a lady doesn’t trash talk


I can be a paranoid person in general. Like, say, when a cop car is in front of my apartment and my gut reaction is to hide in the closet (they are here to get me, I know it). Same goes for overhearing conversations. Clearly, they are talking about me. Did I not just hear someone use the feminine pronoun?

OK, so, as it happens, I, unlike Chaka Khan or Whitney Houston, am not every woman. When people do happen to be talking about me, there’s no gristle for the gossip mill. Until now, that is.

Should I give you the full story? Sure, why not.

Wednesday morning, I woke up in pain. By the afternoon, I was in so much pain, I went to the ER. I had a few ideas as to why. Worst case scenario, I would end up in the “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” series. Or a cyst could have cropped up on an ovary and been so happy it could just burst. Maybe the appendix. Possibly a kidney stone.

Kidney stone it is, and I get sent home with enough Oxycontin to corrupt the youth of the neighborhood and a pee strainer. That’s right. A pee strainer. A strainer for pee.

Hours pass, life goes on, for a while. Then I’m in pain again. Only this time the pain hurts a lot worse, I’m puking up what could have been supplementary income (OK, fine, last Oxycontin joke), and the kidney-stone catcher has yet to demonstrate its stated purpose. So back to the hospital with me to wait and wait and wait in the hallway, on a mobile bed, crying.

Now I’m not saying this was my most ladylike moment. I would like to point out though that given the circumstances, my well-tempered tongue was pretty impressive. I did not yell at the nurse. I did not yell at my friends. I didn’t even yell at the doctor when he heard the size of the kidney stone and called me a “wimp” before I received any pain medication. “That’s OK, we treat wimps too,” he said. I smiled. I freaking smiled.

By 12 am the next morning, I was doped up and on my way to be admitted for an overnight stay. Some sleep, a thorough health history, and another round of meds later, I was awake and, here’s where it becomes relevant, overhearing my roommate’s conversation. She was on the telephone talking about her former roommate.

“Yeah, she left yesterday around 5:30. Tried to give me her address n’ shit.”

Barely with it, sore in the throat from vomiting, and hooked up to an IV, I still know when people are about to talk about me.

“Then last night they brought this trashy white girl in here n’ shit. Yeah. She’s 26. Got glasses n’ shit. She’s fucking poor like I am.”

Glasses n’ shit?

To be fair, I am white. I’m 26. Creditors sure know I’m poor. And, yeah, I was wearing my glasses. But trashy? I had showered. My health history was a bore. No outbursts. Not one.

So here I am. Trash talked about being trashy. Which is less ladylike, I’m not exactly sure.


4 Responses to “a lady doesn’t trash talk”

  1. 1 Lady Jen

    That bitch crazy.

    You’re too much of a lady to be trashy.

  2. “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant”- the scariest show ever.

  3. 3 BSmith

    This was a great read… I would also like to point out that you tagged both “trashy” and “urine” haha… kudos

  4. It’s an amazing piece of writing designed for all the online viewers; they will take advantage from it I am sure.

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