When I Stink
The problem with me (or at least the one we will be discussing today) is that when I stink at something, I want to know why.
It's important to me to understand.
Why do I stink at this thing?
I demand a diagnosis.
Take math, for example. For years I've tried to get my special education teacher husband to diagnose me with some rare and extreme learning disability, and he refuses to play ball.
"You're just not great with numbers," he says.
"I'm not great with numbers, because WHY? (WHY!#!@# WHY!!$&)"
"Because some people are just not that great with numbers."
STAB STAB STAB!
Or take cooking! There must be a reason why I can take a Krispy Kreme donut and arrange it on a plate in such a way that you will want nothing to do with it. Perhaps I have some kind of spatial relations deficit?
"You have no interest in the culinary arts," he says.
The other night I developed a very interesting (if not thoroughly researched) hypothesis about why I am a terrible dancer (visual-cerebra-processing deficiency in one of my lobes or hemispheres or cortexes or somesuch), and once again, Mr. Nonchalant (who is good at math AND cooking AND dancing) completely shot me down.
"You're just not a great dancer."
Why does he not understand that if I am going to stink at something, I at least want to STINK WITH CAUSE.
I want to STINK WELL.
I want to be the valedictorian of stink.
When a car wreck punctured Ruby Howell’s lung in 2005, she turned into her own doctor. Ruby doesn’t have a medical degree, but she does have a ton of sass. In fact, when she made an appointment with her general practitioner, Dr.
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