"Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join me and the fast-growing haremofTMI-participators in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life." -- LiLu
So, I was texting back & forth with a friend one day about how I needed to workout. I said I was in danger of getting backfat. She was all supportive and sweet and said "oh stopit!!" so I said I'd send her a picture so she could see for herself.
I promptly went online and found the biggest, fattest back I could find and, giggling, snapped a shot of it with my phone. Then I sent her the pic.
An hour passed.
No response?
Nothing to say about the epic fat I just sent straight to her phone?
I mean, this was an orgy of People of Walmart magnitude wrapped up in a single photo. Surely she'd have SOMETHING to say.
That's when I realized I got the phone number wrong.
I left out a single digit.
Some random dude (probably someone's grandpa), in CANADA, no less, just received a picture, with NO explanation whatsoever, no text, of backfat.
Not only did I send it to the wrong number, but I sent it out of the country and promptly paid $1.00 for the privilege of embarrassing myself.
D'oh!!
(And no, this is not an April Fool's joke. It really happened!)
"Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. -Lilu
Today's TMI Thursday is brought to you from my 8th grade diary, when maxipad technology was EXTREMELY primitive, not like today's thin and light specimens with wings. We were tortured with thick thick awful things that rival Depends.
My 13 year old self observed (one particularly awful month):
Why are women so grouchy that time of the month? Because they're wearing a freaking diaper for a week and look hermaphroditic, like they have a male body part.
Manufacturers must enter contests like "who can produce the fattest, widest, thickest and longest maxi? MUST stretch from tailbone to naval. And put the ones designated for junior high students in a big cardboard box so some poor slob has to carry it down the hall from the nurse's office to the bathroom like a 13 yr old UPS driver. Oh, and make sure the sticky part doesn't really stick so it slips down your leg as you walk. Bonus points for swishy noises that capture the attention of all 13 year old boys within a 50-yard radius."
Yeah. I hated it then and I hate it now. I remember the day I wrote this. I slunk to the nurse's office after bleeding all over the seat in English class, and Scott F. screamed, when he saw my stained pants, "blogrollandroll HAS HER PERIOD!!!!!!!!!!!!" down the hall in a booming voice whose decibal level rivaled a megaphone. Goddamn that boy could yell. I've never seen anyone before or since with a healthier set of lungs.
And then the nurse handed me a fucking BOX the size of my thigh which contained a single pad. No one carried purses then so I slunk down the hall holding this CARTON out in front of me which broadcast its hated contents of FRESHNESS to any nearby leftover deaf-mute who hadn't already heard Scott's emergency broadcast. It took 10 minutes just to dismantle it because I wasn't carrying a boxcutter. And 8th-grade bathrooms are not equipped for privacy or stealth, so all the smokers just listened to me inside the flimsy stall struggling to open the box; what came out was the size and shape of a small mink. And about as absorbent.
I tried to fix it in place but within seconds of walking out, the mink began migrating down my pant leg with every step.
Today's TMI Thursday comes from an anonymous guest blogger: ................................
Back in college, I had a semester that almost crushed me. Classes rung me out until I was nothing but a burger-eating husk. I ate nothing but red meat and ramen. Not a single vegetable or molecule of fiber passed my lips. Fluids? I was too cheap to pay for water and so, like a specialized desert mammal, I derived all necessary moisture from food. (This is what happens when I'm under stress -- I put myself absolutely last on the "To Do" list.)
And so one day I was in the john and suddenly realized with alarm that it looked like a shark attack had occurred in the toilet. I immediately called the doctor.
After a very uncomfortable exam in which my ass was ripped open for optimal viewing, a followup colonoscopy was scheduled for a deeper look.
My unsympathetic employer required a doctor's note for any time off, no matter how little. And so I asked the office to fax the note over and went for the test.
Everything was fine. I was just eating like an idiot. (Note: fluids, fiber, and abstinence from red meat are your friend.)
I got to work for my next scheduled shift a week later and five people accosted me as I walked through the door. "OMG! Are you OK?? What's wrong??" I blinked. "Um, nothing, why?" "Well, we got your NOTE. And we were soOO worried about you." "What note?" I asked (having suppressed the previous week's ass trauma deep into my subconscious).
We looked at each other for a moment.
Now, I worked in a very small and intimate office where everyone knows EVERYTHING about eachother... except maybe who's ass is bleeding.
Until now.
They showed me the note.
