Hello Darling Ones,

For the past month I’ve been locked in battle with my Home Owner’s ASSociation (HOA) over a hornet’s nest attached to my neighbor’s garage. While it is attached to her garage, it’s in a spot she would never see unless she was standing on my patio.

In the past, when I had a much cheaper and better HOA they’ve taken care of these kinds of problems. The current $400/month HOA claims pest control is an owner’s problem. I claim maintaining the siding of my neighbor’s garage is the ASSociation’s problem. And thus we have been deadlocked.

Well, we were deadlocked until I caved. I’ve already lost a pot of zinnias because I can’t get to the patio and water them. If I also lose my Salsa Verde garden I will be very sad and/or angry.

So, I was looking for a pest control company to take care of this problem and I turned to the internet to find this information.

Have you all been on the internet lately? It’s a goddamn nightmare.

I typed “Shakopee Pest Control” into the search box and the horrors were unleashed. AI Slop. Sponsored Search Results. Yelp reviews. Maps to 883 pest control companies “in my area.” SEO garbage results with 1-800 numbers for companies located in Texas.

Whenever I have the opportunity, I like to spend my money as close to home as possible and give it to an actual human. All I wanted was like Pete’s Pest Control located over on 4th Ave here in Shakopee, or something like that. I did not want the Orkin Army, thanksverymuchgoogle.

Last night I was talking to my friend Em and I uttered words I never thought I’d say.

“I wish we still had the Yellow Pages.”

Yes, the internet has made finding relevant information such a clusterfuck that I’m longing for the olden days. The days when we had paper books inside of our houses filled with business information of places nearby. It was glorious!

There was a time, when the internet was new and helpful, when I loathed the continued deliver of telephone books. I hated having to deal with all that useless paper trash they just dumped on my front step.

I didn’t want Ma Bell’s garbage. I had the internet.

Well, look at me now.

Tech Bros have monetized the usefulness right out of using the internet for finding useful local information. Thanks, Pa Bezosburg. You ruined everything.

After much scrolling and clicking I found a company in Jordan (a small town next to Shakopee) who are going to come and take care of my problem. So that’s nice, but I’m still bitter.

Love,
Jodi, your bittersweetheart

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Hi Darling Ones,

I did my taxes last night. It was not pretty.

To be fair, my taxes are never pretty. I’m a self-employed freelancer. This means I’m responsible for all of the taxes and social security and other things I probably should know.

Every year my taxes are pretty hefty and while it hurts I always remind myself about the existence of public libraries and then I don’t feel so bad paying my taxes. I love the public library, and a few days a week I rock my What’s more punk than the public library shirt. Public libraries are the best thing about this dumpster fire of a country. I’ve written about my library love before, so today I’ll write about this dumpster fire of a country.

The “health”care system in this country is fucking garbage. Straight up trash covered in barf.

It’s expensive, inefficient, and frequently inhumane.

As you well know I had a stroke last year that left me with limited ability to work. The stroke cost me roughly $21,000, and that’s just the hospital stay part. That doesn’t count follow-ups, prescriptions, and all that jazz. When I was in the hospital I was diagnosed with diabetes. I had to pay $340 out of my pocket to take a “diabetic education” class where a condescending lady saw the I was fat and told me I’d had to stop drinking Coke (I don’t drink soda) and start eating vegetables (which I already did).

Ugh. I still hate that lady.

So I did my taxes last night and my income for 2023 was $5000 less than what my stroke cost. I originally thought it was $3K, but my eyes are bad and I misread a 6 as an 8. Oh, and I still have to pay in $2500.

America!

I’m literally getting by on GoFundMe donations and the fact that I’m really good at being poor. I can’t go anywhere because I can’t drive which makes not spending money even easier. Plus, the only debt I have is medical debt.

We’re supposed to be the greatest country in the world with the best healthcare and that’s a bunch of hooey.

Today, I FINALLY got to make an appointment with a neurologist that my primary care doctor wants me to see. I took the first available appointment. It’s on August 7th.

That’s right I had to wait more than three weeks to make an appointment that’s four months away.

AMERICA!

I hate it here.

Jodi

P.S. I stole the title from the Allen Ginsberg poem “America”. If you don’t know the poem be forewarned that it uses the N-word and other racially insensitive language.

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So, Darling Ones,

I found out they have a word for what landed me in the ER on Friday, “recrudescence.”

Officially the ER doc wrote in my after care summary, “He [the neurologist] suspects likely recrudescence from prior thalamic infarct.”

Both my primary care doc and physical therapist mentioned recrudescence, because like me they’d never heard the word before.

