Since last checking it Thursday night, my ass bruise has become significantly more purply and dark. It seriously looks like somebody drop kicked my ass down some stairs. Other than that my elbow rug burns have scabbed over quite nicely.
Also, Metalhead just returned from a party. And I quote (while brushing teeth) "I am only able to move by frolicking right now. So much frolicking!"
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Showers are out to get you
There was this one time when Merman and I plus a couple of other people had this hilarious conversation about showers.
Sometimes you get in the shower and you turn on the water and one of two things happens. #1) the shower has turned into a boiling volcano of death that's out to get you or #2) Antarctica has possessed your showerhead and the ice shards are out for blood.
Which one happens is irrelevant because no matter which extreme of the spectrum comes spewing out you have the same reaction: you immediately jump back and squish yourself against the back of the shower in order to get as far away as possible from the lava or icicle projectiles gushing out at you.
Now at this point your only choice is to get to the faucet to turn the water to some kind of normal temperature. Problem is the Elements are still trying to kill you. Thus you reach an arm out, curve it around the spray of liquid, and attempt to change the faucet. When this doesn't work, you are forced to stand on the sides of the bathtub and--without touching the evil H2O--get to the faucet this way. Usually you can make it. Usually.
Sometimes though, sometimes you get the son-of-a-bitch shower that just absolutely hates you. These are the showers where the only temperature choices are Hell or Glacier. This sucks, but it's even worse when you get stuck with a shower like this and the difference between the two temperatures is literally a millimeter, so no matter what you do you end up with one extreme or the other.
Then, there are the times when you get in the shower and you've already rinsed down when you realize that you are missing a crucial element. You've forgotten to put new soap, shampoo, razor, etc. in the shower and you kind of need it to go about your showering business.
Of course you've left it underneath the bathroom cabinet so you're going to have to hop out and get it. So you do. Two steps out, two steps back to the shower. You couldn't possibly gotten that much water on the floor right? So wrong. You peek back out the shower curtain to examine the damage and it looks like a goddamn whale flopped around your bathroom. There are puddles of water all over the carpet, the sink, the walls, your towel. What the hell? Now you have to mop it all up. Damn.
Sometimes you get in the shower and you turn on the water and one of two things happens. #1) the shower has turned into a boiling volcano of death that's out to get you or #2) Antarctica has possessed your showerhead and the ice shards are out for blood.
Which one happens is irrelevant because no matter which extreme of the spectrum comes spewing out you have the same reaction: you immediately jump back and squish yourself against the back of the shower in order to get as far away as possible from the lava or icicle projectiles gushing out at you.
Now at this point your only choice is to get to the faucet to turn the water to some kind of normal temperature. Problem is the Elements are still trying to kill you. Thus you reach an arm out, curve it around the spray of liquid, and attempt to change the faucet. When this doesn't work, you are forced to stand on the sides of the bathtub and--without touching the evil H2O--get to the faucet this way. Usually you can make it. Usually.
Sometimes though, sometimes you get the son-of-a-bitch shower that just absolutely hates you. These are the showers where the only temperature choices are Hell or Glacier. This sucks, but it's even worse when you get stuck with a shower like this and the difference between the two temperatures is literally a millimeter, so no matter what you do you end up with one extreme or the other.
Then, there are the times when you get in the shower and you've already rinsed down when you realize that you are missing a crucial element. You've forgotten to put new soap, shampoo, razor, etc. in the shower and you kind of need it to go about your showering business.
Of course you've left it underneath the bathroom cabinet so you're going to have to hop out and get it. So you do. Two steps out, two steps back to the shower. You couldn't possibly gotten that much water on the floor right? So wrong. You peek back out the shower curtain to examine the damage and it looks like a goddamn whale flopped around your bathroom. There are puddles of water all over the carpet, the sink, the walls, your towel. What the hell? Now you have to mop it all up. Damn.
Injuries
Last night while I was advising Indoor Percussion (on aesthetics; I did indoor guard for four years) I fell off a stool and hurt myself. I had been crouching of the stool when it slide off the podium and I toppled off backwards. I broke the leg off the stool and I garnered some lovely elbow rug burns and a severely bruised ass. It's a light purple blob the size of a baseball dead center of my right buttcheek. Needless to say I slept on my stomach last night and I've been leaning into my left cheek all throughout class today.
For some reason I seem somewhat accident prone.
For example, freshman year I managed to scratch my nipple with my nails while in the shower. I look down to see blood gushing where blood should not be gushing. I wore a band-aid pasty for a couple of days.
Last year rounding a corner outside a building I pointed out an ice puddle and told everyone not to slip on it. And then not two seconds later I was down for the count. That also resulted in an ass bruise.
In November I fell down the stairs of Estate. In October someone quickly backed into me, hitting the large object I was holding and sending it into my stomach. That bruise was pretty purple.
Sophomore year of high school I broke my thumb during band camp with my guard rifle. Guard in general was the culprit for my continuous broken nails and a lot of bruises (so many that my weight training teacher called a teammates house asking if she was abused).
On the way to a White Trash Party I accidentally scratched my right flank (kidney area) while pulling up my too-big man-pants. I didn't realize I had even scratched myself at all until I found the bloodied scab the next morning. I still have the scar.
