOUSE until Friday, when I get paid again and will NEED to get that money in the bank. Wish me luck.

Quarantine

April 2, 2020

They say stay home. I’ve not been following orders. I have been one of those miscreants who has run errands, albeit minimal. So I am going to stay inside my home for fourteen days. I will not leave the house.
Day One: Five Loads of Laundry
Day Two: When the World Lets You Stay in Bed All Day


A Plea from Me

March 31, 2020

Light in the Darkness

March 30, 2020

I am clinging... perhaps a little too desperately at the moment... to the kindness others have shown me. The friends who came to help me move my shit the other day. To the brief conversation I had with a Bumbler:

Dude used the word nuanced in a sentence. That's not something I see all that often. Of course... I think he's vanished, but... I did like the momentary distraction. I'm not so experienced with relationships. That tends to be a dealbreaker. So be it.

But mostly... the brightest light has been this comment from one of my freshmen at college:

You're SO good. Not just 'good enough'... NO. You're just Goooooood.

I am leaning on that something fierce right now.

This was in my Facebook memories. Something I'd shared a year ago, and it still rings true for me today. I strive to be open. It's often a struggle for me, to be honest. But I know that withholding my thoughts and feelings doesn't serve me in the slightest.


I'm trying. I'm hoping one day it will count for something. That said... I totally jacked with my Bumble profile. I'm really not in the mood for more disappointment. My plate's full. It's gonna take me a good while to chew on this shit.

Random Quarter

March 28, 2020

One. Gumbo or bisque? Bisque. Because lobster and butternut squash.

Two. Hallmark or American Greetings? Hallmark. Because I care enough to send the very best.

Three. Photoshop: Yes or no? No. Because it's not easy.

Four. Boutique or resale shops? Boutique. Because I prefer new clothes to hand-me-downs.

Five. Infinity or olympic swimming pool? Olympic. Because I'd want to get a good workout rather than a soak.

Six. Polish or Italian sausage? Italian. Because it sounds better.

Seven. Five minute writing prompt: Foil. So in the past couple of weeks, my father has been diagnosed with heart and kidney failure and cannot get the proper care he needs to prolong his life because of COVID-19 and the measures hospitals have taken to protect their current patients and staff. I have whittled my expenses to half of what they once were. I have spent the majority of the past week at the store room, whittling my belongings and relocating them from a ten by fifteen unit to a ten by ten because it costs half the price to have a room two-thirds the size, and I knew I was wasting money on the larger unit, but I hadn't wanted to jack with moving the crap because I knew it would suck, and it did, especially because the county in which I reside is now on lockdown because of the virus... I'd thought I'd have until the thirty-first, but no... It had to be finished yesterday, and I miraculously managed to find a few souls who were strong and courageous enough to help me. And then on the way home I got a flat tire. This month has SUCKED. Foiled again.

Eight. After work, a woman boards the train she usually takes home. Her car is almost empty, which strikes her as a bit strange -- it is six o'clock in the afternoon, well into rush hour. She shrugs it off to luck and and sets to reading her book.

When the train makes its first stop, however, the woman realizes something is wrong. The stop is not one with which she is familiar -- or indeed that should exist in reality at all.

Because the first stop is the actually the only stop -- the banks of the River Styx, and Charon awaits in his canoe with an outstretched hand for the quarters needed to pass into hell. She has none. But she cannot stay on the train. The conductor drags her from her seat and boots her onto the ground -- her book and bag fly after her, then vanish. She is the last to leave. The train vanishes. She watches as the others board the ferry, and then they, too, vanish. The world is gray and bleak, and she sees nothing.

Nine. A visiting opera gains fame when one of its actors dies on stage, during a live performance. What is more, the cause of death is by no means natural. 

The man died because the owner of the theater where the opera was being performed has been struggling to make ends meet and needed a draw. When the owner learned the lead was deathly allergic to peanuts, he bought a giant bag, crushed them up and hid them strategically in the costumes and props.

Ten. If you had to make a pros and cons list about yourself, what would the top three be in each category? Pros: Resilience, tenacity, and generosity. Cons: Temper, paranoia, fearfulness.

Eleven. What do you think is the most important thing to save money for? Rainy days... like the ones we're experiencing now.

Twelve. Do you think peace is an illusion? No.

Thirteen. What makes you a good friend? Empathy.

Fourteen. What is your most expressive characteristic, and in what ways do you express it?  Crassness, often in the words I choose and the tone of voice I use.

Fifteen. What makes you sentimental? Love.

Sixteen. Dancing or singing? Singing. Because I'm better at it, and it brings me comfort.

Seventeen. Vintage or modern? Vintage in style, but new. Because modern decor seems cold to me, but I don't like hand-me-downs.

Eighteen. Video games or board games? Board games because they're always changing and allow for good competition with others.

Nineteen. Private jet or yacht? I would rather not have either, but if I was forced to choose, the jet because it gets there faster and allows for more convenient travel.

