A couple of weeks ago, The Husband and I went to dinner at a new Chinese restaurant. The place used to be a different Chinese restaurant that I didn't like very much but I noticed a new name on the sign and since it was close to the grocery store and we needed to eat, it seemed like a good time to try it. The new name of the restaurant is Lucky Jin.
The first time we went in, there was only one other couple having dinner. A few people came in and picked up orders to go while we were there but it didn't seem like a good omen that nobody was eating there. We ordered a dinner for two or as it was repeated back to us "dinnah fo tu". The food was good and even though we couldn't understand the waitress, we decided we'd go back again.
This weekend we decided to go again to "Lucky Jin". It wasn't the original plan. No, this happened after The Husband annoyed me. He didn't know he'd annoyed me...he never does. See, we have this agreement that nobody cooks or waits on dinner for the other one during the week. Since we never know when we'll each get home, it works out well. But I didn't work on Friday so I waited for The Husband to get home from work to see what he wanted to do for dinner.
I was in the bathroom when The Husband came home and by the time I got out, (no, I wasn't going "big potty") I walked into the kitchen and he had a can of clam chowder soup poured into a bowl and was getting ready to heat it up. Now, I know this shouldn't have annoyed me...but it did. The Husband didn't know I'd waited to eat until he got home...but I had...and so I felt I had ample reason to be annoyed.
"Well, I guess I'll go to the store and get something to eat..." I said, each word dripping with sarcasm as I walked out the door to feed the horses. I don't think he even heard me. The Husband is more than slightly deaf but refuses to admit it.
When I walked back into the house The Husband said "Do you want to go to town and get something to eat"? Maybe I was wrong...maybe he had heard me...and maybe, just maybe he noted the annoyed tone in my voice.
"I thought you were eating soup" I said...
"I was, but I ruined it" he said...now I know he didn't notice anything I said before and wasn't trying to be nice...he just fucked up his soup and wanted dinner.
"How can you ruin soup?" I wondered out loud.
"I made it with buttermilk" said The Husband...and I'm instantly happy, delighted even, that I'd forgotten to go to the store to buy milk. That'll teach him...it won't really...but at least I had a good laugh and a good laugh can get you over mild annoyance any time.
So that's how we ended up at Lucky Jin a second time. Again, there was only one other couple at a table when we got there. The same waitress brought us our drinks and remembered from the previous time that I don't like sweet & sour sauce with mustard in it. She brought the sweet & sour sauce sans mustard along with our drinks so I know she remembered. She didn't take our dinner order this time though, instead a man who I assume is her husband, took our orders...he was even harder to understand than she was.
I said "let's just get what we had the last time" to The Husband. The waiter took our order and asked us something about "soup". Even I couldn't understand the waiter but I almost laughed at the look The Husband gave me...and I realized he gives me this look all the time...it's the "WTF did they say" look. Every time we go to a restaurant, I automatically repeat things to him or just order for him. It's become such a habit, I don't even realize I'm doing it.
I manage to get that the waiter is asking us what kind of soup we want and when I ask him what kind there is I understand the words won ton. So that's what I picked. As he walked away, The Husband asked what the waiter said so I told him he wanted to know what soup we wanted.
"Well I couldn't understand him...bla,bla,bla,bla,bla" says The Husband, trying to make his bla, blas, sound Chinese. I'm horrified when he does this and immediately start nervously laughing as I tell him to shut up. Deaf people talk louder than they think they do sometimes and I don't want the waiter or waitress to hear him. Jeez....
We finish eating and I tell The Husband I'm going to get a carton to take the leftovers home. When I start to turn around to get the attention of the waitress I hear The Husband shout out "Hey Lucky Jin"...like that's her name. WTF??? I must have had a WTF look on my face when I looked at him because he kinda looked sheepish...like after he said it he knew it probably wasn't the right thing to say...still he felt the need somehow to dig himself in a little deeper when the waitress brought me a take out carton by asking her...
"Do you speak Chinese? Or Cantonese?" and... you guessed it...he said it in old white man fake Chinese accent...and he didn't even know he was doing it. I wanted to die...like The Husband would even know the difference between Chinese or Cantonese...
Now I'm afraid we can never return to Lucky Jin for fear they'll spit in our food thinking The Husband was intentionally mocking them...it's the stoopidist thing.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
The Kindness of a Stranger
We had an Old Chix gathering a couple of weeks ago at Scari's house. It was just the original four, Scari who's a widow, barren, and has an incurable disease...she likes to mention these things frequently in an attempt to gain attention but it kinda falls on deaf ears since we've all heard it about a million times... me, Prissy, and Elmo who's husband just died. Elmo was the reason for the gathering at Scari's. We thought she'd be less self conscious in a small group where we could eat, drink, and be merry in a non-public setting...we usually go for Champagne Brunch at the casino because we all get senior discounts and hence, drink for free.
At some point during our festivities, Elmo mentioned she needed a new BBQ and it just so happened that Priss had one that she and her husband never used so she said Elmo was welcome to it.
The following weekend, OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) and I went to Costco so I took my fancy new truck thinking we could load up the BBQ and haul it back to Elmo. Wrongo bongo. These new trucks are sooooo tall, you need a ladder to get into the bed. There was no way we could lift this fancy ass BBQ into the truck. I should have known. Priss never buys anything cheap, and this BBQ was no exception. I figured it was aluminum, and would be light weight...wrong again...even after we wised up and removed the full propane tank we still couldn't lift it. I would like to point out here that in spite of our aged status, OF and I really aren't wimps. We both have horses, haul hay around, throw heavy saddles up on giant horses...okay, they're really not "giant", but sometimes they seem that way...especially when the old back or shoulder is gimpy...the point is, we are capable of lifting a "reasonable" amount of weight. Just not the Prissy heavy duty BBQ that does everything and then some...we left BBQ-less.
Fast forward a couple of weeks and I ask The Husband to hook his little utility trailer up to the truck (it has a ramp) so I can go get the BBQ. It's a little six foot trailer so I thought it would be a piece of cake backing into Prissy's perfectly landscaped suburban front drive replete with giant cement urns lining the side of said driveway...I back my three horse trailer all the time so why would it be a big deal? If I'm being totally honest, it now takes me a little longer to get it right with the new truck...I blame this on the new truck being longer than the old one was...plus it has fucked up divided mirrors that show close up and far away...so I never really know which one to focus on... In my heart, I know the problem is mine but I still blame the truck.