My most painful injuries involve my toes. I broke the baby toe of my left foot and got the big toenail on my right foot torn off in a game of dodgeball.
First came the broken toe. I was flumped in the rocking chair staring aimlessly at the ceiling when the phone rang. My home phone has four rings before it goes to the answering machine. It was on ring number three before I realized that I was the only person home and the phone was not answering itself.
I launch myself from the chair, desperate to get to the phone before it goes to the answering machine. I'm not sure why since I wasn't waiting for anybody important to call or anything. I just had to answer the phone. Maybe it's because I really hate when I answer the phone and the answering machine has already picked up, so I have to hear our recorded message before I start talking. Then later I have to listen to the entire conversation again before it can be deleted from the answering machine. It's better to just avoid all that jazz in the first place.
As I rounded the island in the middle of our kitchen in order to make it to the phone, half of my left foot smashed into the wall. I stumble and bunny hop the rest of the way to the phone which I answer half crying. It turns out it was one of my neighbor trying to borrow eggs or something. Whatever. I'm in too much pain to care. I simply slid down to the floor and bit my lip trying not to cry but tears leak out anyway. It hurt. When Mom got home she took a look at it and just thought it would be bruised for a while.
I limped through school the next day in my chunky man Vans (with throwback Nintendo shoelaces. Damn I'm cool). I got home and took my sock off to find that my foot had swollen to some horrifically not normal size and that my foot was literally bruised black and purple. I showed Mom and she was all, "Well maybe it is broken." Several x-rays and hours later my baby toe was officially broken and I had a special shoe to wear for a month.
It's funny, 'cause my brother broke his baby toe doing the same thing (running into a wall) at Grammy's house not two months later.
The toenail story takes place during Thanksgiving break of 2006. Since Maryland is dumb and doesn't give students a full week for a holiday that the Pilgrims obviously intended to be celebrated for a full week the first two days are "teacher inservice days" when they give parent-teacher conferences. I elected to go along with Mom to Danny's (my brother) PTC. There were a bunch of kids playing dodgeball in the gym so Danny and I decided to join them. We had just been to the shoe store and I was wearing my brand new fake crocs. They are not conducive to playing dodgeball so I threw them against the wall and played in my bare feet.
During the game the ball landed at my feet. Some kid on the other team--he was like six or seven--slide-tackled the ball but ended up slide-tackling my foot instead. I thought I had just stubbed my toe on his shoe because, yeah, it hurt, but not that bad. So imagine my surprise when I next look down to find my right big toe gushing blood all over the place.
I limp to the classroom with my Mom in it. She gave me a look like 'WTF did you do now?', but when she saw my toe she dragged me to the main office. Thankfully even though there were no kids the nurse was still working that day (school system dollars hard at work). She managed to quell the torrent of blood my toe kept producing and gave me some gauze.
Later that night I was examining the damage when I realize that my toenail is loose. Mom and I make a trip to Nighttime Pediatrics. The nurse doesn't really know what to do with me, beyond tell me to keep it wrapped, soak it in Benadine, and try and remove the nail.
Mom took the 'remove the nail' part seriously. This is how we both end up on her bathroom floor; my foot in her lap, a pair of nail clippers in her hand. It was literally the most painful thing I've ever had to endure in my life. The nail was mostly separated from the nailbed, except for two little strings of skin keeping it in place. Obviously the nail is going nowhere without the skin getting cut off. It took over an hour and a lot of deep breathing on my end to get the damn thing off. And even then I had to keep it wrapped and wear a special shoe again.
To this day it doesn't grow right. I think I damaged the nailbed permanently, so the nail only grows halfway and then starts to make a hollow little cave. Gross, but there's really nothing I can do about it.
For some reason I seem somewhat accident prone.
For example, freshman year I managed to scratch my nipple with my nails while in the shower. I look down to see blood gushing where blood should not be gushing. I wore a band-aid pasty for a couple of days.
Last year rounding a corner outside a building I pointed out an ice puddle and told everyone not to slip on it. And then not two seconds later I was down for the count. That also resulted in an ass bruise.
In November I fell down the stairs of Estate. In October someone quickly backed into me, hitting the large object I was holding and sending it into my stomach. That bruise was pretty purple.
Sophomore year of high school I broke my thumb during band camp with my guard rifle. Guard in general was the culprit for my continuous broken nails and a lot of bruises (so many that my weight training teacher called a teammates house asking if she was abused).
On the way to a White Trash Party I accidentally scratched my right flank (kidney area) while pulling up my too-big man-pants. I didn't realize I had even scratched myself at all until I found the bloodied scab the next morning. I still have the scar.
My most painful injuries involve my toes. I broke the baby toe of my left foot and got the big toenail on my right foot torn off in a game of dodgeball.
First came the broken toe. I was flumped in the rocking chair staring aimlessly at the ceiling when the phone rang. My home phone has four rings before it goes to the answering machine. It was on ring number three before I realized that I was the only person home and the phone was not answering itself.
I launch myself from the chair, desperate to get to the phone before it goes to the answering machine. I'm not sure why since I wasn't waiting for anybody important to call or anything. I just had to answer the phone. Maybe it's because I really hate when I answer the phone and the answering machine has already picked up, so I have to hear our recorded message before I start talking. Then later I have to listen to the entire conversation again before it can be deleted from the answering machine. It's better to just avoid all that jazz in the first place.
