…though I’m going to take an anti-anxiety pill in a couple of hours. I’m in so much pain. I’m so bloated. Two in the afternoon I will be in Sanford getting my ultrasound. I am trying to stay positive and believe it’s going to turn out to be fibroids. There is no cure for fibroids. But, if they become a repeated problem or they are large enough they might have to give me a hysterectomy. I’m not thrilled with idea but, it beats having cancer.

I was doing what most doctors would disapprove of: reading online. At this point, googling is a reflex with me. I found out there are three (I think it’s three) degrees of hysterectomies. The most severe takes the cervix and part of the vagina. Holy shit! I don’t want that one. That’s like downsizing from a two bedroom to a one bedroom. I want bigger accommodations, if ya know what I mean. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

This is probably too much information but, it’s funny TMI, unless you are a guy, then it might cause you to feel inadequate. However, fear not, because the dude who had the attribute I am about to describe turned out to be a Grade A a-hole. He cheated on me when my mom was in a coma and I was dealing with that. Don’t worry. I fixed his wagon.

Hmm, where to start? Accommodations. That’s it. His tool required a large tool box. I was a junior at University of South Florida (USF) at the time. We worked in this restaurant called, People’s. It was based in Texas, which explains the size of its…. no, not that…it’s salad bar. It boasted over 70 items

. This dipshit I ended up dating was named, hmm, what’s a horrible guy’s name? Wilfred. Ok, Wilfred happened to be the main salad bar dude.

After about a week and a half of, “being active,” with Wilfred, I was constantly in the in the student health center for pain in that female piece of real estate. Each time I went I never had an infection. Ever.

I’ll backtrack a bit here, when Wilfred and I began dating all the ladies I worked with wanted, “details.” Hey, we were in our twenties. Girls exchange notes. Of course, I filled them in on a few things and, of course, they were curious about the quality of sex. I said, “Well, for starters, he can dwarf a ketchup bottle.”

The bulging eyes and gasps are burnt into my memory storage box. “Are you kidding me?” “Oh my God, really?” I answered,”Yep, I’ve been to the student health center about three times thinking I had an infection. One of the nurses finally asked, ‘How large is he?’” “LARGE, I thought it might be that but, it feels like an infection.”

Nope, he was just very well equipped. Turned out that was his only redeeming quality. That, and his blue eyes and his over six foot height. It also turned out that it’s size wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t keep it in his britches. He suffered from Wandering Penis Disorder.

While my mom was in a coma at Sun Coast Hospital in Largo, Wilfred decided to put his tool into another toolbox. She worked at People’s too. The kitchen/line cook dudes fixed her wagon cause they loved me. She quit. A while later we bumped into each other in a restroom in the Arts and Letters Building at USF and she started crying and whining, “I don’t know why you are mad at me. He did the same thing to me. He cheated on me.” I recall frothing at the mouth and insulting her limited intelligence and pointing out that it didn’t take Wilfred very long to release his Free Range Member from the confines of HER pasture. It took him months to cheat on me. Anything to stab and twist her tortured puny psyche. I was livid.

Speaking of his infidelity to me, I can recall the exact moment when he realized it wouldn’t work between us. We’d just concluded some bedroom exercises and I went to tinkle. I returned and caught him trying to fathom formulas in my Advanced Research Methods textbook. It was Greek to him. Actually, it was statistics so, it WAS full of Greek. I saw the stunned, perplexed look on his face and realized he realized he was not up to my intellectual level. He wasn’t a student, just a guy who wanted to own and run a sporting goods store. Maybe he shot himself in the leg and had a really shitty orthopedic surgeon. USF had and, still does have, a medical school. Maybe he got someone who had a really low GPA who was about to be set free. Kind of like Wilfred’s penis.

I can dream.

I’m having one more finger worth of vino.