Sex Related Injuries Are the Worst. After the Sex, I Mean.

YOU. Get over here.

“Dear Mr. So-and-So. I apologize for not being able to make it into work today because I sustained a sex-related injury. Sorry!!”

Yeah, you totally can’t email that. But it happens. Well, it happens to me.

I am toddling around in my house because of one, my back completely aching and sore. My poor back has been abused due to helping me move stuff from my Baltimore house to the new one and also from, uh, energetic activities. But how do you put that in an email? And is that even covered when it comes to HR purposes? I don’t think so and I don’t want to find out because I’ve worked in enough places to know that although HR says that they are HR and therefore information is kept confidential, crap like that always SOMEHOW gets leaked. Then you’re the weird person walking around and seeing people giving you the side-eye all of a sudden and wondering, WTF, what happened? Why are they looking at me like that?!!?

Why? Because they KNOW.

Work environments are insane in that way. Gossip like sex-related injuries (not that I ever reported one) always circulates. That is one of the reasons I’ve been able to form good friendships through work: I know how to keep my mouth shut. I don’t disclose shit, I don’t acknowledge it, and sometimes I’m even able to forget that I knew it. It’s a good trait to have, except sometimes it spills over into other parts of my life, when someone tells me something very personal and then my mind places it in the “trash” icon of my brain and deletes it. And then the person gets offended, which I 100% understand, that I don’t even remember that they told me an anecdote that has deeply affected them.

To be fair, that doesn’t happen to me often. But it does.

In my opinion, the best policy when it comes to work dynamics is to not talk about anything personal you know about anyone who works there. Silly or funny stories, things that they themselves would be okay with disclosing at lunch, but that’s it. It’s just safer that way, and also saves you a lot of drama and turmoil afterwards. Also, you have to close ranks, right?

So, obviously I did not report my injury as sex-related. Also, a lot of people, I’ve realized, don’t have that kind of sex. I don’t know why, but each to their own, I guess. I am more of a rough-and-tumble person so am not someone who is strictly into the missionary position. It always seemed kind of boring to me, to have a foreordained routine where both partners then roll over, yawn, and go to sleep. What is the point? Experiment a little, add a little spice to your life!!

I had a bruise recently on my arm from sex. A colleague of mine asked at work, “Oh, no! What happened?!”

“Um, I’m really clumsy.” I replied.

“That’s too bad!” She replied with a sweet smile. Then I remembered a similar conversation with a friend of mine where I responded, “I bumped into something.”

“What, a dick?” She said.

That’s when I knew that she, like I, have had…uh…exploratory sex? That’s the only delicate way I can put it. Or aggressive sex? However you say it, only people who have had that kind of sex will recognize the bruises and marks you get from being sweaty and somewhat crazy in the bedroom. It’s kind of like Fight Club!!

And…of course, my boyfriend, John came home tonight and fell asleep on the sofa, happily snoring away after work. So peaceful. So content. So relaxed. I wanted to punch him in the face. But, of course, couldn’t due to the back injury he gave me. Jerk!!

But from me to all of you out there who haven’t engaged in at least a few insane antics in the bedroom, well, it’s worth it. Even if you can’t explain it to anyone honestly except your closest friends and have to endure a related injury that takes you out of of commission for a while.

This is Me at Work: Fuck You!!!

That’s right!! Step away, bitch!!!

One of my rules in the posting of my entries was never to write about work. Such things get people into trouble. So let me just say, right now, that this is about work IN GENERAL, not a specific gig or job.

I think we’ve all felt like the above while working. For me, it’s especially tough because I have tons of rage inside me, but given my upbringing, am often very polite and polished when it comes to dealing with my bosses at work. Also, I am somewhat of a workaholic, so even when I’m grumpy about my professional environment, I still work my ass off. It’s not a good combination.

But. That dog above? That is totally me. I love that gif because that is how I am like, all angry and surly on the inside and accommodating on the outside. “Yes, sir, of course!!” and “I’ll try my hardest to get it done as soon as possible” are comments that spill from my mouth while my brain is saying, “Fuck you! Bitch! Asshole! Fuck off! Bastard!”.

I don’t know where my inclination to swearing comes from. Certainly not from my mother, who was always very proper and civil. But the good thing to note for people who know me is that if I like you and feel decently comfortable around you…I will swear. Oftentimes, like a sailor.