As I rounded the island in the middle of our kitchen in order to make it to the phone, half of my left foot smashed into the wall. I stumble and bunny hop the rest of the way to the phone which I answer half crying. It turns out it was one of my neighbor trying to borrow eggs or something. Whatever. I'm in too much pain to care. I simply slid down to the floor and bit my lip trying not to cry but tears leak out anyway. It hurt. When Mom got home she took a look at it and just thought it would be bruised for a while.
I limped through school the next day in my chunky man Vans (with throwback Nintendo shoelaces. Damn I'm cool). I got home and took my sock off to find that my foot had swollen to some horrifically not normal size and that my foot was literally bruised black and purple. I showed Mom and she was all, "Well maybe it is broken." Several x-rays and hours later my baby toe was officially broken and I had a special shoe to wear for a month.
It's funny, 'cause my brother broke his baby toe doing the same thing (running into a wall) at Grammy's house not two months later.
The toenail story takes place during Thanksgiving break of 2006. Since Maryland is dumb and doesn't give students a full week for a holiday that the Pilgrims obviously intended to be celebrated for a full week the first two days are "teacher inservice days" when they give parent-teacher conferences. I elected to go along with Mom to Danny's (my brother) PTC. There were a bunch of kids playing dodgeball in the gym so Danny and I decided to join them. We had just been to the shoe store and I was wearing my brand new fake crocs. They are not conducive to playing dodgeball so I threw them against the wall and played in my bare feet.
During the game the ball landed at my feet. Some kid on the other team--he was like six or seven--slide-tackled the ball but ended up slide-tackling my foot instead. I thought I had just stubbed my toe on his shoe because, yeah, it hurt, but not that bad. So imagine my surprise when I next look down to find my right big toe gushing blood all over the place.
I limp to the classroom with my Mom in it. She gave me a look like 'WTF did you do now?', but when she saw my toe she dragged me to the main office. Thankfully even though there were no kids the nurse was still working that day (school system dollars hard at work). She managed to quell the torrent of blood my toe kept producing and gave me some gauze.
Later that night I was examining the damage when I realize that my toenail is loose. Mom and I make a trip to Nighttime Pediatrics. The nurse doesn't really know what to do with me, beyond tell me to keep it wrapped, soak it in Benadine, and try and remove the nail.
Mom took the 'remove the nail' part seriously. This is how we both end up on her bathroom floor; my foot in her lap, a pair of nail clippers in her hand. It was literally the most painful thing I've ever had to endure in my life. The nail was mostly separated from the nailbed, except for two little strings of skin keeping it in place. Obviously the nail is going nowhere without the skin getting cut off. It took over an hour and a lot of deep breathing on my end to get the damn thing off. And even then I had to keep it wrapped and wear a special shoe again.
To this day it doesn't grow right. I think I damaged the nailbed permanently, so the nail only grows halfway and then starts to make a hollow little cave. Gross, but there's really nothing I can do about it.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The infamous Slurpee Incident
The summer after freshman year I got royally screwed in terms of employment. After working all of December I had told my former boss that I would be back for the summer. My plan was to earn a shitton of money to do...I dunno...whatever. Anyway the plan was to work all summer and make bank. So imagine my surprise when I went to a coworker's wedding right after school ended and find out that they no longer need me.
Dude. I didn't make any alternative plans for the summer. So now I have no internship, no job, and very little money. And I desperately needed a new car. F that shit. I was pretty pissed.
After several weeks of desperate job searching (read: becoming a craigslist whore) I finally got lucky when my friend's mom told me that she heard through the grapevine that a friend of a friend needed a summer nanny. Score.
So I get the job. This family had just bought a new house. The dad worked all day and the mom was a real estate agent that worked from home but was frequently out and about showing houses and stuff. They had four kids: three girls ages 11, 9, and 7, and a 3-year old son. Upon our 'test' meeting, to make sure that I wasn't like a child rapist or something, I uttered the phrase "cool beans", which I have been known to do. I found out later that I sealed the deal because they kids loved me so much they said "cool beans" in response to just about everything for the next two days. Anyway, thus I became a nanny for five hours a day, five days a week at $6 an hour (just note that MD minimum wage is $7.75 and I was getting paid under the table). It wasn't much pay--and believe me, I took plenty of shit about it from my parents--but it was better than nothing.
In my last week of nannying for this family two of the kids got sick. They were so diseased that I got Monday off. On Tuesday their mom called and said everybody was feeling OK, so I went to work.
On Thursday to celebrate our last week, I took the three girls to see Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs because that's what they wanted to see. It was only playing in the crappiest theater around at a time we could make, so we went.
First off, I drive us to the dollar store to load them up on sugar and other teeth eating candies. Then when we got to the movie theater, I bought the girls two slurpees to share and one for me, since I get a slurpee every time I got the movies.
So we get in the movies, and it's, you know, 11:30am on a Thursday so there's basically nobody in the theater expect a couple of moms and their kids. The previews come on, and they are surprisingly violent for this PG rated film we're about to see (I remember the preview for Gamer being one of them). Regardless, I was still a bit shocked when Funny People instead of Ice Age 3 comes on the screen. The alternative movie has quite the F-bomb load in the first couple of minutes, so I had to make the kids plug their ears and close their eyes, lest their see/hear something terrible.