According to my highly scientific and not all full of AI-trash and SEO-garbage Googling, post-stroke recrudescence is the “re-emergence of post-stroke symptoms and deficits after they have initially resolved.” It’s more common than they thought and more likely to strike if you’re female.

Good times.

I also learned it usually happens around four years post stroke and the symptoms last for a few days.

Well, because I’m an overachiever mine happened eleven months post-stroke, and one-week in the symptoms are still going strong.

Knowing this is an actual thing gives me some solace. Even though it’s literally all in my head, it’s not something I made up or something I’m being dramatic about.

What SUCKS and HARD is that it feels like someone pressed rewind and I’m right back where I was in May. My scoop is extra floppy and all my other stroke ticks are back — wiggly legs, swimmy head, and fingertip taps.

Speaking of swimming, I had to use a wheelchair after physical therapy again yesterday. In fact, my therapist made me stop five minutes early even though I wanted to finish the final exercise. OF COURSE I did.

“I have no doubt you could power through it,” she said.
“My goal is to power through stroke recovery so it happens faster,” I said.
“That seems to be working great for you,”she said and then left to go get Sister #4 and a wheelchair.

At least, she give me an A+ for showing up to PT after my recrudescence. And she emailed me this afternoon to see how I was doing. I’m fortunate to have a good care team.

It’s frustrating that I didn’t recognize how far I’d come until I was slammed right back into the bad old days.

I already worked past all this. I was doing better and now I gotta start over. Sure I can do it. I did it before. But, come on, you gotta admit this is NO FAIR, right? Right?

Seventeen ughbarfs and infinity frowny faces,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

I’m not going to apologize for the lack of updates because I am not sorry. Instead, I’m fucking depressed and kind of angry about it. The last two weeks have been a struggle and I’m too damn tired to put on my brave face. It’s a miracle that I can be tired at all because it seems like all I do is sleep.

Sleep is the by-product of the light-headed/panic attack cycle that started last week. It’s awful. The attacks are so bad I literally cannot see straight. The other night I was trying to take two of the “as needed” anxiety pills and I had to have BFK give them to me because I couldn’t tell if I had two or twelve in my hand.,

I’ve been lightheaded is long, I’m not sure I AM lightheaded anymore. The panic attacks still happen, though with less frequency.

Everything is garbage. My tens of thousands of dollars in medical debt is weighing on my mind. So is work, and the stuff I can’t get done. My vision continues to a nightmare and, according to the eye doctor, will be for a few months. My Floppy Scoops are super stiff and heavy.

Also? They’ve been fixing the roof on Supergenius HQ since eight this morning. I’m ready to jump out of my skin from all the banging and assorted racket. However, 1469 days ago I started learning Spanish on Duolingo because some Spanish-speaking roofers were having a grand old time and when I could understand someone asking where the boss was today I felt very smug. Totally worth it.

Anyway, I got nothing good to say. I’m miserable, lonely, and depressed. Pathetic.

I gave myself today as one last day to wallow. Tomorrow I gotta try something else because being cranky isn’t helping my mood or my condition.

A poor, unfortunate soul,
Jodi

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Dear Darling Ones,

I’m not doing very well. I’ve fallen into a swamp of seasonal/situational depression and I haven’t found my way out of it yet. I’m labeling it depression though that doesn’t feel right. Mostly I’m cranky all the fucking time and out of sorts. I don’t know how to get back into sorts. Nothing I try is working. Patience seems to be the only cure for what ails me and there’s nothing I hate more than being patient.

Thus far I have tried not saying anything because I have nothing nice to say; shouting my displeasure to friends and the universe; eating a lot of ice cream; tons of masturbation; French fries; healthy salads; not showering; showering; naps; throwing myself into work; ignoring work tipped over on the couch reading a mystery; cookies; and Hawaiian Punch.

Nothing works. You know how Pigpen has that cloud of dust that follows him around? That’s me, but my cloud of dust is on the inside and it’s not dust it’s rusty thumbtacks and thistles.

Some lovely things have even happened.

I got a sweet text from my niece. The “I thought of you” message is my favorite genre.

I started planning the return of the Annual Minnesota State Boys High School Hockey Tournament party with BFK. The Hockey Tournament starts next week, and some place deep inside this excites me.

Neko Case wrote about Sinead O’Connor and teased that she’ll be writing about “Emperor’s New Clothes” specifically next week.

As soon as I click publish I’m going to make cheddar, bacon, scallion waffles and eat them while watching the season premiere of my favorite TV show, Top Chef.

All this and yet, my insides are still a floating cloud of pokey things. I know this is temporary. I know it. I know it. I know it. However, that doesn’t make this kind of mood easier to bear. It’s a fucking drag and I hate it.

Impatiently yours,
Jodi

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