Faxed into the company machine in the most public area of the entire office is this:
To Whom it May Concern: Re: me
Please be advised that [me] is under my care. She was referred by me to Shore Gastroenterology for treatment of rectal bleeding.
Sincerely,
Richard A. IjustThrewMyPatientUnderABus
The cat was out of the bag. Or maybe I should say the ass was out of hiding!
TMI Thursday Ideas: thoughts on love, sex, romance, and intimacy
This TMI Thursday, dear readers, I have questions for YOU. Things to percolate in your mind for your own TMI Thursday posts. These are all devoted to the topic of intimacy:
How often have you fallen in love?
How do you settle differences in a relationship?
Describe the experience you had about losing your virginity.
Do you wish you had slept with more or fewer people?
Did anyone ever pursue you unsuccessfully but relentlessly?
When are your relationships the happiest?
What are loving ways to say "I'm not in the mood?"
What makes someone "good in bed"?
Do you regret any of your escapades?
When is it hardest for you to give or receive hugs?
What terms of endearment do you use?
Do you feel comfortable introducing old lovers to a current one?
What do you like to do after making love?
Have you ever fallen in love by email?
Have you ever been in love with more than one person at a time?
Do you regret NOT sleeping with anyone?
What happened to your first love?
Describe your first kiss.
What about love makes you afraid?
What are two things that make someone totally unappealing?
When or how did you know you were truly in love?
Are there any parts of the body that you dislike touching or having touched?
What typical reason makes you end a relationship?
Did you ever feel like you would not recover from a broken heart?
What are three things you love doing with your mate?
When is the right time in a new relationship to have sex?
What was the first impression you had when you met a significant mate?
Do you believe in soul mates?
If these TMI Thursday ideas spark posts that you are reluctant to feature on your own blog, shoot me an email, I can do an anonymous post for you right here: blogrollandroll@yahoo.com . I will keep your privacy secret and most positively will not judge. I never judge. And about secrets, I'm still keeping one someone told me when I was 9. Not bad, considering most 9-year olds are blabbermouths. So your secret is safe with me. And the entire internet. ;)
I'm devoting this TMI Thursday to something I wrote on my blog and told the entire internet but somehow neglected to tell my mom.
I was talking to her a few days ago and was all, "haha, yeah, I felt that way too when I had that brain thing!"
She's like, "Um, what 'brain thing'?" -- all concerned and motherly-like.
I go (still not getting it), "Remember? When I was having those weird optical illusions and had to get an MRI and then it showed that weird thing? And they wanted to do more testing?"
She was silent.
"WHAT brain thing? What are you talking about? You never told me about optical illusions or a brain thing."
Me: "Really? I wrote about it on my blog. Huh. I'll send you the link." <-- (not really but you can see a cartoon developing about this, can't you?)
I didn't want to alarm her so I hadn't said anything. But about two years ago, for a small period of 3 weeks, I waited, worried and pondered about the changes a medical emergency could bring to life. Not just what it could mean for me but about how so many are already living that kind of reality.
(Here's the short blog post where I briefly mention the brain thing but didn't go into details. My blog was still new and my parents weren't reading it but I still didn't feel comfortable fully divulging my feelings.) (And apparently the folks are still not reading it!) (whew!)
It wasn't until a year later that I was able to fully talk about it. And so I wrote this last November:
(Listening to commercial: "I'm so glad I found Laurel and her financial makeover! I now have a C corp, an S Corp, and 6 LLCs!!") "Bit*@! Why you need 8 businesses? Can't you make enough money at one??"
"I hope I'm not that hunched."
"I wonder who would ball up my gym clothes & clean my cube if I got hit by a bus on the way into work? Should I appoint someone? I can't have just anyone touching my sports bra."
"Why is that woman wearing a vagina on her shirt?"
(Thinking of coworker I addressed no less than 75 times earlier in the week) "Oh god. His name is NOT Mark."
"Maybe it wasn't wise to bring a bowl of cereal in the car." (Don't worry, I wasn't eating it - it just got so mushy I had to throw it out.)
"Those people with the ugly baby seem so nice."
(Trying to think of the name of a fast food joint I passed on crosscountry trip) "What was that place again? Chunky's? Tubby's? Dumpy's? Chubby's? Bob's Big Boy? Why are so many restaurant names so incredibly uncomplimentary??"