Thirty minutes later (remember, this theater is crap) we are finally sitting in IA3 and we each got six complimentary tickets. That part was OK.
So halfway through the movie my stomach starts to let me know that it is Not Happy. It's all grumbly, and I'm starting to get a headache and I was just feeling crappy in general. The movie ends and we head out to Penelope. At this point in time Penelope has only been in my possession for maybe 2.5 months. She is still new.
When I told the girls I wasn't feeling too well and thought maybe the slurpee had given me food poisoning or something and asked them if they all felt OK, the middle one said she wasn't feeling to well either. There just happened to be a plastic grocery bag in the passenger seat, and I handed it to her thinking, 'the last thing I need is barf in my new car'. Oh man. What foresight I have.
As we're driving the 15 or so minutes home, I'm feeling worse and worse and worse. I was becoming nauseated and my stomach was still having a bullfight inside me, and my head was pounding, and just....shit. I felt terrible. I was thinking, 'I'm just gonna drop the girls off and tell their mom I need to take the day off because there is no way I'm making it through the rest of the day feeling like hell'. I just needed to get the kids back, and then I'd be OK.
I turn into their neighborhood--literally, I am a mile from their house--and then my stomach just tells me to go fuck myself. I yank the steering wheel over, jam the car in park, and attempt to cover my mouth while simultaneously unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the car door. BBBBBLLLAAAHHHHH.
Since I unfortunately do not have three hands and one was covering my mouth, the other hand only managed to unbuckle my seatbelt before I exploded cherry slurpee all over myself and my new car. In front of the three girls. There is red barf all down my shirt, on my pants, all over my dashboard, the steering wheel, the carpet, in the window buttons of my door, on my windshield, in my eyebrows, EVERYWHERE. It is bad enough to barf. It's worse to barf in front of kids. But to be sitting in my NEW CAR covered in food that I had consumed earlier was just some sort of cosmic Fuck You. Not to mention gross.
As I was so glamorously puking, all three girls had hopped out the backseat and proceeded to flip their shits.
"ARE YOU OKAY!?"
"OHMYGOD! DO I NEED TO CALL MY MOM! WE CAN CALL HER!"
"EEEEEWWWWWWWWW!"
Thoroughly disgusted with myself and the situation in general, I order the girls to get back in the car so I can get them home. They all refuse, on account of how the entire car reeks of puke. "Get in the car. Just hold your noses and you'll be home in a minute."
Youngest girl--with nose plugged--to me driving covered in my own bodily fluids: "I've never seen red barf before!" Kids say the darnedest things, huh?
I pull up to their house and all three little demons go tearing into the house to tell their mom about this. She comes outside, sees me standing there looking like some sort of cheap zombie, gives me a look of pure pity and goes, "Awwww, honey. " I had to wash myself off in the front yard with the hose. The mom lent me a shirt to wear and assisted me in getting the worst of the barf out of my car so that I could drive it home.
As I drive the five minutes it takes to get me home, I call my dad.
Dad: Hell-o
Me: Dad, how do you get barf out of a car?
Dad: What? Who puked?
Me: (really pathetically) I did.
Dad: *Insane laughter*
Me: Thanks Dad. Thanks a lot....(explains story)
Dad: Well I'm home, so I'll help you clean it out when you get here.
When I got home I spent 30 minutes attempting to get all the puke off Penelope. Dad's idea of 'helping' was to hand me three different kinds of car air freshener. Sooo helpful, that man. In the process of cleaning I end up puking again (this time in a bucket). Thus kicked off the most terrible sickness of my life (even worse than uncontrollable shitting). This was at about 1pm, and I puked every 30 minutes or so until I finally fell asleep at 9pm. Everything--medicine, water, gatorade--refused to stay in my stomach, and I have to emphasize how shitty it is to be forced to throw up nothing but stomach bile for hours and hours.
I woke up at 3am feeling less nauseated but extremely dehydrated. I chugged a lot of water and took a shower so I could stop smelling like bile. I had a really hard time falling back asleep because I had some serious chills. Turns out that I was running a 104 fever. Well then.
By 3pm the next day, I felt more or less normal. WTF sickness? I get a call from the mom to tell me that one of the kids was also sick, except her bodily fluids were exploding out of both ends (thankfully this did not happen to me).
So ends my famous puke story. It's kind of sad that the most interesting thing to happen to me during the summer of '09 was that I vomited red slurpee all over my new car.
PS: Other funny thing: the 7 year old asked me what a 'disco stick' was in reference to the Lady Gaga song. Uhh.....video games. I made some shit up about a joy stick or whatever.
Dude. I didn't make any alternative plans for the summer. So now I have no internship, no job, and very little money. And I desperately needed a new car. F that shit. I was pretty pissed.
After several weeks of desperate job searching (read: becoming a craigslist whore) I finally got lucky when my friend's mom told me that she heard through the grapevine that a friend of a friend needed a summer nanny. Score.
So I get the job. This family had just bought a new house. The dad worked all day and the mom was a real estate agent that worked from home but was frequently out and about showing houses and stuff. They had four kids: three girls ages 11, 9, and 7, and a 3-year old son. Upon our 'test' meeting, to make sure that I wasn't like a child rapist or something, I uttered the phrase "cool beans", which I have been known to do. I found out later that I sealed the deal because they kids loved me so much they said "cool beans" in response to just about everything for the next two days. Anyway, thus I became a nanny for five hours a day, five days a week at $6 an hour (just note that MD minimum wage is $7.75 and I was getting paid under the table). It wasn't much pay--and believe me, I took plenty of shit about it from my parents--but it was better than nothing.
