Usually this would CLEAR a room

TMI Thursday

A story in two parts

Living alone has it’s perks.  One being the ability to rip a mean fart with out judgement.

Or so I thought.

Part I
The other day I was laying in bed, enjoying my Saturday morning.  It was a great morning – crisp and cold outside, toasty warm inside; Hemo was curled up on my chest rather than on my head.  I stretched and let out a little fart.  No biggie.  I shook it out from underneath the blankets and dozed off.  I woke up a couple minutes later and felt another fart coming somewhat reluctantly down the pike (I’d had some beers with friends the night before – you know how it is) and decided to give it a little help.  Just a nudge to ease the pressure.

The loudest fart you’ve ever heard ripped out of my butt-hole and trumpeted though the house.  I swear the blankets flapped around me.  Ernie and Dexter, who were two rooms away, started barking like we were being attacked by an army of mailmen and came barreling down the hallway.   Hemo jumped 2 feet in the air and streaked out of the room.  It took me 20 minutes and a handful of treats to get everyone calmed down.

Part II
Last night I was one the phone with my sister, talking about how my dad’s wife sucks and how significant portions of my life are lost browsing Instructables and convincing myself that not only are tesla coil radios awesome but that I could make one myself by following the step-by-step instructions provided.

As I’m talking I (naturally) make my way to the bathroom.  Just as I get comfortable, I tell my sister I’m going to have to call her back.

me: Beth, I’m going to have to call you back.  I just farted in the toilet and the dogs are going ape-shit.
her: What?  I can’t hear you.
me: Just…I’ll have to call you back.  DOGS!  CHILL THE FUCK OUT!

TMI Thursday: Are you going to eat that?

TMI Thursday

My TMI’s have been pretty lame lately; maybe I need to go get waxed again or poop my pants. *Sigh* pooping my pants…I haven’t done that since I was in diapers. Not that I’m bragging, but I’ve got that shit under control. Literally. I hope God doesn’t bitch slap me now with the swine flu H1N1 virus, leaving me curled up in my bathtub in a puddle of my own vomit and feces. Now there’s a lovely image…


When I was younger, I had a real problem with food. Not that I had an eating disorder (I don’t possess the ability to deny myself anything for too long), but I had very definite likes and dislikes; actual food was kind of disgusting. I could notwash dishes because the thought of touching someone else’s crusty plate made me dry heave. My sister put ketchup on a bologna sandwich once and I threw up. Mayonnaise? Forget about it. I ate my sandwiches turkey sandwiches with mustard or nothing at all(well, after I got out of the peanut butter and butter sandwich phase), and my salads without dressing. And you can forget about cheese. The only foods that were allowed to touch were rice and corn (a delicious mixture–try it sometime!) and the meat/mashed potato/gravy trifecta of awesomeness. Outside of these exceptions–where the fuck do you think you’re going, broccoli? Don’t even think about touching the scalloped potatoes. You don’t want to make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry…

My mother is a saint.

College life changed all of that. I was never a fan of cafeteria food, but a poor college student cannot live on saltines and cranberry juice alone! Well, at least this one couldn’t. Gradually my food repertoire expanded to include all manner of food produced for the masses: I even ate cafeteria fish sticks, which is pretty much the lowest of the low. After watching my suite-mate shamelessly collecting and finishing off other people’s pizza “bones” (crusts), I overcame my aversion to other people’s food and was hard pressed to find anything I couldn’t imagine as edible, given the right condiment.

Fast forward a year; I was living in Wilmington, working as a waitress at a barbecue joint. My mom and her new boyfriend (now husband) were in town on a date, and stopped in my restaurant to have dinner see me. I hadn’t yet met my mom’s boyfriend, Brian, so I was excited to see him and size him up. They came in the door looking like two twin drowned rats, having purchased matching sweat shirts from Bald Head Island after getting rained on. Desperate to impress Brian, I tried to be as jovial and friendly as possible. I walked them through the menu, brought them their food, and made sure they were enjoying everything, all the while running my mouth (probably about stupid and inappropriate things, like how Hemo’s poop had really been stinky lately, or how my neighbors ripped off our balconey railing).