I've been offline this week - completely swamped. Sorry! Will be back online next week for my regular columns. Today, however, I bring you a short snippet in celebration of TMI Thursday -- since last week's "how people found my blog" post was so popular, here are this week's winners:
Top 7 keywords people used to find my blog recently:
can i put a non poisonous snake in my vagina?
free blowjobs sierra vista
should i take a tamiflu for h1n1 if i lack a spleen
fat plumper vagina pics
i ate tiny brown bugs in my cereal am i going to get sick
ate fly larvae and now my stomach is bad
she finds excuses to grope me
But out of all of these? #1 is my favorite.
Maybe I really didn't want to know how some people celebrated Columbus Day.
Be back online next week... have a great weekend, all!
Years ago, I became friends with two lovely young girls who worked on the night cleaning crew at my old job. We introduced ourselves with shy smiles over an emptied trash can and over time, something just clicked. We began to share stories (as best as we could through broken Spanish and English) and our talks turned from language lessons into a kind of sisterhood.
They welcomed me into their home, cooked wonderful meals like homemade flan and chicken mole and surrounded me with the kindness, warmth and generosity so characteristic of Mexican culture.
This story is about a mortifyingly embarrassing incident that happened when I helped them move into their new home.
They rented a basement apartment in a home full of other college students. On move-in day, I tried to explain in terribly broken Spanish that they might want to keep their bedroom door closed so no one would "think the wrong thing" if they saw the single tiny, obviously shared, bed. I didn't care that they slept together but I worried they might be treated harshly by homophobic roommates.
It took a long time for me to communicate this.
In my earnestness to protect them from possible prejudice, I pantomimed sex with my hands as stick figures, motioning towards the bed and then pointing out the lack of privacy (since anyone could walk through anytime).
They looked at me blankly, their beautiful dark eyes wide with innocence and eagerness to understand.
I kept working over the motions. Over and over again, the stick figures tangled together in unspeakably graphic acts (for stick figures) while other stick figures walked in on the scene, shocked.
Eventually one of them cocked her head. "Ah," she said, "I understand."
Satisfied, I smiled and relaxed, feeling the warmth that comes with connection and philanthropy, and drove home.
Then I found out they were lesbians.
Already familiar with the obstacles in society gay people face, they had told me they were related when we first met. And I never thought otherwise.
Frak.
I had just instructed two lovers NOT to sleep together.
I probably sounded like the exact homophobe I'd been railing against. I was horrified! Me, with my firm belief in equality, that love should be celebrated, that all people are equal and deserve to pursue happiness. My stick figures hung their heads in shame.
CRINGE.
Growing up Jewish, I have some sensitivity to what it's like to be an outsider.
It can be easier to be a minority if what makes you different doesn't stand out. (Although once in line at a supermarket, a woman in front of me gestured angrily at the slow cashier and remarked, "Those Italians? Almost as bad as them Jews!" (Incidentally, insulting both my nationality [or at least one of them] AND my religion.) But any judgment passed from one human being to another saddens me. And these two sweet girls were not immune.
When my Mexican friends turned to me, hurt at the cold shoulders and unfriendly attitudes of their peers, I didn't have words to explain this harsh aspect of human nature. "It's ignorance," I said gently, wishing the world were kinder. "Ah," they replied, nodding. "Ignorancia."
And that's how our lessons often went.
This story ends well. I cringed. They laughed at me affectionately and forgave me for my own ignorancia. And innocence. And all was right with the world.
But that's the last time I butt into anyone's sleeping arrangements! ;) __________________ More TMI Thursdays?
Today's TMI Thursday is devoted to you, dear reader. To the keyword searches bringing new folks to my blog.
Vomit is a popular topic, as is fat, spleens and other body parts. There was also one (thank goodness only one) search for me "naked." I can only hope that refers to the other 100 folks out there with my same name. I assure you, there no nude photos of my spleen. Anywhere.
But I might be able to coax it into some feetie pajamas for you.
Moving on.