On the way down the hill, I try to call OF to see if she'll help me. She doesn't answer. OF is a woman who never goes anywhere without her phone...she panics if she doesn't have her phone with her. But when I call her for help...she doesn't answer. I secretly think she knew I was going to ask her for something and just didn't answer when she saw who was calling.
So when I can't get OF, I try Elmo's phone. Yet another woman who is never without a phone...no answer. Story of my fucking life...I can't call Scari because I know she'll still be in bed and I already know Priss & her husband won't be home...but I figure since the trailer has a ramp, I can wheel the BBQ on myself. I immediately start getting nervous.
I make it to high class suburbia in under thirty minutes. The street is lined with palatial homes all landscaped to perfection. I've driven into the real life version of House Beautiful magazine. Nary a yard car to be found in this neck of the woods...and there's no Big Wheels trikes lining the driveways either. You'd never know anybody had a kid in this neighborhood...kids make messes...and there's nothing, not even a blade of grass out of place anywhere.
Unfortunately for me, even though the streets were probably wide enough for four cars, I couldn't get the truck positioned to back straight into the urn lined drive with the magic BBQ sitting at the end like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
So...my first attempt failed miserably as I found out that it's way easier to back a big long horse trailer than it is to back a short, short, utility trailer. I barely touched the steering wheel and the little trailer nearly jackknifed...okay then...start over. Now I'm really nervous because I can see a white sedan getting ready to leave its driveway two houses down. Fuck...I'm blocking the street. I manage to get the trailer a little ways into the perfect driveway...at least enough so the white luxury sedan can get by, when much to my surprise once it's past the front of the truck, the door opens and out jumps Mr. GQ. I try to roll down the drivers window as Mr. GQ approaches because it's obvious he wants to say something to me, only to lower the rear window instead...this is not the first time I've done this in the new truck because I don't know where the fucking buttons are...nervousness just tends to magnify my imbecilic tendencies.
It must have been the universal "yikes" face I gave him as he drove by that prompted him to stop.
Or the way I sheepishly covered my face...
I was mortified...
"Hey, I'm an expert at this...do you want some help?" asks GQ. He really does look like a GQ model on his way to a photo shoot and I briefly wonder what he can be an expert at because GQ doesn't look like the type who would ever get dirty or place hands on any type of machinery whatsoever...I say briefly because I had these thoughts in the nanosecond it took me to bail out of my truck and turn it over to a complete stranger simply because he told me he could do it. "That would be wonderful, thank you" I manage as my feet hit the pavement...
Thank the Lord that I was driving the new truck and not "Old Red". Old Red is a 93 Ford that's seen better days and is all dented along one side where a deer decided to ram it...the deer won. If I'd been driving Old Red and wearing my usual...as I was...bag lady garb, GQ probably would've called the cops thinking I was there to commit some heinous crime. (I really did look like an old bag lady.)
True to his word, GQ backed the truck down the never ending driveway and stopped it right in front of the BBQ. He didn't even have to stop and pull forward once or twice to regroup like I would have had to do a million or so times.
"You want me to help you load it?" GQ asks as he starts to let the ramp down, noticing me fumbling with the trailer latch on the drivers side. I can't get it to move...it feels like the stoopid pin holding the ramp up is welded shut.
GQ has the other side open in the hot second it takes me to say "Oh thank you, that would be great" and pulls the pin I've been fumbling with which, when he lays his golden hand on it, suddenly acts like it's just been shot with a heavy dose of WD40. WTF????
I manage to act like I was helping him wheel the BBQ up the ramp, probably hindering more than helping when he asks how I want it to ride? Duh...what? "Well," GQ explains, "if you put it this way, there'll be less drag when you're driving". I nod like I know what he's talking about when I say "okay".
GQ says he thinks I'm good to go and heads back to the white Lexus he left parked in the street as I thank him profusely. It may have been a little much for him when I tried to kiss his feet. I think I may have scared him.
After using forty feet of the sixty foot rope I brought I finally feel I have the BBQ tied securely to the trailer...I even had to laugh when I looked at how stoopidly I tied it up. Mrs. Moronsky at work again! I manage to get to Elmo's house without incident and with the help of her and her daughter we get the whole shebang unloaded and in her back yard. Elmo's my kind of peep...she has a yard car.
I have no idea what prompted GQ to stop when he saw this big ass new truck driven by an incompetent old woman who probably in his opinion had no business being on the road...maybe he was simply afraid I'd wreck his neighbor's yard if he left me to my own devices...or maybe he was just a nice guy doing something nice.
It's amazing how the kindness of a stranger can touch your life...and make you want to be kind in return...it's the stoopidist thing...
Friday, February 8, 2013
Game Day
The day has arrived. Preparations for my pending anal violation (AV) are nearing the end. I still had a half gallon of noxious "prompt a poop" juice in the fridge waiting to be chugged, glass by gag inducing glass.
I spent most of the night worrying about when to start drinking my next batch of "prompt a poop" juice. So much so that I barely slept. Every hour I'd wake up...too early...go back to sleep...wake up...still too early...and on, and on... Most of the night I spent watching the Food Channel and thinking about food. It's not that I was really hungry, I just wanted to eat.
The directions from the BD's (Butt Doctor) office said to drink the second half four hours prior to check in time. Now I'm worried that it won't work in time. I'm supposed to check in at 11:00...but the AV outpatient center is about a forty-five minute drive from my house. What if the "prompt a poop"' juice doesn't kick in soon enough? What if I'm still pooping when it's time to leave for the AV center? Do I call & tell them I'm going to be late? What if they tell me they'll have to reschedule? Then I'd have to do the pre-game show all over again. No fucking way am I going to do that...What if I think I'm done pooping and have to poop in the middle of the drive? There's NOWHERE to stop along the way. Just a freeway with flatland pastures on either side. I'm worried I'm going to end up shitting my pants at some point. Maybe I should have bought some adult Depends...just in case...but that makes it seem like you're planning to intentionally shit your pants...and that just seems so wrong.
