A Decent Proposal: The Second First Date Experiment

He's upping his game, big time...And I'm now tuned in and watching the game.

By way of an intro: When you leave a lover (or job, or friend, or any kind of relationship) behind, for any reason, you always do it with the assumption that you know them--or enough about them in one area or another--to have made that decision wisely.

Example A:
"I am going to stop banging you because I know from personal, agonizing, chaffing experience that you couldn't find my clitoris even if it lit up and played the Mets game in HiDef."

Example B:
"I am going to end our relationship because you cheated on me with that girl from Applebees...and know that no matter how much you apologize, if you could do it again, you would. Also, I'll never be able to enjoy the boneless wings there again, and I'm really upset about that."

Example C:
"After dating you for half a decade, I know everything there is to know about you. I have a Masters' Degree in Studies of You. During my intense study of You, I've collected enough data to conclude you'll never be able to give the style of romance/attention/perfection I want, because if you could, you would have by now. As a result, I must terminate our mutually loving and respectful relationship because we'll never make each other entirely happy due to this unfortunate incompatibility."


After many years of life experiences, obstacles, disagreements and domestic randomness with our mate, most of us monogamers start to take for granted that we know everything about them. "I know you'll order corned beef and hash with two pieces of American cheese as your hangover breakfast, because you ALWAYS do."

Alex and myself, pre-Hitch List, were no different. And aside from the big, "I gotta go be my own woman" moment of insanity that sparked the move and List movement, a contributing factor to my leaving was knowing that this sweet, sexy, loving guy, despite all the good, just wasn't all that romantic and was a passive partner...which was something that didn't always make me happy and that I didn't want to comprise on.

I've heard of instances when the person you thought you knew blows the cover off your Masters Study in Them thesis paper, presents new evidence which disproves your entire body of research and then wipes their ass with your bibliography page (and I'm talking about good instances of proving you wrong, not the more standard ones where your upstanding husband is discovered having an affair in Argentina with a 20-year-old and has taken to sobbing in public).

SO: Alex blew the cover off my thesis, and I'm totally intruigued by the new research that may unfold.

After some time apart, living seperate lives and doing the individual Hitch List thing, he showed up and gave me one of the most film-worthy monologues since the Jerry Maguire "You Complete Me" speech, something that went sort of like this:

"I'm here because I love and miss you. I understand you have to be independent--I want you to do that, with or without me. However, I think one of the reasons you left is because I never had to win you and I didn't work hard enough to keep you. I never courted you, and you deserved that, and I'm sorry. I know you're dating other people, and that you can't just come home. But I'd like to throw my hat into the ring and at least be in the running for the title of Guy Who Wins You.

I want to start from scratch and take you on a first date, knowing there's no guarantee you'll call me after, knowing you probably won't sleep with me because it's the first date and knowing that it is, regardless of our history, a first date and nothing more. If I start over and win you back over several dates or the next several years, I'll know I finally did it the right way. If someone else makes you happier, at least I know I tried this time. You have no obligation to say yes, but I'm still going to ask: Will you go out with me?"

I tried to play it very, very cool...which sounded something like this:

"Immcherm...uhm..heeeeeeeee..ahem...bzzzzzzzzz."

(Okay, not just like that, but it was inarticulate and embarassing and entirely in character for me. The speech itself was entirely OUT of character for Alex.)

I'm always skeptical about couples who break up and "start over." Won't they just fall into the same pattern of bullshit as always? And can anyone with a history "start over?" America can't very well stroll over to all 1200 remaining Native Americans left and say, "Hey, guys. Wanna start from scratch?"

However, Alex's was and is a VERY DECENT PROPOSAL.

I've granted other people first dates...so it seems wrong to discriminate against Alex just because I think I know him.

So, in the name of my thesis only, I will grant the first date....A TRUE FIRST DATE WITH ALL THE REGULAR RULES IN PLACE...

....for research purposes, of course.

Dr. Jekyll and Dr. Hyde: The Hater Caper Continues

So the “Hater” issue I last posted about has unfolded further into the craziest shit I’ve ever experienced.