Popular keyword searches on blogrollandroll recently:
vomit-related:
baby ate cigarette won't throw up
how to throw up on cue
most someones ever throwed up
the thing in my throat dont make me throw up
swiss cheese makes me throw up
spleen-related:
my spleen hurts when i drink soda
spleen burger
spleen comedy schedule
underwire bras damage to spleen
On vaginas, breasts, fat and other body parts:
gun in my vagina
watch man put head in vagina
wide vagina photo ,pictures
why my vagina rules
Ginormous breasts
love at first nipple
fat guy hides gun in rolls
mouse died in fat roll
letter to my pancreas
Categorically uncategorizable:
how to crystallize human urine
f*ck dreamweaver
stiff f*cking neck
bob dole slept like a baby
bisphenol a
COMMON THINGS BETWEEN PEOPLE WITH FECAL BREATH (yes, it was in all caps)
philosophical questions: throw your uncertainty upon the internet! Find the answers to all you've ever asked! Like:
should i throw up before bedtime? (Um. You should never TRY to throw up. Ever.)
my vagina is a little wide and a little fat is something wrong? (Honey, they're like any other body part. They all vary and they're all beautiful! Not that I'm the authority on this but it just seems intuitive.)
why do elephant seals have that lump on their face? (I'm not really sure. I really did just try to look but nothing was immediately obvious for my .03 second attention span. These lumps seem to be larger in males, who are required to hurl their facial ballsacks at eachother during mating season. The male with the largest protuberance beats down the competition while females watch admiringly. Technically, the lump is called a "sagittal crest.")
can i give my chihuahua prunes? (For the love of god, NO! Actually I was thinking more of the laxative effect. But I just looked it up and actually, prunes are dangerous for your dog. So, no.)
does eating increase your chance of jury duty? (?? readers? help me out here...)
DOES eating increase chances of jury duty? And what exactly do I have to eat?
I was starving. And trying desperately to avoid the candy jar. "I will be healthy!" I thought. "I brought raisins and by god, I will eat them!" Living with parents who've been raised by folks who made it through the depression has made me frugal. I do not waste food easily.
Now, I have just moved back home this past weekend after being in Arizona for 5 months. I spent all of Sunday unpacking and haven't really gone food shopping yet. I mean, I picked up a box of frozen salmon but I can't really snack on that at work. So when the afternoon rapacious, greedy, insatiable hunger demon attacks, I need to be prepared. Yesterday's weapon of choice was an old, wayward box of stiff raisins that I clumsily grabbed as I was tearing out the door. I had no idea how old they were. But raisins last forever, right?
Fast forward to 4pm. Normally I get hungry around 3 but I was particularly uninterested in my anti-starvation arsenal. I waited until my stomach started to digest itself and then, while composing a response to a guy wanting to sell us his useless vinyl record collection, I tore into the box of raisins. They were dry, crumbly and unyielding (a particularly unappetizing combination in a raisin) but I mindlessly jammed giant handfuls down my maw anyway. I downed nearly the entire box this way, not even looking.
Now down to only three raisins glued to the back of the box, I clawed blindly but they were out of reach. So I tore it open. And made the mistake of looking.
And that's when I discovered something very wrong inside:
Not a normal box of raisins
Um, raisins are not supposed to look like this, right?
I looked closely, unable to help myself. Yep, bugs. Little segmented parts, tiny hairs and ingested raisin excreta all over the box. I don't know WHAT ate them, but I clearly did not get there first.
I stood there a moment contemplating the philosophical cleansing of a good retching session.
And then I emailed my workout buddy:
>>> >>> A very distressed blogrollandroll >>> I have just discovered I have eaten bugs. The retching session might not end in time to workout. Call before you go anyway, might need someone to call for help.
>>> >>> Cruel workout buddy >>> If they were in the popcorn they were good.
>>> >>> A very distressed blogrollandroll >>> No. It was the raisins. kak!
>>> >>> Cruel workout buddy >>> oh that is bad. See, in popcorn they would probably be killed during the microwaving process. Not so in raisins. they'd probably be rather plump and juicy from all the good sugar. Like when I ate the cereal and I'd see all these tiny brown specs and think "I don't remember tiny brown things like that in Wheaties." So yes, you ate good, healthy, plump, bugs. Hopefully they washed their claspers and legs after defecating.
I reread this and stared back into the box looking very carefully at droppings from most certainly unwashed claspers and legs. Then I called him, said, "I hate you," and hung up. And spent the next 10 minutes brushing my teeth. (Yes, I keep a toothbrush at work.)