These are all thoughts that are running through my pea brain when I get the "prompt a poop" juice out of the fridge. I poured the first glass and started to chug away...and was immediately rewarded not only with the urge to vomit but with intense brain freeze because the "prompt a poop" juice was too cold to chug. You know the freeze pain you get between your eyes when you eat ice cream or drink something too cold...yep, that's what happened.
Now I don't know what to do, because there's no way you can sip this stuff without puking it right back up. There's no time to let it sit and warm up. I don't have time. I need to get this stuff down the gullet and out the other end BEFORE I have to drive to the AV center. I wonder if I should put it in the microwave but nix that idea because I'm afraid I'd get it too hot and then have to put it in the freezer to cool off at which point I'd leave it too long and be back to the whole brain freeze problem again. I fill the sink with hot water and set the jug in it. It worked.
Let the process begin...again.
When I signed up for this, it didn't occur to me that there would be a "preferable" time to be anally violated. As it turns out, I was wrong. Early morning is where it's at for AV procedures. Why? I'll tell you why. Because if you stoopidly schedule your AV procedure for 11:00 in the morning, you have to continue the pre-game show on Game Day. If you schedule the big event for 8:00 in the morning, you only have one day to experience the pre-game show festivities. When you know you have to get up on Game Day and drink more of the gag inducing beverage it just makes for a long sleepless night. Trust me on this future AV participants and plan accordingly.
The Husband, bless his heart, took time off work to make sure I actually followed through with the Game Day activities, but the night before the pre-game show, he dropped a little bomb which I'm sure contributed to my Nervous Nellie worries about pooping my pants.
"I made an appointment to get the bed liner sprayed on the pickup" he tells me while we're watching TV.
"Oh, good, when" I say, thinking it's going to be on my regular day off work.
"We drop it off Tuesday morning before your thing" he nonchalantly says.
"What?" I realize I'm screeching..."I can't go driving around before that. What if I'm still pooping and can't leave in time?" I know I'm starting to sound panicky.
"You'll be all done by then" he calmly says, like it's no big deal. See, when he did the AV procedure, he had it in the early morning, so his pre-game show was over with the night before.
"I have to drink the second half that morning. What if I'm not done in time?" my panic increases.
"You do?" He says, like it's the first time he's heard it. "Well you should still be done." Never does it occur to him that it may be a little inconvenient for me on this particular day. The Husband just sees a way to kill two birds with one stone...no big deal...to him anyway. The Husband always manages to come up with some convoluted plan when cars need to be shuffled around for various repairs...and he always makes it harder than it needs to be.
"Maybe you should have your brother meet you at the truck place and drive you over to the AV center" I suggest. Then I think about it. It probably won't be a big deal...fifteen extra minutes. I'm trying to be rational when all I really want to do is scream "how could you be so stoopid?". But...he means well...so I keep my mouth shut. "Well," I say "we'll just see how it goes".
I finish the pre-game show morning cleanse beverage without puking my guts up...barely...and figure I need to leave the house by 9:30 at the latest. It's a little after 6:00 and I'm waiting to start another round of bathroom visits...and waiting...and waiting...until finally the cleansing begins...and continues...and continues...
By 9:30 I'm panicking. Now I just know I'm never going to make it to the AV center without having to stop and cleanse, aka/poop, a little more. It probably doesn't even have anything to do with the cleansing ritual anymore. I've probably just made myself so nervous that now I have the nervous shits. You know how when you're in a stressful situation and your nerves are shot? Suddenly you get that pre-diarrhea feeling in the pit of your stomach giving you warning that soon you'll be shitting your brains out? You know that feeling? Everybody knows that feeling, don't they? I mean, I can't be the only one, can I?
I finally leave the house at 10:00 hoping I've reached the end of the pre-game show ritual. When I get in cell phone reception area, I call The Husband to tell him I'm running late but I'm on my way and the call goes directly to voice mail. He calls me back.
"Yeah, I called my brother and he's gonna meet me at the truck place and drive me over to where you are so I'll just meet you there" he says...like doing this was his idea and not something I suggested two days ago...when I could've been spared the nervous shits...God love him...
"Okay" I play along.
When I get to the AV center, The Husband is walking up through the parking lot. I have him go park the car and I enter the tiny lobby of the torture chamber. It's full. There's only seven chairs and only is empty so I snag it. Everyone looks at you when you walk in because everyone knows why you're there...because everyone is there for the same thing...to be anally violated. We're all a bunch of oldsters here for the opportunity of a lifetime...having a camera shoved up our asses.
Everyone was told they had to bring someone to drive them after the "procedure". Next to me, there's a mousy little dark haired woman whose ride must have already left. Next to her, there's a guy who looks like a retired professor with his wife, and next to them, there's a tough looking blond with her friend who looks like she stepped right out of 1963 complete with an Ann Landers hairdo. Remember Ann Landers? The advice queen? She and her sister, Dear Abby, dished out advice nationwide in syndicated newspaper columns. But I digress...
Everyone's joking about their pre-game show activities. The professor informs us that this is his second attempt after failing to complete his previous pre-game show activities. "I couldn't finish drinking that stuff the first time" he says. He's looking at me, but I don't know how to respond...or if I should? What do you say to something like that anyway? Fortunately, everyone laughs and I'm spared the effort of trying to think of an appropriate response, when in walks The Husband. I'm ridiculously happy to see him but there's nowhere for him to sit. "You don't have to stay" I tell him "they'll call you when I'm done".
"Oh no" he says for all to hear "I'm gonna make sure you don't try to make a run for it". Everyone in the room laughs. That Husband...he's such a chuckle head.
The mousy lady next to me is escorted into the torture chamber behind the door so The Husband takes her seat. The professor's wife, who has long gray hair that needs to be washed, talks about reading glasses with me and The Husband as one by one the AV participants are lead to their doom. Finally it's my turn...I kiss The Husband goodbye.
Everyone in the torture chamber was really nice. My nurse, Jane (not her real name), gave me the obligatory backless gown telling me the opening was supposed to be in the back. No shit???? Do they really have to tell people that? Jane also said I could keep my socks on...so I did. I'm sure I looked stunning when I came out of the bathroom in my knee length backless gown with calf high boot socks on...but truthfully, I was trying so hard to keep the back closed so my butt didn't hang out that I really didn't have time to care what it looked like. When I got to my pre AV digs...a bed curtained off from other beds, Jane said "bare bottom goes on the pad"...those were her exact words. Honestly, if she hadn't said that, I would've been trying to keep the gown closed in the back the whole time I was laying down.