My mom and Brian were slowing down, and Brian still had half a rack of ribs in front of him. “I’d hate for these to go to waste,” he mourned, “but there isn’t any way I could take these with me.”

“Oh they won’t go to waste,” I assured him. “I’ll take them to the back and we’ll eat them. I’m starving!”

“‘We’?” he asked.

“Yeah, you know…myself and the other servers. Technically, they are mine, because you guys are my table, but I don’t mind sharing.” I then went into a long disertation about the complex rules of what food was considered “safe” to eat, and what food we just dumped.

“You know, like if you could imagine yourself making out with that person, you could totally eat their leftovers. Not that I would make out with you [insert nervous laughter], but you know, you look pretty disease-free, so maybe even if I didn’t know you I’d eat these ribs. If you had, like, sores all over your lips or chewed with your mouth open–no way. That’s gross. But especially if you know the person…we have a couple of regulars, and they always leave one or two wings on a plate. We fight over them!”

It wasn’t until I saw the look on his face–a mixture of shock and disgust–that I realized that I had said too much. I had managed to gross out a man who had 3 teenage sons at home.

TMI Thursday (and an apology)

Not to worry; I’ve already slapped myself across the face repeatedly for being an asshole blogger. Work has been crazy, what with the short week (made even shorter by a SNOW DAY on Tuesday and a 2 hour delay on Wednesday–I love working for the county!). I spent the weekend making delicious and not-too-horrible looking red velvet cakes and picking dog hair out of marshmallow fondant (it was more fun that it sounds). Also, I played around on Steve’s drums a little bit.

He broke the news that I couldn’t be the singer in his fake band because he’s heard me at karaoke and he doesn’t think I’m good enough. Bastard.

Moving on. It is once again time for TMI Thursday, and although I’ve talked about pubic hair, rats, and not getting hit on while smelling of baby pee, I have yet to talk about what I think about while sitting on the toilet. Allow me to enlighten you.

Last night I was sitting on the toilet, smack dab in the middle of a satisfying post-work #1, and staring at the empty roll of toilet paper.

Some, when faced with this dilemma, would rail against a spouse or a roommate. As I live alone, I know that I am solely responsible for the predicament I find myself in. I considered my options.

Option 1: Attempt to ‘shake’ or ‘drip’ dry. This seems to work well for guys, but I have never found much success with this method.

Option 2: Waddle, pants bunched around my ankles, to the hall closet to retrieve another roll. This would seem the likeliest course of action, were it not for the cold temperature of the house, the possibility of dripping urine on my pants, and the probability of a cold/wet dog nose making contact with my bare bum.

Option 3: Use a washcloth. Convenient, and, in my desperate reasoning, environmentally friendly. I equate it to the use of cloth diapers.

Ultimately, I went with Option 3. I figured that, with judicious use, I could get 4 to 8 uses (not including number two, obviously–I’m not an animal) out of a single washcloth, folded into quarters, before said washcloth would need to be laundered. This would save both toilet paper and water, as I do subscribe to the “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” school of thought. I can’t really let more than 2 yellows mellow, if you know what I mean, without running the risk of clogging my finicky toilet.

I’m not quite ready to make the permanent switch; I still have some wrinkles to iron out, including:

  • coming up with a system for keeping track of which quarters of the cloth have been used
  • making the distinction between bathing and wiping washcloths
  • tactfully warning guests away from washcloths currently ‘in use;’ and last but not least
  • keeping Ernie from consuming ‘in use’ washcloths

I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

TMI Thursday

Ok, so maybe this isn’t really TMI, but it is an embarrassing story none the less.

My sister, aunt, 18 month old niece, and myself were in hour 14 of our 15 hour road trip from North Carolina to Michigan. We were making our way through downtown Detroit when we heard a grinding noise coming from underneath the car. My aunt pulled off on the next exit, and stopped at the first gas station we pass to inquire about the nearest service station. While my aunt was in the gas station, a man approached the Dumpster we were parked next to and urinated on it. My sister and I crouched behind my niece’s car seat in the hopes that the black half of her racial heritage would be enough to give us some street cred.