I have since learned this is not the first time I've eaten bugs. The FDA details the number of allowable insect parts in its Food Defect Action Level publication. Although this contains unallowable amounts, and even though I am not a math whiz, my brain saw this and instantly calculated the reverse: acceptable levels of insect fragments, parasitic cysts, thrips, mites, aphids, rodent hairs, mold, and worms in our food. Read on:
Unacceptable food defilement levels:
Herring: 60 parasitic cysts
Sauerkraut: 50 thrips
Spinach: 50 or more aphids, thrips and/or mites
Mushrooms: 20 or more maggots...75 mites
Broccoli: 60 or more aphids and/or thrips and/or mites
Brussel Sprouts: 30 or more aphids and/or thrips
Peanut Butter: 30 or more insect fragments...One or more rodent hairs
Wheat Flour: 75 or more insect fragments...1 or more rodent hairs
Tomatoes: 10 or more Drosophila (fruit) fly eggs, or 5 or more fly eggs and 1 or more maggots
Popcorn: 1 or more rodent excreta pellets...1 or more rodent hairs
Pepper, ground: 475 or more insect fragments...2 or more rodent hair
Peaches, canned/frozen: 3% wormy or moldy...1 or more larvae and/or larval fragments
Nutmeg, ground: 100 or more insect fragments...1 rodent hair
Oregano, ground: 1,250 or more insect fragments...5 rodent hairs
Welcome to TMI Thursday, spearheaded by LiLu, who says:
Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
I'm short on bodily function stories right now. But will you take the next best thing -- a grotesque deformity?
I grew up in NJ, land of full-service gas stations. (Wait, this will make sense in a moment.) Only two states in the entire U.S. offer full-service by law: NJ and Oregon. Never having pumped my own gas before, I pulled into a station one sunny afternoon, rolled the window down and announced to the attendant that I wanted to fill my tank. This is important because note that I had to actually speak to someone. Face to face. In order to get gas, the most mundane of tasks.
I flung my arm out the window to offer my credit card.
Only he wasn't interested.
Instead he stared at me, his face a giant question mark, fingers absentmindedly raking over the tall white turban resting on his head. He gazed at me as if I were a creature from outer space. A long awkward moment passed before I turned to look behind me. Was it a language barrier? A UFO landing? A cat giving birth to a zebra? A UFO giving birth to a cat?
No one was behind me.
There wasn't a single living object that could have so captivated his attention.
He stood there still staring. I asked again, this time with less certainty due to the weirdness that was developing, "fill 'er up please?"
Finally he pointed.
At my face.
He. Pointed.
At.
My.
Face.
Grinning slowly, he asked, unabashed, "What's THAT??"
He had an accent but I understood him perfectly.
I slowly followed his fingertip to the end of my nose, where there stood a giant red zit. A pustule pulsating happily in its glory at the defeat of the rest of my face, it knew it had won. Like the bulbous second head of a encephalic siamese twin, it mindlessly competed for visual attention through the sheer enormity of its very presence. I didn't have a chance.
A pimple. He didn't understand what was on my face because it was so large and grotesque that it was like a physical deformity. With childlike innocence he simply could not help himself from blurting out the unspeakable. Questions must sometimes be answered.
I narrowed my eyes. Brazen candor shall be met with its equal.
"It's a ZIT." I flatly replied.
He stood, shocked. That an ordinary red bump could so hijack one's face that it could become the sole point of focus was inconceivable. He took one last gaping stare before ripping his eyes away to focus on the more earthly task at hand: filling my tank.
We spent the next several minutes in awkward silence as I cursed the SLOW SLOW pumps before paying and driving off in disgrace.
And then I made a slight change in plans that involved an entire tub of benzoyl peroxide, several sewing needles, needlenose pliers, a spare car battery and some Advil.
A moment of silence, please, in remembrance of its untimely death. But it was either it or me, and I got the brain.
There, do I have your attention now? Good. But in case you wondered if this post was about MY ginormous breasts, sorry. It's not. (Regular readers will note that the above photo is not one of me.) No, this TMI Thursday post is about how, even though I am not INTO ginormous breasts, I still notice them. (Or at least I do if they're being thrown into my face.)
Here's what happened.
I was at a meeting one day with one of my old coworkers and we were sitting at a table shuffling papers, discussing the efficiency of loading a full ream of paper into the printer every third Thursday (or some equally riveting topic). She seemed uncomfortable and kept shifting her body; twisting around the chair, heaving upward and rotating upon some strange axis before settling back down. She would not stop fidgeting.
Look, it's not MY fault that she was wearing a shirt so low-cut that her boobs swung out like wrecking balls.
So I looked!