Twenty. Are you a planner or spontaneous? Spontaneous, because plans invite disappointment.

Twenty-one. What is the first thing you notice about other people? Pallor and stature.

Twenty-two. What is the rudest thing a person can do to another? Ignore someone. Fail to acknowledge.

Twenty-three. What's the most valuable thing you own? It's an exception, and that's one of the reasons it's so valuable to me: the antique icebox my great-uncle restored and great-aunt painted.

Twenty-four. Whom do you think is the best Olympian ever? Michael Phelps.

Twenty-five. Do you think artists should censor their work so they don't offend anyone? Hell no.

Silver Linings

March 23, 2020


Funny how catastrophes can illuminate the past to make it seem glorious. How they can demand action. I was bitching a while back about how life is my problem, how I struggle with loving it and wanting it.

And then some folks in China decide to eat exotic meat that carries a deadly virus, their government covers it up for weeks if not months, and now here we are... the wheels of the world are slowly grinding to a halt. I wasn't worried about this. I had more pressing matters with which to concern myself.

And then, today, I learned that after this week, I will not be working for a while. I'm not being laid off or let go... we're just not going to be conducting business for a time.

So I've spent my afternoon canceling services I've not used in sometime that I've been meaning to cancel, but their monthly charges were so slight I've not bothered with it. Shaving my vehicular insurance's policy and my cellular plan to the bones. Registering for a smaller storage unit--one that's two-thirds the size of that I currently use and costs half as much. Requesting a forbearance for my student loans. Acquiring less expensive health insurance.

I spent most of my afternoon going through the boxes that have, for the most part, been untouched for fifteen years. I purged, and will continue to do so over the course of the next week.

It's like God's forcing my hand. Like He's reminding me that my life wasn't as shitty as I thought.

I keep thinking I've found the bottom, and then CHAOS erupts, and I learn a new kind of misery.

So... hours at the store room today. I pitched four or five garbage bags filled with crap I'd once thought I should keep... or that I'd get around to pitching eventually... some other day.

CRAP, yall. Like cheap promotional materials--pens, magnets, KOOZIES. I don't freaking USE koozies, but for some reason, I'd saved them.

But I got to look at things I've loved, too. Like Pottery Barn's Moss Green Sausalito stoneware. That green! SO vibrant and, simultaneously, soothing.

After those hours... I had a meltdown in the parking lot because I couldn't put the trash in the dumpster on the premises because it's reserved for management. One more inconvenience. One more pain in my ass. I loaded my two-door coupe with four yard bags and four boxes filled with trash and lugged it across town to dump in the bin belonging to the company where I work. My father, my finances, my so-called friends... my faith. All these things are crippling me.

I will be better for all this in the long run. I know it. Oh, but I don't feel like running right now.

Still... the vision of a tidier life does please me.

I've Lost the Light... I Don't Know Where

March 18, 2020

Some dude on Bumble (because I am that idiotic hopeless romantic and can't hold onto my resolve any better than I can hold onto a dollar bill): Your blog made me laugh. Kind of wondering what I have to do to be a subject.

Me: My blog made you laugh? That's good because I've been feeling like it's been dark lately. To be a subject? Surprise me.

So apparently, all he needed to do was say Picky made him laugh. Except he's not really the subject here, though it did surprise me that I'd made him laugh. I reread the most recent posts the other day and couldn't find much of it amusing.

There is such darkness in my world, and it's gotten darker still.

My father's in the hospital. He didn't want to go. He's not in favor of extreme measures and has the paperwork to prove it. He went to a cardiologist a week ago yesterday, who ordered blood work to be done that Friday. Cardiologist had forgotten something in his office and went back up on Saturday to find my father's lab results on the top of his desk and was alarmed to see how low my father's hemoglobin was. He called to ask my father to come to the emergency room to have the test redone because he thought perhaps there was an error in its execution.

My father didn't want to go. But I wanted him to do so. My mother did. The cardiologist did. I thought it would be in and out fairly quickly. A retake.

It wasn't.

He's been on high blood pressure medicine for quite some time, has been routinely checking it, as well as his blood sugar because his father was diabetic. He's been coughing, badly, for about two years now. Probably more than that. As though his allergies are heinous and he can't quite get the mucus out of his chest.

Because it was fluid, not mucus. He's got aortic stenosis, which means the aortic valve is flapping in on itself or something like that. His heart's overtaxed because he's losing blood because there's something wrong with his digestive system... probably his kidneys. His sodium levels are insanely low, which you would think wouldn't be the case because he guzzles carbonated beverages like they're water. So he's bleeding somewhere... most likely has been for quite some time.

And maybe all of this could be fixed, but hospitals aren't performing surgeries unless they're caused by life-threatening conditions. And hospitals closed to visitors yesterday, so this seventy-eight-year-old man who'd rather be here with us, sitting in his chair watching Fox News and eating my mother's cooking and bitching that he can't hear the television because my mother and I keep talking over the commentators...