In my last week of nannying for this family two of the kids got sick. They were so diseased that I got Monday off. On Tuesday their mom called and said everybody was feeling OK, so I went to work.
On Thursday to celebrate our last week, I took the three girls to see Ice Age 3: Dawn of the Dinosaurs because that's what they wanted to see. It was only playing in the crappiest theater around at a time we could make, so we went.
First off, I drive us to the dollar store to load them up on sugar and other teeth eating candies. Then when we got to the movie theater, I bought the girls two slurpees to share and one for me, since I get a slurpee every time I got the movies.
So we get in the movies, and it's, you know, 11:30am on a Thursday so there's basically nobody in the theater expect a couple of moms and their kids. The previews come on, and they are surprisingly violent for this PG rated film we're about to see (I remember the preview for Gamer being one of them). Regardless, I was still a bit shocked when Funny People instead of Ice Age 3 comes on the screen. The alternative movie has quite the F-bomb load in the first couple of minutes, so I had to make the kids plug their ears and close their eyes, lest their see/hear something terrible.
Thirty minutes later (remember, this theater is crap) we are finally sitting in IA3 and we each got six complimentary tickets. That part was OK.
So halfway through the movie my stomach starts to let me know that it is Not Happy. It's all grumbly, and I'm starting to get a headache and I was just feeling crappy in general. The movie ends and we head out to Penelope. At this point in time Penelope has only been in my possession for maybe 2.5 months. She is still new.
When I told the girls I wasn't feeling too well and thought maybe the slurpee had given me food poisoning or something and asked them if they all felt OK, the middle one said she wasn't feeling to well either. There just happened to be a plastic grocery bag in the passenger seat, and I handed it to her thinking, 'the last thing I need is barf in my new car'. Oh man. What foresight I have.
As we're driving the 15 or so minutes home, I'm feeling worse and worse and worse. I was becoming nauseated and my stomach was still having a bullfight inside me, and my head was pounding, and just....shit. I felt terrible. I was thinking, 'I'm just gonna drop the girls off and tell their mom I need to take the day off because there is no way I'm making it through the rest of the day feeling like hell'. I just needed to get the kids back, and then I'd be OK.
I turn into their neighborhood--literally, I am a mile from their house--and then my stomach just tells me to go fuck myself. I yank the steering wheel over, jam the car in park, and attempt to cover my mouth while simultaneously unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the car door. BBBBBLLLAAAHHHHH.
Since I unfortunately do not have three hands and one was covering my mouth, the other hand only managed to unbuckle my seatbelt before I exploded cherry slurpee all over myself and my new car. In front of the three girls. There is red barf all down my shirt, on my pants, all over my dashboard, the steering wheel, the carpet, in the window buttons of my door, on my windshield, in my eyebrows, EVERYWHERE. It is bad enough to barf. It's worse to barf in front of kids. But to be sitting in my NEW CAR covered in food that I had consumed earlier was just some sort of cosmic Fuck You. Not to mention gross.
As I was so glamorously puking, all three girls had hopped out the backseat and proceeded to flip their shits.
"ARE YOU OKAY!?"
"OHMYGOD! DO I NEED TO CALL MY MOM! WE CAN CALL HER!"
"EEEEEWWWWWWWWW!"
Thoroughly disgusted with myself and the situation in general, I order the girls to get back in the car so I can get them home. They all refuse, on account of how the entire car reeks of puke. "Get in the car. Just hold your noses and you'll be home in a minute."
Youngest girl--with nose plugged--to me driving covered in my own bodily fluids: "I've never seen red barf before!" Kids say the darnedest things, huh?
I pull up to their house and all three little demons go tearing into the house to tell their mom about this. She comes outside, sees me standing there looking like some sort of cheap zombie, gives me a look of pure pity and goes, "Awwww, honey. " I had to wash myself off in the front yard with the hose. The mom lent me a shirt to wear and assisted me in getting the worst of the barf out of my car so that I could drive it home.
As I drive the five minutes it takes to get me home, I call my dad.
Dad: Hell-o
Me: Dad, how do you get barf out of a car?
Dad: What? Who puked?
Me: (really pathetically) I did.
Dad: *Insane laughter*
Me: Thanks Dad. Thanks a lot....(explains story)
Dad: Well I'm home, so I'll help you clean it out when you get here.
When I got home I spent 30 minutes attempting to get all the puke off Penelope. Dad's idea of 'helping' was to hand me three different kinds of car air freshener. Sooo helpful, that man. In the process of cleaning I end up puking again (this time in a bucket). Thus kicked off the most terrible sickness of my life (even worse than uncontrollable shitting). This was at about 1pm, and I puked every 30 minutes or so until I finally fell asleep at 9pm. Everything--medicine, water, gatorade--refused to stay in my stomach, and I have to emphasize how shitty it is to be forced to throw up nothing but stomach bile for hours and hours.