Everytime her girls swiveled into view, the sheer size, weight and momentum yanked my eyes downward. I couldn't help glancing. I really couldn't. I tried not to notice but she kept whipping them into my line of sight. If she was trying to get me to stare, she couldn't have done a better job. But she wasn't.
Finally she outright handled them. Yep. She picked her breasts up with her hands, gently cupping the bottom, and gingerly settled them down on the table.
What would you do?
You'd notice.
I've never seen someone fuss so with their torso. But she wasn't doing it to get my attention. I thought she was either just a nervous, active person, or she'd drank 78 espressos that morning, but either way, I DID notice.
She suddenly grew shy after my last averted eye attempt. After resting them on the table, she looked at me uncomfortably, glanced down and slowly pulled her shawl forward, draping loose burlap-like fabric over her cleavage, hiding all evidence of the shapes that lurked beneath.
I thought I'd die of embarrassment. BUSTED!
She actually had to cover herself because of me.
"I don't care about your boobs!" I wanted to cry. "Stop hurling them in my face!"
Really, if she'd been swiveling her elbows about, I'd be noticing them too.
And trust me, I have ZERO sexual interest in either body part.
I now sympathize with some (SOME) guys who shift their gaze downward now and then. I'm not even INTO them and couldn't help it!
When he woke, I knew something was wrong. Normally Dan's ferret would crawl out of his bed and greet me, but now he stayed put, oddly looking at me. I reached out encouragingly. "Hey there, little fella. Cooome here!" I wanted my after-nap hug.
Dan was away on a trip and I was watching his beloved ferret for a week. If you've never gotten to know one, they're kindof like a mixture between dogs and cats. They're curious, playful and, if you handle them frequently as kits, affectionate. Floyd was all of these things, the sweetest bundle of fur you could imagine.
I waited for him to come out of his bed, yet he balked. I called to him again and realized with alarm he couldn't move the back half of his body. He laboriously pulled himself up over the lip of his bed and when his hindquarters appeared, I was horrified to see that they were not only paralyzed but an eery blue color.
"Anoxia" I thought immediately.
It wasn't a stroke but the circulatory system was shutting down.
I knew he was old. I knew he was sick. But he'd been these things for a few years. I didn't know he was on the edge of death. Here Dan was hundreds of miles away on a boat in the middle of the ocean and his beloved pet, in my care, was dying.
I never had an animal put to sleep before. But I knew it had to be done or the poor little guy would continue to suffer. He refused food, a sign of pain.
I rushed to the vet with him enveloped in a soft cushioned box and sped down the road watching the glorious sunset, wondering how could death happen on a day so achingly beautiful? I turned on the radio and heard the soft melody of a song I'd never heard before crooning lyrics that echoed my thoughts.
I stayed just a little too long Now it's time for me to move on
I pulled into the parking lot and tenderly gathered the box while Floyd looked at me questioningly, his innocent face turned sweetly upward.
Goodbye yesterday, I just can't stay around
He had no idea he was dying and no idea that in a few moments, I was going to hand him to some strangers to "put him out."
Goodbye morning, sorry it had to end
I peered at him for one last look, fat drops falling silently into the box and wetting his soft fur. Then I ran inside.
You see I cried just a little too long Now it's time for me to be strong
I handed the box to the robotic clerk behind the counter. We had no local vet because the ferret usually saw Dan's veterinarian uncle. And so I was not at a place we had any relationship with.
Businesslike, I gulped back tears and handed them the ferret. They asked if I wanted to be there.
I couldn't. I couldn't stand there and watch the life drain out of him.
They say I'm hopeless
I stood in the waiting room, completely and utterly alone, fighting back waves of sadness. Why now? How am I going to break the news?
Fifteen agonizing minutes crawled by where I tried in vain not to think.
An emotionless assistant finally emerged from the back and handed me a shoebox, lid closed. "Here you go," she offered. I silently held out my credit card, a stoic pillar of sand about to crumble any second.
Goodbye yesterday, I can't take you with me
And then I turned to leave.
The face that I presented to the world, the one I thought looked strong, must have been a mask of grief and loss so transparent that a woman, a complete stranger standing in the doctor's office looked at me and kindly opened her arms for a hug. She said gently, "I've had to put a few cats to sleep, I know how it is."
Not usually prone to hugging strangers, I fell into her arms and she surrounded me with warmth. Not a pat-pat hug, but a true hug of comfort. A strangled sob suddenly escaped and I realized I'd been holding my breath. Unable to speak, I nodded to thank her for her kindness. Then I broke away and ran to the car where I could break down in private. I sobbed the whole way home.