Yall, he could barely walk, could barely move, could barely speak. He is positive he's dying.

We made him go. And I'm beginning to think my father's going to die alone in that hospital, and I won't get to say goodbye to him. And all I want to do is curl up in his lap like I did when I was a toddler. I can't because we made him go.

And I keep thinking of when my brother died. Of how he died alone in the dark. How I didn't get to say goodbye. How I had no one upon whom to lean to grieve.

I don't want to do this again. I don't want to have to suck up my sadness so I don't burden my mother and my brother and God knows who else...

I want my father home.

I want someone to make these shadows go away.

* * *

This morning Mom told me his kidneys were failing. I was more concerned that he would die. I texted him and asked him again if he wanted me to bail him out. He didn't respond right away, but hours later, I got a text from him saying not yet. I called my brother on the way to work to ask about his opinion of the situation. Both Mom and he were on the side of hospitalization. I went to work. 

I called my father on the way home and asked again if he wanted me to come get him. He said no.

When I got home, I watered his rather impressive cactus garden. 

Not long after finishing that, Mom came home to announce that he was coming home. Still very sick. Still lots of doctors' care required, but they could do it from our home. He'll be here this afternoon. I am somewhat relieved.

A Girl Gives Her Testimony to a Group of Much Better Women than She and It Is Well-Received

March 3, 2020

I presented my story at one of those Bible studies in which I participate. I worried over what to write for two weeks. I was asked last night if I could go today instead of next week. I said, "Sure." I hadn't figured out what I was going to say, didn't have any props (because people like to look at things)... I knew it would come to me, but... yall... it came to me at eight-thirty a.m. this morning... sixty minutes before I was to speak. Once a procrastinator, always a procrastinator. I thought I'd share what I'd said--most of you who've followed Picky for some time know the spiel, but for the newcomer:

I don't look good on paper. Three years shy of fifty, unmarried, childless, physically and mentally disabled, financially and emotionally insecure, underemployed with no prospects or drive for better opportunities, living with my parents, driving a twelve-year-old vehicle with nearly two hundred thousand miles on it. The longest romantic relationship I've had lasted four months... four months longer than it should have because I had no interest in him. The one that mattered most lasted six weeks... if that... because I had too much interest in him. The worst one lasted three months and ended with him verbally, emotionally and mentally abusing me. If I could manage to find and keep a good man, I've doubted whether I could give him children anyway because I have cerebral palsy: my hips were dislocated at birth; my bones, ligaments, tendons and muscles are poorly-constructed things; and my brain suffers chemical imbalances that cause severe depression and rage... even if I'd been physically capable of carrying a child and having a healthy pregnancy, I questioned whether I would've been sound enough to be a nurturing mother. I've not kept any job for longer than five years, and none of them have paid well; the majority of them have been in retail.

I don't look good in person. My face feels like a Picasso painting: scraps jumbled together and colored red for the rage, yellow for the jaundiced skin, blue for the sadness and the tempest, and black for the fear and the despair. I've had six surgeries, three of which were on my eyes. I bear some thirty scars from those surgeries, and ten of them are above my chin. I've been told of how ugly I am more times than I could possibly begin to fathom. I've been told I should kill myself because I'm taking up valuable air and space and there are more important people who need it. That no one would ever want to marry me because I was too ugly and no one wants to wake up next to something--not someone--that ugly every morning. I had a teacher put my desk in an appliance box because she couldn't stand having me in her classroom, couldn't bear the sight of me, but couldn't put me in another one because I was too smart to be in special education. The world is flat to me--I have no depth perception. I see things like you would see them on a television or theater screen or in a magazine or photograph. I constantly have to guess where things are, and my hands often reach for things to help secure my place--walking in a crowded mall or grocery store is more terrifying to me than driving on an interstate. People move around like gaseous molecules with no regard for others. And when I stop to wait for people to go by or I press myself against the shelves in a store until they have passed, people stare at me and ask, "What the hell is your problem?"

Life has been my problem. Loving it, wanting it. I have battled suicidal ideation since I was eight years old... since that teacher put my desk in that refrigerator box.

I am that electron that doesn't belong anywhere. The free radical floating in the cosmos, screwing things up. The fifth wheel. The black hole. The voyeur. The wallflower. Eager for, but incapable of, belonging. Unwelcome. Unnecessary.

Two and a half years ago, while on a Sunday drive, my father said I seemed happier, that I wasn't fighting as much. I wanted to cry. I wasn't fighting at all. I'd stopped clambering for the surface. I had dreams of an Aggie ring, marriage, family, home, career. One by one they'd died. I'd been mourning their deaths and waiting for mine, knowing it could be decades away. And two weeks or so later... My oldest friend called, inviting me to her classroom to teach first graders how to write. I met a little boy, and then I met his mother, the woman who leads the small group of which I am a member and heads the women's ministry of the church I sometimes attend.

I know the ways I have been blessed. I am here today because of those blessings, those lifelines God has thrown me. He's never thrown me so many as He has in the past two years.