Brief Recap:
Two weeks ago, I blogged about a bad Dr. experience and misdiagnosis, and the very hot doctor who gave me the RIGHT diagnosis and made me feel all tingly. I posted, went about the business of getting healthy, and called it a day.

Then, the weirdness started: first was a series of anonymous comments following The Herp blog post saying that I was a liar, a vindictive mental patient who had never seen the doctor who misdiagnosed me, and that I had “herpes of the brain.” It also claimed that the doctor who gave me the correct diagnosis was “not board certified.”

Next came another series of anonymous posts revealing my FULL, real name in the comments section of this blog. I took the comments with my name in them down immediately and called it a day again, assuming it was some disgruntled ex. I was a little concerned about who had this info, WHY they were posting it and why they were so angry, because I’ve never had any major enemies (at least not ones who lashed out like 5th grade girls a la email harassment and anonymous threats). Add in weird phone calls my parents were getting at their residence asking for information about me (which of course they didn't give out) shake, serve over ice with side of crazy.

Then, today:

My PARENTS (who I do not live with) received a phone call FROM THE ORIGINAL DOCTOR himself saying that if I did not take down the blog post involving him, HE WOULD SUE US, and that my parents should pass along that warning to me. He claimed he had learned about my blog post via “a patient of his.”

Since this blog is written under a pseudonym, one I did not use at the doctor’s office when I signed in because DUH, people don’t use pseudonyms when they’re NOT writing, that means:

He or someone in his staff went through their medical records, looked up the last chick diagnosed with “nose herpes” (and I can’t imagine there were many, considering how rare “nose herpes” is), found my real name, posted it on this blog, and is now using my personal records to call my family and threaten them.

WHAT???!?!

So my options are to:

A: Take down the blog post about him. Pretend nothing ever happened. Let a doctor who took a Hippocratic oath not to divulge confidential patient information harass and threaten me and my family via our phone and my blog.

Or

B: Point out that by going into a patient’s private files, posting their full legal name on their blog using confidential medical files as a source, and THEN using said files to call a person’s family and threaten them is not only criminal harassment, but childish and bordering on insane. And also maybe mention that there is medical documentation that he gave the wrong diagnosis, so saying “Hey, sorry, but you were wrong, I didn’t have nose herpes,” isn’t a lie or slander….it’s just the truth.

PS: A grown man, a doctor with an established practice, wants to sue and threaten a twentysomething girl who makes about $12 an hour and ate rice two out of three meals today because she can’t afford groceries? I can’t even wrap my head around that.

So, clearly, I’m choosing B.

(PS: If I’m suddenly killed or kidnapped, this blog suddenly goes silent, or you see any other signs that I've been violently removed from the world of blogging, I request that one of you readers please let the NYPD that there’s someone out there with a motive, and then refer them to this blog as documentation of my last days.)

I can totally understand being pissed someone underminded your authority….though, had he done a better job initially there never would have been a Herp blog post to begin with. And, had the scary-cyber-stalker-harrassment not started, anyone who DOES read this blog would have forgotten about him a long time ago while I went on detailing some epic wingmanning (happened recently, and it was awesome) and general Hitch Listing. Instead, they're reading this. But I digress…

Craziest thing ever.

It’s moments like these I wish I’d never moved out on my own and had stayed in my nice, safe, insulated little bubble in suburbia where shit like this doesn’t happen.

I Have a Hater!

Anonymous said...

Hello [full name deleted by blog author],

Polly Syllabick IS [full name deleted by blog author]. [Full name deleted by blog author] (her real name) and Polly are all the SAME person.

I know you,[full name deleted by blog author]. I know you really well. You can be very vindictive, however, if you did see that doctor, he was right: you do have herpes--herpes in the brain. Now cut this out, and don't make a mountain out of a mole hill. You don't want moles on your nose too, do you? And I, too, like you, am going to tell everyone in NYC to follow suit and expose your lies, BIG TIME.
Bye for now.....

*END REALLY SCARY WEIRD ANONYMOUS COMMENT POST INCLUDING PERSONAL INFO ABOUT ME*

THAT was anonymously posted to me a few days ago.

Um....crazy!