We were pointed in the direction of, I kid you not, the scariest auto repair shop you have ever seen in your entire life. From the oil-spattered walls to the tiny rottweiler puppy tied to a cinder block chewing on a styrofoam take-out tray, everything about that place gave me the willies. I accompanied my aunt to the bathroom, which was no more than a filthy commode stuck in an alcove with half of a shower curtain for a door. I decided I’d hold it a couple more hours, but my aunt was in dire straits so I gamely shielded her as well as I could as she did her best in the cesspool.

We reluctantly left the safety of my aunt’s car and crowded into the tiny office as the mechanics took a look at the car. There are two chairs in the front office, but no one sat in them. I was holding my niece when I suddenly felt a warm patch spread slowly across my hip. Her diaper had leaked. After retrieving her diaper bag from the car, we got her in a fresh diaper but I was stuck wearing my urine-soaked road-trip jammies.

That place may have been filthy, but they were quick. I don’t even remember what was wrong with the car, but they had us out of there in 90 minutes. As we filed out to the car, one of the younger mechanics grabbed my arm.

Him: “Hey, can I get your phone number?”

Are you kidding me? I thought. My hair hasn’t been washed in 2 days and I reek of baby pee.

Me: “Um, well I live in North Carolina, so I don’t really think this would work out.”

He looked at me with an exasperated look on his face.

Him: “No, I need your aunt’s phone number. In case we need to get in touch with her about her car.”

I blushed wildly and ducked quickly into the car.

Me: “Aunt Mary, they need your phone number.”

You win this time, venison.

Even though nobody asked what Harry Potter yarn looks like yesterday, I know you were all wondering. Here you go, cry babies:

Happy now? Animal abuse really brings my family together. We also bond over red wine and guacamole, but that is a story for another time.

On to some interesting stuff. Wednesday night I spent the night with my BFF, since her boyfriend was out of town and I am a good friend. Also she mentioned in passing that she was going to put a venison loin in the crock pot. Done and done. I’m there.

BFF and her boyfriend are really fun people, and do interesting things like spear fishing and free-diving. Their freezer is always stocked with fish they’ve speared while diving at a local ship wreck or shrimp they netted from the waterway in their backyard. I do interesting things like eat their fish and shrimp. BFF works in the land management industry and is really conscious of where her food comes from, growing most of her own vegetables, only eating meat if she’s killed it herself or knows the hunter personally,* and guilting me into using Blackle instead of Google. I’m making her sound weird and sanctimonious, but seriously she is awesome.

Long story short, the venison and accompanying homemade mac and cheese was delicious. BFF packed some leftovers for me to take for lunch, and I spent the first half of the day bragging to anyone who would listen about how my lunch was going to fucking rock. Unfortunately for me (and my co-workers), I spent the second half of the day camped pretty close to the office restroom as the wild game raced through me. Everyone at work was complaining about how cold it was yesterday, but my intestinal turmoil had my internal thermostat kicked pretty high and I was flushed and sweaty all day. New Year’s resolution to lose a few pounds? I’ll go ahead and scratch that off of my list.

Confession time: ok, it wasn’t the venison. It was the mac and cheese. Damn you, lactose intolerance! I’m still in denial.

*After a few drinks a couple of weeks back, BFF confessed to me that she had really been craving bacon lately, and did I want to take up archery with her so we could go bow-hunting for wild boar? I took archery as my PE requirement in college, so of course I said yes. We haven’t actually gone any farther with the planning than that initial conversation, but I’ll be sure to keep you posted. Though I will most likely fall asleep in the tree blind on the day of the hunt, waking only after someone else makes a kill and throwing up on myself while I watch as the kill is butchered.

It’s just like riding a bike, right? Right?!?

So I haven’t blogged for a while (you didn’t notice? oh well) which has created a backlog of post ideas that have leaked into my real life conversations. Prefacing a story with, “just a warning, this might be TMI,” doesn’t really work out well when you end up telling your mom how you know it’s gross but you still sit bare-assed on the toilet seat at bars because the ‘squat-and-pee’ maneuver it too difficult to pull off after a few drinks, and no one really gets crabs from public toilets anyway, right?