I woke up at 3am feeling less nauseated but extremely dehydrated. I chugged a lot of water and took a shower so I could stop smelling like bile. I had a really hard time falling back asleep because I had some serious chills. Turns out that I was running a 104 fever. Well then.
By 3pm the next day, I felt more or less normal. WTF sickness? I get a call from the mom to tell me that one of the kids was also sick, except her bodily fluids were exploding out of both ends (thankfully this did not happen to me).
So ends my famous puke story. It's kind of sad that the most interesting thing to happen to me during the summer of '09 was that I vomited red slurpee all over my new car.
PS: Other funny thing: the 7 year old asked me what a 'disco stick' was in reference to the Lady Gaga song. Uhh.....video games. I made some shit up about a joy stick or whatever.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Chocolate makes things better (true 80% of the time)
I don't think I'm alone in thinking that chocolate is one of the Best Things Ever, only equaled by the likes of free money, Johnny Depp as a pirate, and getting A's on papers you totally bullshitted the night before.
Apart from making pancakes, muffins, frozen poptarts, and other bread based things way way better, chocolate also makes fountains better. Exponentially better.
I once stole 15 bananas (in a single trip) from the dining hall in the name of a chocolate fountain. The happy hour we were having was centered around a chocolate fountain that one of my fratmates had found chilling out in her house.
And what a glorious happy hour it was. Bitch beers plus a chocolate fountain gushing chocolatey awesome, plus marshmellows, oreos, pretzals, my bananas, strawberries, etc. It was drool worthy and soooo delicious.
After an hour or so of us casually drinking and consuming chocolate like crazy, a couple more people showed up to partake in our awesome happy hour (which had consisted of about six people up to this point). Maybe ten minutes later, Flower went to dip something in chocolate and then all hell broke loose.
Whatever she did broke the fountain. The stalk of the fountain popped up out of the motor base and started spinning frantically, all the while flicking arcs of chocolate everywhere. For several seconds everyone was too mesmerized or maybe stunned by the fact that the chocolate fountain was flinging brown stuff all over the place. We came to our senses and retreated out of the war zone. Someone pulled the plug on the thing and then we surveyed the damage:
Things that chocolate does not make better: clothing, carpets, walls, furniture.
It was funny in a what-the-hell-just-happened kind of way, but cleaning it up was definitely not fun. I got chocolate on one of my favorite shirts. That part was no bueno. There are still some chocolate stains in the carpet of that house.
The next chocolatey escapade I had involved Hershey's syrup. Long story short, I was well into tipsy, went upstairs to find my gloves, and am accosted by a friend of mine who then says, "Sam doesn't have any whipped cream on her chest!". Next thing I know my chest (I had a tanktop on) was covered in whipped cream and my friend and her boyfriend are licking it off me. What ensued was possibly one of the weirdest things I've ever done in my life. It was like some sort of dessert based orgy. I licked whipped cream and chocolate syrup off people whose names I didn't even know yet. Some of them were pretty hairy, and I cringe as I type this because now I'm just like, EW, what the hell was I thinking? Also, I'm pretty sure I flashed people during a Scottish drinking song. Lovely. I blame the alcohol and the fact that my tolerance was still relatively low.
Even though I was the only girl in the room to keep my shirt on most of the way (it was Catholic School Girl night themed happy hour so most other girls had stripped down a while ago), I can no longer wear that particular shirt or bra because they smell disgustingly of rotten milk. Good thing my boobs grew and I needed new bras anyway. But that does make two shirts that chocolate has ruined for me.
Moral of the story: chocolate is a double edged sword that is wonderful while it's good, but can turn into a backstabbing, shirt-ruining douchenozzle at any moment.
Apart from making pancakes, muffins, frozen poptarts, and other bread based things way way better, chocolate also makes fountains better. Exponentially better.
I once stole 15 bananas (in a single trip) from the dining hall in the name of a chocolate fountain. The happy hour we were having was centered around a chocolate fountain that one of my fratmates had found chilling out in her house.
And what a glorious happy hour it was. Bitch beers plus a chocolate fountain gushing chocolatey awesome, plus marshmellows, oreos, pretzals, my bananas, strawberries, etc. It was drool worthy and soooo delicious.
After an hour or so of us casually drinking and consuming chocolate like crazy, a couple more people showed up to partake in our awesome happy hour (which had consisted of about six people up to this point). Maybe ten minutes later, Flower went to dip something in chocolate and then all hell broke loose.
Whatever she did broke the fountain. The stalk of the fountain popped up out of the motor base and started spinning frantically, all the while flicking arcs of chocolate everywhere. For several seconds everyone was too mesmerized or maybe stunned by the fact that the chocolate fountain was flinging brown stuff all over the place. We came to our senses and retreated out of the war zone. Someone pulled the plug on the thing and then we surveyed the damage:
It was funny in a what-the-hell-just-happened kind of way, but cleaning it up was definitely not fun. I got chocolate on one of my favorite shirts. That part was no bueno. There are still some chocolate stains in the carpet of that house.