Damn, that's some angry shit! Going forth into the city to destroy someone is pretty epic (though kind of a waste of time when you're trying to "expose" a nobody, yes?).

Is this a good thing? Haters are a good thing, right? I think Kat Williams said haters are a good thing.

To the hater: I don't know why NYC would be interested in the blog of a random writer-chick who now lives in the city after a break-up. Or what kind of earth-shattering lies lay in this blog (maybe we didn't break the world record for air guitar? But why would the Guinness guy lie to us? DAMN YOU, GUINNESS!). However, I'm kind of excited to hear about them, so please post them all over this blog. (This is so exciting! Secrets and lies! Sexy! It's like Desperate Housewives!)

All 4 1/2 people who read this blog, including my grandma, will be riveted, I'm sure. Considering I'm a bottom-feeding nobody though, I doubt many people will take notice. Sorry 'bout that. I'll work on getting famous so your expose is more effective.

And so, for the record, since the very brave "ANONYMOUS" has put it out there, Polly Syllabick is NOT the name on my birth certificate...I know this is shocking. Take a moment to process....

...Earth-shattering, right?

Another LIE exposed: Alex's name.......isn't Alex. **BUM BUM BUUUUUUUUM!**

AHHH The bad news is that by reading this blog, you too may have contracted "herpes of the brain." You will likely perish before reaching the end of this post.

So, with that out of the way, we now continue with your regularly scheduled, apparently "vindictive" Hitch List programming.

(But I'm deleting the 4 other comments by the same poster under THREE other false names, cuz they're just a lil' redundant, doncha think? "You're a liar, I'll destroy you, your name is _________, blah blah blah." Keep it short, Anonymous, blog readers like that better ;-) )

Don't Blame Me, Blame the Herpes

I'm a terrible person. Like a suave, metrosexual player I drew you in, promising the world (blog entries), raising waxed brows with pleasure as you supported me (read my blog entries), and then *POOF,* I was gone, without even a text or goodbye (or blog entries). But wait, it’s not like that, baby. I love you. And I’ve got a suave, metrosexual player excuse for going MIA on you: Herpes.

Okay, not exactly herpes. But for a hot (burning, tingling) second I was thought it was.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to devolve into some TMI “girls gone gyno” nightmare entry. All the problems were above the belt....above the mouth even. Allow me to explain.

DAY ONE:

Woke up with wicked case of why-the-fuck-does-my-nose-hurt-syndrome, known in scholarly circles as WTFDMNHS. A superficial (me, mirror, overhead lighting) scan of the area in question revealed nothing out of the ordinary save for giant pores (damn you, Mom) and that bump on the bridge of my nose which makes me look like the old Ashley Simpson (damn you again, Mom)...problems, but not outright causes of WTFDMNHS.

I spackled the face, took two Advil for the pain and a Benedryl for the itching and headed, groggy, to work.

I also made sure to poke at Ground Zero with my index finger like a complete and utter child for the rest of the day. (“Does this still hurt? FUCK, yes.” “How about now? FUUUUCK, yes.” “Okay, what about

now?”) Night came, went to sleep.

DAY TWO:

Dawn. Woke to throbbing pain in right nostril. Slight fever, aches, headache. Second superficial mirror scan revealed swelling, redness and what can only be described as...leaking. Like an old hooptie at a junkyard, I was leaking something from the nose, something the color of which indicated it should never leak from any nose, despite the leaky nature of noses.

* Full disclosure: I’ve got a chronic illness which weakens my immune system and causes various problems. It’s not HIV/AIDS, but in the Lupus/MS family, so I do have to be as careful as those patients about dealing with infections early or they can get out of control.*

Point is, I’ve encountered enough immune freak shows to know a staph infection when I see one. And I saw one, UP my goddamned faucet nose.

Having just moved to NYC, leaving my family doctor behind, I called my insurance provider, found a doc in the area they’d cover and headed in to nab some antibiotics before I started looking like the Elephant Man.

Here’s where The Herp comes in.

After waiting in a midtown office for over an hour, the doc called me in. I opened my mouth to say, “Hey, I’ve got ____, get staph infections all the time, this one’s in the nose, how about some Cipro, medicine man?” He strolled over, looked up the nose and said those words which send chills down the spines of everyone with a set of genitals.