Jane continued her pleasant chatter while explaining what was going to happen before, during, and after the AV. Then she got to a little part about "having to pass gas" before you could leave to go home. WTF???? I said as much although not quite so crudely. "I know...women have the hardest time with that part" she said "but it's odorless because it's just air". Somehow that didn't make me feel any better.
They wheeled me in to the final chamber where I met the Doc. He was East Indian, around 40'ish, pleasant, asked me a few questions and then they gave me a shot...when I woke up, I was back in one of the curtained cubicles.
Even though I was sort of rummy I totally remember hearing farting all around me. I couldn't see my curtained off counterparts, but I'm fairly certain that the professor was in the cubicle to my left as the fart sounds emanating from that area had a distinct "guy" sound to them. I wanted to laugh...but I had to fart and if I started laughing, I'd have no control.
Please God, I thought, let them be quiet ones as I started farting. And they were...at least I thought they were. But everybody else probably thought theirs were quiet too and I could hear all theirs so I don't know what made me think that "mine alone" were going to be quiet farts. Never in a million years did I ever imagine that I'd ever be in a room full of strangers and we'd all be filling the air with fart sounds.
Still, I'm holding on to the dream that mine were the quiet ones...it's the stoopidist thing.
I spent most of the night worrying about when to start drinking my next batch of "prompt a poop" juice. So much so that I barely slept. Every hour I'd wake up...too early...go back to sleep...wake up...still too early...and on, and on... Most of the night I spent watching the Food Channel and thinking about food. It's not that I was really hungry, I just wanted to eat.
The directions from the BD's (Butt Doctor) office said to drink the second half four hours prior to check in time. Now I'm worried that it won't work in time. I'm supposed to check in at 11:00...but the AV outpatient center is about a forty-five minute drive from my house. What if the "prompt a poop"' juice doesn't kick in soon enough? What if I'm still pooping when it's time to leave for the AV center? Do I call & tell them I'm going to be late? What if they tell me they'll have to reschedule? Then I'd have to do the pre-game show all over again. No fucking way am I going to do that...What if I think I'm done pooping and have to poop in the middle of the drive? There's NOWHERE to stop along the way. Just a freeway with flatland pastures on either side. I'm worried I'm going to end up shitting my pants at some point. Maybe I should have bought some adult Depends...just in case...but that makes it seem like you're planning to intentionally shit your pants...and that just seems so wrong.
These are all thoughts that are running through my pea brain when I get the "prompt a poop" juice out of the fridge. I poured the first glass and started to chug away...and was immediately rewarded not only with the urge to vomit but with intense brain freeze because the "prompt a poop" juice was too cold to chug. You know the freeze pain you get between your eyes when you eat ice cream or drink something too cold...yep, that's what happened.
Now I don't know what to do, because there's no way you can sip this stuff without puking it right back up. There's no time to let it sit and warm up. I don't have time. I need to get this stuff down the gullet and out the other end BEFORE I have to drive to the AV center. I wonder if I should put it in the microwave but nix that idea because I'm afraid I'd get it too hot and then have to put it in the freezer to cool off at which point I'd leave it too long and be back to the whole brain freeze problem again. I fill the sink with hot water and set the jug in it. It worked.
Let the process begin...again.
When I signed up for this, it didn't occur to me that there would be a "preferable" time to be anally violated. As it turns out, I was wrong. Early morning is where it's at for AV procedures. Why? I'll tell you why. Because if you stoopidly schedule your AV procedure for 11:00 in the morning, you have to continue the pre-game show on Game Day. If you schedule the big event for 8:00 in the morning, you only have one day to experience the pre-game show festivities. When you know you have to get up on Game Day and drink more of the gag inducing beverage it just makes for a long sleepless night. Trust me on this future AV participants and plan accordingly.
The Husband, bless his heart, took time off work to make sure I actually followed through with the Game Day activities, but the night before the pre-game show, he dropped a little bomb which I'm sure contributed to my Nervous Nellie worries about pooping my pants.
"I made an appointment to get the bed liner sprayed on the pickup" he tells me while we're watching TV.
"Oh, good, when" I say, thinking it's going to be on my regular day off work.
"We drop it off Tuesday morning before your thing" he nonchalantly says.
"What?" I realize I'm screeching..."I can't go driving around before that. What if I'm still pooping and can't leave in time?" I know I'm starting to sound panicky.
"You'll be all done by then" he calmly says, like it's no big deal. See, when he did the AV procedure, he had it in the early morning, so his pre-game show was over with the night before.
"I have to drink the second half that morning. What if I'm not done in time?" my panic increases.
"You do?" He says, like it's the first time he's heard it. "Well you should still be done." Never does it occur to him that it may be a little inconvenient for me on this particular day. The Husband just sees a way to kill two birds with one stone...no big deal...to him anyway. The Husband always manages to come up with some convoluted plan when cars need to be shuffled around for various repairs...and he always makes it harder than it needs to be.
"Maybe you should have your brother meet you at the truck place and drive you over to the AV center" I suggest. Then I think about it. It probably won't be a big deal...fifteen extra minutes. I'm trying to be rational when all I really want to do is scream "how could you be so stoopid?". But...he means well...so I keep my mouth shut. "Well," I say "we'll just see how it goes".
I finish the pre-game show morning cleanse beverage without puking my guts up...barely...and figure I need to leave the house by 9:30 at the latest. It's a little after 6:00 and I'm waiting to start another round of bathroom visits...and waiting...and waiting...until finally the cleansing begins...and continues...and continues...
By 9:30 I'm panicking. Now I just know I'm never going to make it to the AV center without having to stop and cleanse, aka/poop, a little more. It probably doesn't even have anything to do with the cleansing ritual anymore. I've probably just made myself so nervous that now I have the nervous shits. You know how when you're in a stressful situation and your nerves are shot? Suddenly you get that pre-diarrhea feeling in the pit of your stomach giving you warning that soon you'll be shitting your brains out? You know that feeling? Everybody knows that feeling, don't they? I mean, I can't be the only one, can I?