It’s difficult, isn’t it? To say yes to everything at work and seethe at not being acknowledged for all the effort you’re putting in, especially if you’re someone like me, who harbors a ton of rage and resentment in general? To sit there and appear all compliant because we have to earn a paycheck? And then to receive that check and look down at that dollar figure and think to yourself…THAT’S IT?!!? All that time and stress? And it comes to this.

But we all have to do it. Because we are adults and living in the real world.

I remember my first job ever; I was being paid the minimum wage and sometimes I would go and grab myself a sandwich and as they rang up the bill, I would look at the receipt and think to myself, that was two hours of work right there. I just worked two hours to simply eat.

It taught me quite a bit, working at minimum wage. It wasn’t for long, only for one summer, but I realized how tough it must be for most people. However, after that, I never really took things for granted. Then I moved on and was able to command a higher salary and benefits and then also came to a wonderful epiphany: I don’t need them.

I don’t. I don’t need to be employed by one firm or another. I am lucky in that I have choices. I can find something else, always. It has made me more of an undependable employee, but fuck them. It has made me a happier person. And one who can swear, at least in my head, at them while I roll my eyes and pretend to give a crap about all the trivial requirements they want me to fulfill.

When Friends Are Family

Cuddling!!! WE ARE PACK.
Photo credit:

Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother and sister and nieces, but at the end of the day, due to a bunch of stuff I’ve been through, I consider my closest friends as my family.

It’s understandable that my friends have plodded through similar traumatizing family travails as I have; we have all had to find a way to re-construct a support structure by ourselves, mainly comprised of people who are not always related through consanguinity.

This came into question a few years ago, when I realized that I was approaching forty and had no offspring. I had always wanted children, but my ex and I put it off year after year, due to a few reasons. One of them was that I was afraid that I would screw up whatever children I had because I was never really a child, due to dysfunctional family dynamics. Another was that I was working insane hours and couldn’t even imagine handling something else. There were other reasons, ones that I don’t necessarily feel comfortable right now in disclosing in this post. Needless to say, I never got pregnant.

Then when we got divorced, I was about 35, which meant that I was right smack in that age range where if you want to get pregnant, you should do it then. But I was dealing with an enormous change in my life and didn’t want to rush into any sort of commitment with some stranger just to get pregnant. That wouldn’t have been fair to me or to the other person.

I finally decided to approach one of my best friends in the world, Jacob, to ask him if he would be willing to donate his sperm should I decide to have a child. I remember the phone call between us when I asked him if we could meet for dinner. I was wary and tense at the same time, which sent up a bunch of red flags, I am sure, for him. I am unable to be casual when I should be.

When he met, pretty much right after we ordered, he said, “I know why you asked me here.”

“Really?” I asked.

“You can have my stuff.” He responded. “Yes. Now can we have dinner?”

He said that he mentioned to his partner after the phone call that I sounded weird, who then replied, hello, it’s obvious why she wants to meet you! She wants to see if you’re okay with donating and you’re totally going to do it, right? And my friend said yes, of course.

I am not there at this point. But it meant a lot to me that Jacob was completely willing to be the donor and that we agreed on everything. That he didn’t need to be involved, that the child I might have would be mine, and mine alone. That he didn’t need to take on any responsibilities and feel like a “father” in the traditional sense.

Jacob is like me, more clinical and straightforward so he discussed his family’s medical background as a forewarning of issues that may appear. Not that there were many. Afterwards, we enjoyed our meal, especially since I was so nervous that before we met at the restaurant I had gulped down two enormous glasses of red wine (totally helped, BTW!!).

Despite the fact that if you agree with that perspective or not — having a child in that fashion — I think anyone can acknowledge that at least it was wonderful and heartwarming that Jacob was so willing to give me something that was so significant: the life of a baby.

And although I didn’t go through with artificial insemination (uh, because there is no way we would have conceived through the standard, biological process), it meant so much to me that Jacob said yes.

I love my friend Jacob and would be proud to have his child. Even if we wouldn’t be together in the traditional, marital sense. He is great. I love him.

I am lucky, really lucky, to have such great friends. And that is one of the many reasons I consider them my family.