“You have herpes.”

Um....nose herpes? Wait, WHAT?!?!

“Are you sure, sir? I don’t want to offend you but I’ve had a lot of---”

“It’s herpes.” A script for Valtrex and Zovirax cream appeared and I was bustled out the door.

“But wait, what about the fever? And the LEAKING? Can you give me anythi--”

“NEXT!” said the nurse.

Um, fuck my life.

DAY THREE:

Didn’t make it to dawn. At 3am, nose throbbing, dizzy and nauseous, I returned to the mirror. Something resembling a crystallized snowflake from Hell was now living in the nose.

Oh God, I’M A MUTANT!!

I made eye contact with my mutant self, fully expecting to see the beginning of my no doubt Kafka-like transformation into a dung beetle, and was met by two bright pink eyes. MY two bright pink eyes.

OH MY GOD, I AM TRANSFORMING INTO A LEAKING, RED-EYED HELL SPAWN!

By noon I was back with that doctor. I showed him the pink, crusty eyes. I pointed to the chrysalis residing in the nose. I told him I felt like someone beat me with a stick.

“STAPH!” I said.

“HERPES!” he said. “Keep using the cream.”

CUT TO DAY FIVE:

After following doctor’s orders, I look like THIS GUY.

(Note: picture that guy dragging ass to work everyday in a pair of leggings, an over sized tunic and a series of face-hiding hats and Jackie O sunglasses.)

It’s now Friday. The itching, burning and leaking has increased daily. I haven’t slept in days. I lay awake at night in tears with packages of frozen peas and carrots on my face to numb the seared piece of fois gras it is fast and painfully becoming.

At dawn, I have the total meltdown. I call Alex, sobbing, for the first time in a long while, squeak and screech an incoherent explaination of my mutation into a Proboscis monkey, then beg him to pick me up at a train station in New Jersey to take me to my old doctor before the transformation is complete and I have to be shipped off to a zoo laboratory for study. Alex agrees, because he’s a merciful soul who knows I have no other way of getting there...and one with a morbid curiosity about what I must look like on the other end of that phone line.

Two hours later, I’m sitting in a family office in suburban New Jersey, worshipping the feet of the office manager who squeezed me in as the doctor’s final appointment before he left for vacation, and not flinching when she goes, “Jesus, you look like shit.” (Or a shit-slinging Proboscis monkey, maybe?)

FINALLY, Dr. Hottie McHotHot (aka, Dr. Anisko, truly one of the tri-state’s best, and truly one of the hottest older men I’ve ever had the pleasure to wear a paper examination gown in front of) is seated in front of me, brows furrowed as he peers into the now impassible netherworld that is my nose.

“The New York doctor says it’s herpes,” I sob.

“Well, dear, I’m not one to discredit other doctors, but I’ve never seen any case of herpes that looks like this.”

“What...w-what is it?” I’m milking the drama now, wanting to swoon into his strong, medical arms and have him revive me with smelling salts. I wish I had worn a corset and a bustled dress.

“It looks like a classic staph infection,” he delivers. “Which has spread into both eyes and the rest of your face because you need antibiotics. But it looks like we’re catching it right before it gets really ugly, so we’re lucky, aren’t we?”

Wait, wait........wait.

(insert long trail of hysterical expletives here)

SO. After some ass-kicking antibiotics, rest, pain killers, a ton of vitamins and more fluids than I’ve ever wanted to drink, I’m pretty much on the mend. I no longer look like a primate, just myself. I'm ready to get back to blogging. It takes me a long time to heal, so I may be slow and lame at first, but I promise to improve as soon as the staph exits the building.

In the meantime, you might want to avoid my the first doctor, Dr. Michael Aziz, to prevent a monkey-face like mine.

And if you’re looking for a check-up with a hot doc, nab a Jersey Transit ticket and head west for Dr. Andrew Anisko. Alex will pick you up at the station.

PS: Dear CIGNA Health Care providers, thanks for suggesting that first guy....and yes, I'm being sarcastic.