I finally leave the house at 10:00 hoping I've reached the end of the pre-game show ritual. When I get in cell phone reception area, I call The Husband to tell him I'm running late but I'm on my way and the call goes directly to voice mail. He calls me back.
"Yeah, I called my brother and he's gonna meet me at the truck place and drive me over to where you are so I'll just meet you there" he says...like doing this was his idea and not something I suggested two days ago...when I could've been spared the nervous shits...God love him...
"Okay" I play along.
When I get to the AV center, The Husband is walking up through the parking lot. I have him go park the car and I enter the tiny lobby of the torture chamber. It's full. There's only seven chairs and only is empty so I snag it. Everyone looks at you when you walk in because everyone knows why you're there...because everyone is there for the same thing...to be anally violated. We're all a bunch of oldsters here for the opportunity of a lifetime...having a camera shoved up our asses.
Everyone was told they had to bring someone to drive them after the "procedure". Next to me, there's a mousy little dark haired woman whose ride must have already left. Next to her, there's a guy who looks like a retired professor with his wife, and next to them, there's a tough looking blond with her friend who looks like she stepped right out of 1963 complete with an Ann Landers hairdo. Remember Ann Landers? The advice queen? She and her sister, Dear Abby, dished out advice nationwide in syndicated newspaper columns. But I digress...
Everyone's joking about their pre-game show activities. The professor informs us that this is his second attempt after failing to complete his previous pre-game show activities. "I couldn't finish drinking that stuff the first time" he says. He's looking at me, but I don't know how to respond...or if I should? What do you say to something like that anyway? Fortunately, everyone laughs and I'm spared the effort of trying to think of an appropriate response, when in walks The Husband. I'm ridiculously happy to see him but there's nowhere for him to sit. "You don't have to stay" I tell him "they'll call you when I'm done".
"Oh no" he says for all to hear "I'm gonna make sure you don't try to make a run for it". Everyone in the room laughs. That Husband...he's such a chuckle head.
The mousy lady next to me is escorted into the torture chamber behind the door so The Husband takes her seat. The professor's wife, who has long gray hair that needs to be washed, talks about reading glasses with me and The Husband as one by one the AV participants are lead to their doom. Finally it's my turn...I kiss The Husband goodbye.
Everyone in the torture chamber was really nice. My nurse, Jane (not her real name), gave me the obligatory backless gown telling me the opening was supposed to be in the back. No shit???? Do they really have to tell people that? Jane also said I could keep my socks on...so I did. I'm sure I looked stunning when I came out of the bathroom in my knee length backless gown with calf high boot socks on...but truthfully, I was trying so hard to keep the back closed so my butt didn't hang out that I really didn't have time to care what it looked like. When I got to my pre AV digs...a bed curtained off from other beds, Jane said "bare bottom goes on the pad"...those were her exact words. Honestly, if she hadn't said that, I would've been trying to keep the gown closed in the back the whole time I was laying down.
Jane continued her pleasant chatter while explaining what was going to happen before, during, and after the AV. Then she got to a little part about "having to pass gas" before you could leave to go home. WTF???? I said as much although not quite so crudely. "I know...women have the hardest time with that part" she said "but it's odorless because it's just air". Somehow that didn't make me feel any better.
They wheeled me in to the final chamber where I met the Doc. He was East Indian, around 40'ish, pleasant, asked me a few questions and then they gave me a shot...when I woke up, I was back in one of the curtained cubicles.
Even though I was sort of rummy I totally remember hearing farting all around me. I couldn't see my curtained off counterparts, but I'm fairly certain that the professor was in the cubicle to my left as the fart sounds emanating from that area had a distinct "guy" sound to them. I wanted to laugh...but I had to fart and if I started laughing, I'd have no control.
Please God, I thought, let them be quiet ones as I started farting. And they were...at least I thought they were. But everybody else probably thought theirs were quiet too and I could hear all theirs so I don't know what made me think that "mine alone" were going to be quiet farts. Never in a million years did I ever imagine that I'd ever be in a room full of strangers and we'd all be filling the air with fart sounds.
Still, I'm holding on to the dream that mine were the quiet ones...it's the stoopidist thing.
Friday, February 1, 2013
The Pre Game Show...
The day after my run in with Man At The Counter started out wonderful. I didn't have to start the pre-game show until noon so I had time to go ride in the morning. My horse did good and all was right with the world. Noon came too soon...
In preparation for my colonoscopy, or as I prefer to call it...Anal Violation...AV for short...I made orange jello. I don't really like orange jello...unless it's mixed with Cool Whip and cottage cheese with a couple cans of pineapple chunks thrown in...then...yummmmm. But plain orange? The only kind I like plain is strawberry. But according to the detailed pre-game show plans I received from the BD's office (Butt Doctor), red jello is the only kind you CAN'T have. I thought orange would be tolerable, it wasn't...maybe if I'd had the sugar kind instead of sugar free it would've been better.
After reading the directions for the umpteenth time, I laid out my plan of action. I had orange jello ready to go and three cans of chicken broth. I couldn't think of any other clear liquid to have. I don't like apple juice which was the only other juice okayed by BD's office. I had Diet Pepsi which is the only soda I drink and BD's office said "any" soda was okay...maybe I should have had an assortment ready for maximum palate stimulation...different sodas for lunch, dinner, and snack time. But hey, it was my first AV...
At noon I drank a cup of broth which was incredibly unsatisfying. Then I took the first two of three pills prescribed by the friendly BD...and after about an hour...nothing happened. Okay, I thought, maybe the pooping doesn't start until the third pill. At three, I took the last of the three pills...still nothing. Is there something wrong with me? Shouldn't something be happening? I don't know 'cause this is my first AV. I mixed up the infamous gallon jug of powder with water and added a "pleasantly flavored orange" packet of powder to it. I actually had a choice of "pleasantly flavored packets"...orange, pineapple, lemon lime, or cherry. It seemed safest to go with orange. I don't know why... and I don't know if I chose wisely or not but once it was mixed I couldn't go back and change it.
Four o'clock came too soon. You'd think the first eight ounces would be the worst...but since you don't know what to expect, you're unprepared for the level of disgust this gallon of poop inducing solution would cause. After the first glass, you know...and you come to dread the sound of the ten minute timer letting you know it's time for yet another glass full of the noxious liquid.