Also I said ‘fuck’ in front of my mom and my 5 year old niece, but thankfully my family is too shocked to really address this issue, so after I weathered the 25-30 seconds of awkward silence I was home free.

So here’s a quick recap of things that have happened to me in the past 2 weeks or so:

  • I cut off all most of my hair. I love it.

I went sledding with my niece in Michigan. Being in the snow for less than 45 minutes rocks. After that…not so much.

  • Steve got drums. 😦
  • That is all for today. Yay 2009!

    *[Updated to add]: Why did no one tell me I spelled niece wrong?

    JEI Thursday: RATS…some facts

    I was wracking my brains this morning for a good TMI post, but I decided to go with JEI (Just Enough Information) Thursday.

    I was at our county’s government office yesterday, trying to get some permits approved for new after school programs. Have I mentioned I work for my county’s school system? Of course, I end up waiting in 3 different lines to talk to 5 different people, eventually leaving with 2 additional forms that need to be filled out and approved before the county can grant itself permission to run after school care programs in buildings not only built by the county itself and run by county employees, but previously inspected by county agencies. Ah, bureaucracy, how I love you.

    Anyway, I got to leave work early and I picked up some sweet pamphlets while I was waiting in the Environmental Health Department line.

    So, without further ado, I bring you RATS…Some Facts.

    And inside…(emphasis my own)

    Click to view larger image

    1. Text: The average rat lives about one year. During this time a female rat may have seven litters, each with 6-12 young.
      Conclusion: Rats live hard and die young. Also, rats are sluts.

    2. Text: Each time a rat leaves the nest, it travels the same path. This path is called a “runway.”
      Conclusion: Tyra Banks is a rat.

    3. Text: Rats commonly live near people and are not scared by the odor of humans.
      Conclusion: Rats do not shop at Wal*Mart or use public transportation, because if they did they would be scared by the odor of humans. Unwashed humans, at least.

    4. Text: The rat most commonly found in homes in North Carolina is the Norway rat (Rattus norvegicus).
      Conclusion: We need to build a fence between the USA and Norway, to keep out illegal immigrants.

    5. Text: When food is available, rats will make themselves at home.
      Conclusion: My stepbrothers are rats.

    6. Text: Where large numbers of rats are present in a neighborhood, a community effort is needed to control the rat problem.
      Conclusion: You better make nice with your neighbors, because when the rat apocalypse occurs, you are going to need back-up.

    TMI Thursday

    Much like this blogger who’s BlogSecret secret ended up on Alexa’s blog, I was unaware of all my grooming options ‘down there’ until my sophomore year of college. My roommate, D, was a die-hard waxer; we’re talking eyebrows, upper lip, arm pits, stomach–the whole shebang. It seemed a little overkill to me, especially when she’d come back, bleeding from the armpits. Sure, they were hair-free and surprisingly smooth, but it didn’t seem like a fair trade.

    We were living at the beach, though, and I was a bit envious that she never had to bother with the quick ‘touch ups’ my other roommate and I scrambled to attend to before putting on our bikinis.

    After much coaxing, I finally broke down and made an appointment with my roommate and her waxer, who I’ll call Helga, not because that is her name but because typing it makes me giggle.

    The day of reckoning finally arrived; D and I had back-to-back appointments with Helga. We got to the spa a couple of minutes early. I was nervously pretending to read magazines as D attempted to reassure me that it’s not that bad, I won’t have to come back for another 45 days, blah blah blah. Finally Helga came out, a short, willowy woman with a faint Eastern European accent and led us back into a room.

    It was a small room, painted a pale peach color, with a candle burning in one corner and soft celtic music playing. In the middle of the room was a padded table, much like you’d find at a doctors office, with a line of butcher paper rolled down the middle. To one side of the table was a small tray with what looked like a mini-rice cooker sitting on top of it, surrounded by wooden popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and various bottles of lotions and ointments. Helga asked which of us was going first, and I pointed to D.

    D and I had decided that I would stay in the room for her appointment. Apparently this is fairly common because there was a chair already set up in the corner. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess) the table and the chair were situated so as to give me a front row seat to the action taking place on the small strip of butcher paper.