I always wanted to thank that woman for being there for me that day when I so badly needed it.
Hello yesterday, remember how it used to be
She'll never see my blog. She'll never know how much that tiny gesture meant. But I'm writing this today as a tribute to that little creature. And to say that the kindnesses you offer strangers may matter more than you could know.
Lyrics to Hopeless by Dionne Farris
Hello morning, now when does the fun begin Goodbye morning, sorry it had to end But see I cried just a little too long Now it's time for me to be strong Hello morning, I sure missed you last night Goodbye morning, you just won't do me right I stayed just a little too long Now it's time for me to move on They say I'm hopeless, as a penny with a hole in it They say I'm no less, no less, no less, no less, no less Than up to my head in it Hello yesterday, I sure need you now Goodbye yesterday, I just can't stay around You see I cried just a little too long Now it's time for me to be strong Hello yesterday, remember how it used to be Goodbye yesterday, I can't take you with me No, no, no I can't You see I stayed just a little too long And now it's time for me to move on
I had a special gig when I was in school to provide notes for the entire class of Intro to Microbiology at the University of Maryland, a class that had so many students -- 300 -- that even the cavernous lecture hall reserved specifically for it still burst at the seams.
There were two businesses in town that each paid me $10 for my typed notes that they then sold to students. Their business philosophy was to provide notes for those who had missed class or just wanted a backup.
Is this even legal?
I have no idea. Maybe not, because neither place is still in business.
But I needed to eat, and so I eagerly tapped away after every class.
Both places told me they normally like to have a few students from each class and also typically do not hire the same person -- they want the students to have some variety. You know, in case the notes suck or something.
They made an exception in my case and thus I became the sole provider of notes for the entire class.
Awesome. I needed the money. I was working 2 other jobs and this was now a third source of income. Sweet.
Now, this happened to be the worst semester of my entire life. I was the most sleep-deprived I'd ever been. (Well maybe except for the time I was a counselor at a sleepaway camp, which is a complete misnomer if I've ever heard one, but I digress.)
I was up until the wee hours almost every night typing up reports and papers and notes after long exhausting hours at work and I dunno, something had to give, right?
I fell asleep one night right in the middle of typing. Sitting up. Fingers still tapping away.
No, my head didn't loll, my fingers didn't fall away from the keys, my shoulders and arms didn't drop. I just kept typing. I fell asleep typing, woke up typing, and continued to type until I was done and then collapsed. I never re-read the notes and so I never knew I'd fallen asleep. I handed in my notes, got my $20 and went my merry way.
Then, months later, the night before the final, I pulled out the notes. I'd thrown out my originals (what was good enough to sell was good enough to study) and saw the following:
Sleep-writing. (Click to enlarge.)
1. Transformation 2. Conjugation 3. Transduction
artificial protoplanst. Fusion and electro poradion and gun & micro injection. Profus kindks memeebrane stick and DNA transfer, elec open pores in cell sideface, gene gun -- coat projectile w/DNA & shot into cell. & hiccp injection pucure cell walls.
Know the basis of how genes are transferred (figure 9.16, pg. 261 for example).
WTF?
I typed this?
How did I not realize I'd fallen asleep? What was I trying to say?? I couldn't even make sense of it using the book.
Two o'clock in the morning and I just discovered the world's most jumbled notes ever. (Along with 299 other poor slobs, all of us probably banging our heads in a hellish synchronized solitude within a 10-mile radius from campus.)
I took the exam and got a "B" -- not bad for screwing up an entire essay question on artificial protoplansts. But is it any wonder that I still don't understand this concept?
This happened so long ago I'd almost forgotten. But between JeepGirl's Tuesday's Bad Dates and Andy's review on Cosmo's "He totally blew it when..." article, I have to share this completely terrible date for today's TMI Thursday.
My sister had set me up with a relative of a beau, a cute, funny, athletic, outgoing and talkative guy my age. I couldn't wait to meet him. We were going to watch a movie at her house since both of us had driven some distance to meet eachother, he from NYC and me from central Jersey -- her house was the halfway point.
We both arrived and conversation was easy enough. My sister disappeared and we promptly popped in a movie and plopped down on the couch.