We have a gag reflex for a reason I think. It's telling you..."bad stuff, must regurgitate" when you try to eat or drink something icky. Usually you listen to this miracle of the body...and believe me, it's really, really, hard to ignore. I nearly puked with every glass downed. Sipping it only prolonged the disgust so I ended up chugging every glass...it was like drinking slightly gelled water. Albeit, "pleasantly flavored orange" slightly gelled water. Since I've never actually eaten shit, I can't truthfully say I'd rather eat shit than drink this stuff again...but a dried horse apple may be preferable.
The phone rings. It's the BD's office calling to confirm my appointment. The voice on the other end of the phone is annoyingly perky.
“Hi, is this Stoopid?” says the voice at the end of the line. “It is” I say.
“This is Patty Perky from the BD’s office. I’m calling to confirm your appointment tomorrow at 11:00 and to see if you have time to answer a few questions so you don’t have to do it tomorrow” she says.
“Sure” I say “go ahead”...I mean, it’s not like I have anything else to do except drink that crappy gel like water designed to make me shit my brains out. Which hasn’t kicked in yet...which is starting to worry me.
She confirms my date of birth, address, emergency contact, yadda, yadda, yadda...and says “Oh, you should be doing your prep today...how’s that going?”
“So far, it’s not” I tell her adding “I’ve taken the pills and been drinking that stuff but so far nothing’s happened”.
“Oh, it will” she assures me.
“Hey can I have popsicles” I ask. I remember my mom, God rest her soul, telling me they used to give the oldsters at the Old Folks Home popsicles because they didn't want to drink water and it was hard to keep them hydrated. Couldn't hurt to ask, could it?
“I don’t know, let me ask” as she puts me on hold. She comes back on the line and says “you can as long as they’re not red ones”.
“Oh Yay! thanks” I'm instantly happy to know that I can have something I know I don't hate. Popsicles wouldn't normally be my choice of frozen snackage, I'd head for the more substantial creamsicle or fudge bar but at least I can have something close. Unfortunately, since it's not my normal snackage treat, I don't have popsicles hanging out in the freezer. Lots of creamsicles and fudge bars, but nary a popsicle to be found...I'm unprepared.
I could’ve had popsicles. How come nobody told me this? And why isn’t it on the pre-game show list of stuff I’m allowed to eat. Now all I can think about is popsicles. I call The Husband who’s out of town but going to be driving home.
My call goes immediately to voicemail so I know he’s still working and hasn’t started home. “Call me before you come home” is the message I leave.
The phone rings again a few minutes later. It’s OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) “Hi” she says through her crackling cell phone “I just wanted to see how you’re doing”.
“Well I drank the stuff and it's not happening” I tell her.
“Don’t worry, it will” she reassures me. I think she's laughing. Everyone who's been through an AV seems
to laugh about the pre-game show.
“Did they tell you you could have popsicles” I ask her. The more I think about it the more obsessed I am with getting popsicles.
“No” she said “they never said I could have popsicles. Do you want me to bring you some?” She’s a good friend.
“No, The Husband is driving home tonight” I answer “I’ll have him stop & pick some up”. We hang up after she reassures me that soon I’m going to be spending all my time in the bathroom.
I contemplate making a run for the grocery store. It’s between 5:00 & 6:00 post-meridiem. I still don’t feel anything except bloated from the “prompt a poop” juice. Maybe I still have time.
The phone rings again...it’s The Husband who informs me he’s still working and won’t be home until around 8:00 or 9:00...shit...I should’ve had OF bring me popsicles when she offered.
I grab my keys and purse thinking I'm going to go for it. I just know I'll die if I don't get popsicles...I must have them.
Suddenly, and I mean right fucking now...I realize my window of opportunity has passed...curses...foiled again. Remember when they used to say that in old movies? Only it sounded more like "coises" because of the accent of the hooligan saying it. I head dejectedly for the bathroom...the first of many trips. It's the stoopidist thing...
...to be continued...
In preparation for my colonoscopy, or as I prefer to call it...Anal Violation...AV for short...I made orange jello. I don't really like orange jello...unless it's mixed with Cool Whip and cottage cheese with a couple cans of pineapple chunks thrown in...then...yummmmm. But plain orange? The only kind I like plain is strawberry. But according to the detailed pre-game show plans I received from the BD's office (Butt Doctor), red jello is the only kind you CAN'T have. I thought orange would be tolerable, it wasn't...maybe if I'd had the sugar kind instead of sugar free it would've been better.
After reading the directions for the umpteenth time, I laid out my plan of action. I had orange jello ready to go and three cans of chicken broth. I couldn't think of any other clear liquid to have. I don't like apple juice which was the only other juice okayed by BD's office. I had Diet Pepsi which is the only soda I drink and BD's office said "any" soda was okay...maybe I should have had an assortment ready for maximum palate stimulation...different sodas for lunch, dinner, and snack time. But hey, it was my first AV...
At noon I drank a cup of broth which was incredibly unsatisfying. Then I took the first two of three pills prescribed by the friendly BD...and after about an hour...nothing happened. Okay, I thought, maybe the pooping doesn't start until the third pill. At three, I took the last of the three pills...still nothing. Is there something wrong with me? Shouldn't something be happening? I don't know 'cause this is my first AV. I mixed up the infamous gallon jug of powder with water and added a "pleasantly flavored orange" packet of powder to it. I actually had a choice of "pleasantly flavored packets"...orange, pineapple, lemon lime, or cherry. It seemed safest to go with orange. I don't know why... and I don't know if I chose wisely or not but once it was mixed I couldn't go back and change it.
Four o'clock came too soon. You'd think the first eight ounces would be the worst...but since you don't know what to expect, you're unprepared for the level of disgust this gallon of poop inducing solution would cause. After the first glass, you know...and you come to dread the sound of the ten minute timer letting you know it's time for yet another glass full of the noxious liquid.
We have a gag reflex for a reason I think. It's telling you..."bad stuff, must regurgitate" when you try to eat or drink something icky. Usually you listen to this miracle of the body...and believe me, it's really, really, hard to ignore. I nearly puked with every glass downed. Sipping it only prolonged the disgust so I ended up chugging every glass...it was like drinking slightly gelled water. Albeit, "pleasantly flavored orange" slightly gelled water. Since I've never actually eaten shit, I can't truthfully say I'd rather eat shit than drink this stuff again...but a dried horse apple may be preferable.