The next chocolatey escapade I had involved Hershey's syrup. Long story short, I was well into tipsy, went upstairs to find my gloves, and am accosted by a friend of mine who then says, "Sam doesn't have any whipped cream on her chest!". Next thing I know my chest (I had a tanktop on) was covered in whipped cream and my friend and her boyfriend are licking it off me. What ensued was possibly one of the weirdest things I've ever done in my life. It was like some sort of dessert based orgy. I licked whipped cream and chocolate syrup off people whose names I didn't even know yet. Some of them were pretty hairy, and I cringe as I type this because now I'm just like, EW, what the hell was I thinking? Also, I'm pretty sure I flashed people during a Scottish drinking song. Lovely. I blame the alcohol and the fact that my tolerance was still relatively low.
Even though I was the only girl in the room to keep my shirt on most of the way (it was Catholic School Girl night themed happy hour so most other girls had stripped down a while ago), I can no longer wear that particular shirt or bra because they smell disgustingly of rotten milk. Good thing my boobs grew and I needed new bras anyway. But that does make two shirts that chocolate has ruined for me.
Moral of the story: chocolate is a double edged sword that is wonderful while it's good, but can turn into a backstabbing, shirt-ruining douchenozzle at any moment.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Fond farewell
Today I said farewell to a a longtime friend of mine: my Mom's uterus.
We knew each other a whole 8 months, but our friendship was abruptly broken off when we went our separate ways.
She was friends with my brother too, but alas he also broke off that friendship.
Now she's gone forever.
Peace out Kelly's Uterus.
Though I don't think Mom is going to miss it much. That whole bleeding thing gets pretty old pretty fast. And for all you guys out there, tampons and shit are goddamn expensive.
And even though her uterus has Gone to A Better Place, Kelly is still a member of the Order of the Uterus. It's like being in a gang: once you're in, you're in for life.
We knew each other a whole 8 months, but our friendship was abruptly broken off when we went our separate ways.
She was friends with my brother too, but alas he also broke off that friendship.
Now she's gone forever.
Peace out Kelly's Uterus.
Though I don't think Mom is going to miss it much. That whole bleeding thing gets pretty old pretty fast. And for all you guys out there, tampons and shit are goddamn expensive.
And even though her uterus has Gone to A Better Place, Kelly is still a member of the Order of the Uterus. It's like being in a gang: once you're in, you're in for life.
Scavenger Hunts
You can get away with anything if you claim it's for a scavenger hunt. This is truth. You can also acquire weird items that you would otherwise never buy in scavenger hunts. Also truth.
At the beginning of last school year, Frat had its now annual scavenger hunt. We split up by committees and go for the gold.
It's not just any scavenger hunt though, it's a hunt where the winners get $50 towards a happy hour. Therefore the incentive to win is like 2000x greater now that there's the possibility of not having to drink Keystone Light in the mix.
Items on our list included stuff like:
-photos of a freshman doing something inappropriate with the naked man statue
-photo with a cop, bonus points for having a beer in the photo as well
-largest underwear
-smallest bra
-book with a swear word in the title
-gay porn
-largest dildo
-worst SAT scores
-angry alumni email
-most pictures of the school mascot
-write your committees name in rocks at the bottom of the gorge
-picture of a person in a construction site
-stovetops from Haus (one of our satellite houses)
etc. etc.
This list is how I ended up climbing down into the gorge barefoot to be a rock talker. I made the rookie mistake of wearing flipflops, which don't work well on muddy hills. It was also getting dark, since we were running out of time. Not only did I climb (read: slide) into a gorge barefoot in the half-light, but I also waded across the water. I only found out much later that I went down the wrong side of the gorge and there's actually a path on the other side. I resurfaced successful but incredibly muddy and scratched.
Back at HQ our judging began. When they got to the 'largest underwear' category none of the teams volunteered a pair. Being on the curvy side, I yelled out "WAIT!!" and ran into the bathroom. I stripped off my underwear, put my army cargo shorts back on, and run back into the room clutching my prized pantaloons in my hand. We got the points. Win. But my team also lost. Lose.
The winning team won by buying Michael. Michael is what they named the largest dildo I've ever seen. It's official brand name is apparently The Great American Challenge. Michael is probably around a foot and a half long, and probably the width of a baseball. He's really heavy and he smells like a terrible combination of synthetic and crappy rubber. Michael cost the winning team $65, which is more money than they actually won, but it was probably worth it just for comedic value.
At the beginning of this school year, cue scavenger hunt again. We only had an hour and a half (instead of the two hours we got last time) so we had to work fast. We came in a resounding third which is better than we did last year, so I'm not complaining. This particular scavenger hunt is also how I ended up with a mohawk.
Items for 2010 included:
-vajazzling
-member of committee with a freshly shorn mohawk
-specific sandwhich from a place in town
-receipt for cucumber & lube
-smallest dildo
etc. etc.
Giraffes (who is in my committee) actually went to the sex store downtown and bought a Vagazzling kit. For those of who don't know what this is, it's a bedazzled vagina. She vagazzled herself and took a picture. Glorious.
I was in charge of the sandwich. I made it down to the commons (by running) ordered this ginormous sandwich. By the time I got the damn thing I had 30 minutes left to get back to HQ. Plus, since I had already volunteered for the mohawk I needed time for that to happen too.
I made it up the hill back to HQ in 24 minutes. I am a terrible runner. It was hot as shit outside. It was all uphill. And I almost died. I just Googlemapped directions, and the distance is between 1.5 and 2 miles. My best mile time ever is about 12 minutes. I was pretty damn proud of myself.