Shortly into the film, he looked over at me, paused and then shyly put his arm around me. I shifted toward him and then noticed his hand was balled into a fist. Hmm, I thought. A fist? Maybe he's nervous? Or just has itchy palms?
Whatever. I dropped the thought and continued watching.
Two hours later, the movie's almost over and his arm had not moved. Nor had his fist - still tightly balled up and resting on my shoulders.
I found this kind of curious and asked him sweetly, "Is your hand ok?"
He looked sheepishly at his fist and back at me. "Um."
Long pause.
"Well..."
I waited patiently. I'm not a judgemental person. If he had a disorder turning his hand into a claw, fine. I turned and smiled encouragingly in his direction.
"See," he began.
Another pause.
Then he looked back at me and down at his fist again, grinned innocently and opened his palm.
Nestled comfortably inside was a condom, wrapped and ready... warm, even!
I just looked at it.
And he looked back at me hopefully. When I did not respond by tearing off my clothes his grin faded.
"Uh," he began awkwardly, "I just thought maybe... I mean, um. I know it's good to be prepared and stuff."
I looked at the condom and back at him. "And what made you think things might progress to that point?"
(Enter social skills 101: read Andy's 7 Steps to Hand Holding, which, by the way, preceeds kissing, which usually preceeds sex. With a whole lot more in between, like, um, a relationship.)
He stuttered, "Well, I've never been with anyone before."
I stared at him.
"I'm a virgin! I've never done it before."
I continued listening to his confessional, not believing a word.
"I mean, I just met you but I just knew YOU were the one. I can tell. There's something about you. I knew it when we first met*." (*2 hours and 7 minutes ago, after 6 entire minutes of deep conversation.)
I just about died laughing.
Um, ok. I've heard that before.
Well, that about blew it. (Should I submit my story to Cosmo?)
I spent the rest of the night in an awkward family conversation wondering when and where did he think it was going to happen (on the couch in my sister's living room while her kids looked over the balcony?*) and wishing I could teleport myself into another dimension. (*Doesn't this sound like a bizarre game of CLUE: "Where did it happen??" "In the living room with a stranger on the couch!!")
I don't remember the goodbyes but they couldn't come soon enough!
Borat's guide to dating:
"What sized gift will give me entry into her vagine?" (NOT the above! lol)
So I found a bunch of old diary entries that I've been storing in a "journals" folder. These don't have dates but I can tell they're pretty old. I remember the incidents though. Much has changed but I still hate olive paint.
Tuesday
I hate everything and everybody. I hate school, I hate work, I hate being an advertising assistant for the shitty school newspaper, men suck and someone stole my jacket.
Friday
A few days ago I tried to introduce two of my friends to eachother. They both hate eachother now.
I'm sitting here in a dirty, grungy gas station where it looks like all the employees are ready to kick someone's ass. I hope it's not mine. My car failed inspection this morning and a big fat guy thrust the FAIL card in my face and boomed, "Ya FAILED 'cause ya pollutin' the environment!!" Great.
Monday
Someone at work's been requesting the free newsletter but they just can't seem to respond with the info I need when I ask. Well, they're obviously annoyed. Today they wrote, "I already sent you my address! DON'T ASK FOR IT AGAIN: 4312 Mhaghl z."
Um, what country? City? Zip? You can't just send me your street address! I guess they'll never see the newsletter.
Sunday
My benadryl itch stick leaked out all over my bag's contents on the plane. Now everything smells like sweet & sour medicine and I probably have dimenhydrinate (sp?) all over my fingers.
Saturday
I thought it was universally agreed upon that dark olive was a hideous choice in paint. Didn't we learn anything from the 60s & 70s? Yesterday in Home Depot, these people next to me poring over these hideous paint chips turned to me for my opinion. "We have a tiny room we're trying to brighten up. What do you think of this?" Um, I think you deserve to sit in a vomit-colored cell for even THINKING this hue would work.
Monday
This day could not have gone worse: 1. woke up when I was supposed to leave 2. lost my glasses and was even later 3. dumped bottle of water over in my backpack soaking checks for the bank deposit, notebook for important meeting, passenger side seat, new contract, forms, newspaper articles and phone numbers written on little slips 4. slouched too much 5. bit my tongue while eating lunch with a new staff member but they didn't see and I couldn't do anything but talk like I was brain-damaged the rest of the meal. And the day's not even over!!
Heh. These bring up a lot of memories. But aren't I right about the paint?
TMI Thursday is here! 