The phone rings. It's the BD's office calling to confirm my appointment. The voice on the other end of the phone is annoyingly perky.
“Hi, is this Stoopid?” says the voice at the end of the line. “It is” I say.
“This is Patty Perky from the BD’s office. I’m calling to confirm your appointment tomorrow at 11:00 and to see if you have time to answer a few questions so you don’t have to do it tomorrow” she says.
“Sure” I say “go ahead”...I mean, it’s not like I have anything else to do except drink that crappy gel like water designed to make me shit my brains out. Which hasn’t kicked in yet...which is starting to worry me.
She confirms my date of birth, address, emergency contact, yadda, yadda, yadda...and says “Oh, you should be doing your prep today...how’s that going?”
“So far, it’s not” I tell her adding “I’ve taken the pills and been drinking that stuff but so far nothing’s happened”.
“Oh, it will” she assures me.
“Hey can I have popsicles” I ask. I remember my mom, God rest her soul, telling me they used to give the oldsters at the Old Folks Home popsicles because they didn't want to drink water and it was hard to keep them hydrated. Couldn't hurt to ask, could it?
“I don’t know, let me ask” as she puts me on hold. She comes back on the line and says “you can as long as they’re not red ones”.
“Oh Yay! thanks” I'm instantly happy to know that I can have something I know I don't hate. Popsicles wouldn't normally be my choice of frozen snackage, I'd head for the more substantial creamsicle or fudge bar but at least I can have something close. Unfortunately, since it's not my normal snackage treat, I don't have popsicles hanging out in the freezer. Lots of creamsicles and fudge bars, but nary a popsicle to be found...I'm unprepared.
I could’ve had popsicles. How come nobody told me this? And why isn’t it on the pre-game show list of stuff I’m allowed to eat. Now all I can think about is popsicles. I call The Husband who’s out of town but going to be driving home.
My call goes immediately to voicemail so I know he’s still working and hasn’t started home. “Call me before you come home” is the message I leave.
The phone rings again a few minutes later. It’s OF (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame) “Hi” she says through her crackling cell phone “I just wanted to see how you’re doing”.
“Well I drank the stuff and it's not happening” I tell her.
“Don’t worry, it will” she reassures me. I think she's laughing. Everyone who's been through an AV seems
to laugh about the pre-game show.
“Did they tell you you could have popsicles” I ask her. The more I think about it the more obsessed I am with getting popsicles.
“No” she said “they never said I could have popsicles. Do you want me to bring you some?” She’s a good friend.
“No, The Husband is driving home tonight” I answer “I’ll have him stop & pick some up”. We hang up after she reassures me that soon I’m going to be spending all my time in the bathroom.
I contemplate making a run for the grocery store. It’s between 5:00 & 6:00 post-meridiem. I still don’t feel anything except bloated from the “prompt a poop” juice. Maybe I still have time.
The phone rings again...it’s The Husband who informs me he’s still working and won’t be home until around 8:00 or 9:00...shit...I should’ve had OF bring me popsicles when she offered.
I grab my keys and purse thinking I'm going to go for it. I just know I'll die if I don't get popsicles...I must have them.
Suddenly, and I mean right fucking now...I realize my window of opportunity has passed...curses...foiled again. Remember when they used to say that in old movies? Only it sounded more like "coises" because of the accent of the hooligan saying it. I head dejectedly for the bathroom...the first of many trips. It's the stoopidist thing...
...to be continued...
Friday, January 11, 2013
The Four Way Stop
Is there anything more of a cluster fuck than a four way stop during heavy traffic??? I don't think so. Never are people more indecisive. Do I go first? Should I let them go first? Who goes first? Who knows? Nobody knows, that's who.
So what happens? Everybody tries to go at the same time. Start, stop. Start, stop. Okay, you go. No, you go. Okay, I'll go. No, I'll go. It's a total cluster. To be fair, the rules of the road are vague. Who ever (or is it whom ever?) gets to the intersection first has the right of way...and if more than one vehicle the vehicle on the right goes first. But if four vehicles get there at the same time who's on the right? Isn't everyone on the right of someone? Personally I think someone with a penis must have come up with this rule.
When everyone gets there at the same time, nobody knows what to do...everybody starts hesitating, and the impatient "waving on" begins. Everyone starts waving the other cars to go ahead...but they all start waving at the same time and the cluster begins anew. Until...one brave soul feels the stirring of testicular expansion from rasinette to full fledged grape and barrels through the intersection studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone lest they see a middle finger raised in opposition.
You'd think, with my little road rage problem, that I'd be an aggressive driver...not the case. Sadly, I am never that brave soul barreling through the intersection. I want to be...but, truth be told, I'm a wimpy driver. I may, in fact, be the wimpiest of the wimps. So wimpy am I that I actually TRY to be the last vehicle at the intersection so I can be sure, deep in my heart, that I am legally bound to go last. I want no confrontation, no middle fingers raised in my direction, no ugly glares from fellow drivers...I basically just want to get through the intersection physically and emotionally unscathed. How friggin' wimpy is that???
My friend, Smellie Noellie, is a bold driver. Years of traveling on L.A. freeways have made her fearless of driving conditions that make me cringe. Smellie knows no fear and is oblivious to glares and raised middle fingers of fellow motorists. Any hesitation on the part of others is an opportunity for her to take control...which she does instantly. I wish I could be like her...although she is a bit of a car snob preferring BMW's to any other vehicle on the planet. I don't really care what I drive as long as it doesn't break down and the heater and air conditioner work. I'd like the radio to work too but it's not as vital to me as the other two are.
Since it's a new year, I'm going to try to be more a more assertive driver. Maybe 2013 will be the year my rasinettes turn to grapes and I finally stop deliberately getting to the intersection last. Maybe 2013 will be the year my road rage will cease to exist and I'll stop calling fellow drivers "fuckhead", "asswipe", "dickhead", "fuckin' asshole" and/or any combination thereof. Maybe 2013 will be the year I'll actually try to eat healthful foods.
Even better...maybe...2013 will be the year I win the lottery and can hire Smellie to drive me wherever I need to go. Then I wouldn't have to worry about silly things like being wimpy, and dreams of testicular expansion...it's the stoopidist thing.