So anyway, I get back to HQ just about dying. I am drenched in sweat with some terrible muscle cramps, and so tired I can barely move. There are six minutes left in the hunt. My friend Voice grabs some scissors and drags me into the mens bathroom, which is way closer than the ladies room. He proceeds to give me badly shorn mohawk with a pair of paper scissors. We get back to the main HQ room and somebody else decides that a good use for the lube from the cucumber/lube receipt is to gel up my new hawk. For the record, I was the only girl to get hawked. The five guys in my committee all refused, and all the rest of the girls didn't have enough lady balls for such an awesome 'do. My hair was all long-ish and I really needed a haircut anyway. I'm up for new things, so....I got a mohawk.
This particular scavenger hunt is also how Estate acquire Bruce the Butt Plug. He was our entry into the smallest dildo contest (which was actually won by a pencil topper, those cheaters). He's black and resembles a rattle snake tail with a finger ring attached. He hangs from our ceiling and makes other people feel awkward if they happen to look up and wonder what that thing is dangling up there.
Recap: mohawk, underwear, vagazzaling, Bruce.
You can get away with just about anything in the name of scavenger hunting.
At the beginning of last school year, Frat had its now annual scavenger hunt. We split up by committees and go for the gold.
It's not just any scavenger hunt though, it's a hunt where the winners get $50 towards a happy hour. Therefore the incentive to win is like 2000x greater now that there's the possibility of not having to drink Keystone Light in the mix.
Items on our list included stuff like:
-photos of a freshman doing something inappropriate with the naked man statue
-photo with a cop, bonus points for having a beer in the photo as well
-largest underwear
-smallest bra
-book with a swear word in the title
-gay porn
-largest dildo
-worst SAT scores
-angry alumni email
-most pictures of the school mascot
-write your committees name in rocks at the bottom of the gorge
-picture of a person in a construction site
-stovetops from Haus (one of our satellite houses)
etc. etc.
This list is how I ended up climbing down into the gorge barefoot to be a rock talker. I made the rookie mistake of wearing flipflops, which don't work well on muddy hills. It was also getting dark, since we were running out of time. Not only did I climb (read: slide) into a gorge barefoot in the half-light, but I also waded across the water. I only found out much later that I went down the wrong side of the gorge and there's actually a path on the other side. I resurfaced successful but incredibly muddy and scratched.
Back at HQ our judging began. When they got to the 'largest underwear' category none of the teams volunteered a pair. Being on the curvy side, I yelled out "WAIT!!" and ran into the bathroom. I stripped off my underwear, put my army cargo shorts back on, and run back into the room clutching my prized pantaloons in my hand. We got the points. Win. But my team also lost. Lose.
The winning team won by buying Michael. Michael is what they named the largest dildo I've ever seen. It's official brand name is apparently The Great American Challenge. Michael is probably around a foot and a half long, and probably the width of a baseball. He's really heavy and he smells like a terrible combination of synthetic and crappy rubber. Michael cost the winning team $65, which is more money than they actually won, but it was probably worth it just for comedic value.
At the beginning of this school year, cue scavenger hunt again. We only had an hour and a half (instead of the two hours we got last time) so we had to work fast. We came in a resounding third which is better than we did last year, so I'm not complaining. This particular scavenger hunt is also how I ended up with a mohawk.
Items for 2010 included:
-vajazzling
-member of committee with a freshly shorn mohawk
-specific sandwhich from a place in town
-receipt for cucumber & lube
-smallest dildo
etc. etc.
Giraffes (who is in my committee) actually went to the sex store downtown and bought a Vagazzling kit. For those of who don't know what this is, it's a bedazzled vagina. She vagazzled herself and took a picture. Glorious.
I was in charge of the sandwich. I made it down to the commons (by running) ordered this ginormous sandwich. By the time I got the damn thing I had 30 minutes left to get back to HQ. Plus, since I had already volunteered for the mohawk I needed time for that to happen too.
I made it up the hill back to HQ in 24 minutes. I am a terrible runner. It was hot as shit outside. It was all uphill. And I almost died. I just Googlemapped directions, and the distance is between 1.5 and 2 miles. My best mile time ever is about 12 minutes. I was pretty damn proud of myself.
So anyway, I get back to HQ just about dying. I am drenched in sweat with some terrible muscle cramps, and so tired I can barely move. There are six minutes left in the hunt. My friend Voice grabs some scissors and drags me into the mens bathroom, which is way closer than the ladies room. He proceeds to give me badly shorn mohawk with a pair of paper scissors. We get back to the main HQ room and somebody else decides that a good use for the lube from the cucumber/lube receipt is to gel up my new hawk. For the record, I was the only girl to get hawked. The five guys in my committee all refused, and all the rest of the girls didn't have enough lady balls for such an awesome 'do. My hair was all long-ish and I really needed a haircut anyway. I'm up for new things, so....I got a mohawk.
This particular scavenger hunt is also how Estate acquire Bruce the Butt Plug. He was our entry into the smallest dildo contest (which was actually won by a pencil topper, those cheaters). He's black and resembles a rattle snake tail with a finger ring attached. He hangs from our ceiling and makes other people feel awkward if they happen to look up and wonder what that thing is dangling up there.
Recap: mohawk, underwear, vagazzaling, Bruce.
You can get away with just about anything in the name of scavenger hunting.
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