    Helga asked D to take off as much clothes as she felt comfortable with, and I was surprised to see D strip down, but leave her underwear on. D isn’t really a modest person, and this small, surprising bit of modesty made her look vulnerable. My stomach started doing somersaults*.

    Helga started with D’s upper lip, then moved on to her armpits. Helga kept up a light banter the whole time, talking about her pet parrot and how her volleyball team did in their tournament last weekend. Tears were pooling in D’s eyes as the hair was ripped from her armpits. I must have looked worried.

    “Don’t worry, Sarah, my armpits are the worst part,” she told me.

    Finally, D’s va-jay-jay was the only area left. Helga asked if D wanted a simple bikini wax, or a Brazilian wax. D laughed and agreed to go whole hog–the Brazilian.

    Helga took out what looked like a ponytail elastic and knotted D’s underwear in such a way as to give her pretty much full access to the area in question. D flinched and whimpered as Helga relentlessly pulled strip after wax-and-pube-covered strip of linen from her womanly parts. Helga left no stone unturned in her quest for pubic hair. I couldn’t look away. I honestly had no idea how ugly a vagina was until I watched Helga hunt down every last hair D had from her belly button to her anus. I was having some serious second thoughts. Legs were lifted, folds of skin were parted; it was like some weird ballet gone horribly, horribly wrong as Helga would tap D’s leg to position her so as to best access D’s nether regions.

    Then, it was my turn. D hopped down from the table and wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s really not so bad,” she offered half-heartedly as Helga changed the butcher paper.

    I decided to make my humiliation complete, and stripped completely from the waist down. No weird ponytail elastic thong for me! I’d witnessed the thoroughness of Helga’s search for pubes and figured modesty had no place in this room.

    Keep in mind, I had no idea what to expect coming in to this appointment. From the day D made the appointment, I’d completely abandoned any attempts at trimming or landscaping my lady parts. I was laid out on the table, exposed to the world, looking like a 70’s porn star.

    Helga’s eyes scanned the area in question, then flicked quickly up to my face. She pulled out a tiny pair of scissors.

    “I’ll just cut some of this back before we start,” she breezed.

    I could have died of humiliation. I thought I was doing the right thing, thinking it would be easier if there were more hair to take hold of, so to speak.

    “I should have told you to trim, Sarah, I’m sorry,” D said quietly. My face was so red. I felt like yelling out, Wedding Singer-style, “Information that you could have brought to my attention YESTERDAY!”

    Instead, I lay there, wallowing in my humiliation as Helga snipped at my pubes. This was a bad idea, I was thinking.

    Finally, it was time for the wax. I agreed to the Brazilian, thinking there was no point in half-assing it at this point. As Helga spread on the first application of the warm wax, I thought to myself that it felt oddly pleasant. Like a warm bath, but just for my privates. Then she applied the linen strip and I steeled myself for the pain.

    “So, do you have a boyfriend?” she asked as she rubbed the linen into the wax.

    “Um, no,” I replied. No one to admire your handiwork, I thought to myself.

    She quickly pulled the strip off, and then looked at me with horror.

    “What? What happened?” I asked.

    “I’m so sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean to take so much off at once.” I was aghast. I had hardly felt anything.

    “Damn, Sarah, it’s like your hair just jumped off of your body!” D exclaimed.

    With the knowledge that the worst was over and this wasn’t actually going to hurt, I could focus more intently on the humiliation I was enduring. Helga found creases and crevices that even I wasn’t aware of. I should have felt violated, but really I felt like I was molesting her. When she motioned for me to lift my legs up to give her a clear shot at my hiney, I prayed desperately that I wouldn’t fart. D was still in shock at how easily my hair had separated itself from my body, and offered nothing by way of distraction.

    Finally, it was over, and I was $65 poorer, plus the $20 tip I felt obligated to leave Helga. I got home and studied my naked woman parts in the mirror. Rather than feeling sexy, I felt dirty. I looked like I had a 10 year old’s vagina.


    *I spelled this word right on the FIRST TRY! Go me…