So what happens? Everybody tries to go at the same time. Start, stop. Start, stop. Okay, you go. No, you go. Okay, I'll go. No, I'll go. It's a total cluster. To be fair, the rules of the road are vague. Who ever (or is it whom ever?) gets to the intersection first has the right of way...and if more than one vehicle the vehicle on the right goes first. But if four vehicles get there at the same time who's on the right? Isn't everyone on the right of someone? Personally I think someone with a penis must have come up with this rule.
When everyone gets there at the same time, nobody knows what to do...everybody starts hesitating, and the impatient "waving on" begins. Everyone starts waving the other cars to go ahead...but they all start waving at the same time and the cluster begins anew. Until...one brave soul feels the stirring of testicular expansion from rasinette to full fledged grape and barrels through the intersection studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone lest they see a middle finger raised in opposition.
You'd think, with my little road rage problem, that I'd be an aggressive driver...not the case. Sadly, I am never that brave soul barreling through the intersection. I want to be...but, truth be told, I'm a wimpy driver. I may, in fact, be the wimpiest of the wimps. So wimpy am I that I actually TRY to be the last vehicle at the intersection so I can be sure, deep in my heart, that I am legally bound to go last. I want no confrontation, no middle fingers raised in my direction, no ugly glares from fellow drivers...I basically just want to get through the intersection physically and emotionally unscathed. How friggin' wimpy is that???
My friend, Smellie Noellie, is a bold driver. Years of traveling on L.A. freeways have made her fearless of driving conditions that make me cringe. Smellie knows no fear and is oblivious to glares and raised middle fingers of fellow motorists. Any hesitation on the part of others is an opportunity for her to take control...which she does instantly. I wish I could be like her...although she is a bit of a car snob preferring BMW's to any other vehicle on the planet. I don't really care what I drive as long as it doesn't break down and the heater and air conditioner work. I'd like the radio to work too but it's not as vital to me as the other two are.
Since it's a new year, I'm going to try to be more a more assertive driver. Maybe 2013 will be the year my rasinettes turn to grapes and I finally stop deliberately getting to the intersection last. Maybe 2013 will be the year my road rage will cease to exist and I'll stop calling fellow drivers "fuckhead", "asswipe", "dickhead", "fuckin' asshole" and/or any combination thereof. Maybe 2013 will be the year I'll actually try to eat healthful foods.
Even better...maybe...2013 will be the year I win the lottery and can hire Smellie to drive me wherever I need to go. Then I wouldn't have to worry about silly things like being wimpy, and dreams of testicular expansion...it's the stoopidist thing.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
WTF???
It could've been the popcorn...or the fudge...I think that's the only thing I've eaten, except for a couple of Baby Bella cheeses this morning. I have no idea what all of a sudden causes gas to fill one's body to near bursting. I swear if I looked in the mirror I'd see the Michelin Man...or in this case...Michelin Woman, staring back at me with a "WTF" look on her face.
Fortunately, I'm alone...The Husband hasn't gotten home from work so it's just me and the animals. They don't really mind suddenly expelled gas...no big deal to them. If there's any noise involved they look a little surprised, but that's about all. Except for Briley, The Cartoon Dog,...she has a nose that guides her every move. I'm forced to give her a pizzle chew to keep her from following me around sniffing. The pizzle stick is usually the foulest smelling thing in the house...not tonight...tonight I hold that honor...although it shames me to admit it.
It started at work right before quitting time. I went running to the bathroom...actually I walked...really fast, but not so fast that it looked like I was in a hurry...people tend to notice other people running to the bathroom and I didn't really want to draw attention to myself. I thought I was going to have to be a Sneak A Pooper so I was actually relieved to just have a giant fart trapped inside me...and thank the Lord, it was a SILENT one. Who'd a thunk I'd be happy to be farting in the bathroom at work???
At this point, I'm thinking I should probably just go home after work & skip riding. The bathroom at the barn is old and what if I end up having to be a Sneak A Pooper at the barn and the toilet won't flush? This is oddly one of my worst nightmares...being somewhere having to Sneak A Poop, and the toilet won't flush. What can I say? I know it's stoopid but I can't help it. Pooping is just "at home duty"...
So far so good...fortunately I don't smoke real cigarettes anymore...I use the fake electric ones. I'd be afraid to use a lighter anywhere around me...scared I'd catch the air around me on fire. I used to know guys who'd deliberately light their farts. I've never done it and I'd hate for them to find my charred body and surroundings burnt to a crisp from accidentally igniting the methane spewing from my hiney. I also have to admit I don't know what "burnt to a crisp" means. Does it refer to the texture of the item? Or is there some kind of item that's a crisp? I think I've heard Karl Pilkington talk about crisps on An Idiot Abroad. I think they were some kind of chips in a bag. But why not call them chips then? Why call the bathroom a loo?
Too many whys for me...for now, I have to change my location. The air around the computer smells really bad...it's the stoopidist thing.
Fortunately, I'm alone...The Husband hasn't gotten home from work so it's just me and the animals. They don't really mind suddenly expelled gas...no big deal to them. If there's any noise involved they look a little surprised, but that's about all. Except for Briley, The Cartoon Dog,...she has a nose that guides her every move. I'm forced to give her a pizzle chew to keep her from following me around sniffing. The pizzle stick is usually the foulest smelling thing in the house...not tonight...tonight I hold that honor...although it shames me to admit it.
It started at work right before quitting time. I went running to the bathroom...actually I walked...really fast, but not so fast that it looked like I was in a hurry...people tend to notice other people running to the bathroom and I didn't really want to draw attention to myself. I thought I was going to have to be a Sneak A Pooper so I was actually relieved to just have a giant fart trapped inside me...and thank the Lord, it was a SILENT one. Who'd a thunk I'd be happy to be farting in the bathroom at work???
At this point, I'm thinking I should probably just go home after work & skip riding. The bathroom at the barn is old and what if I end up having to be a Sneak A Pooper at the barn and the toilet won't flush? This is oddly one of my worst nightmares...being somewhere having to Sneak A Poop, and the toilet won't flush. What can I say? I know it's stoopid but I can't help it. Pooping is just "at home duty"...
So far so good...fortunately I don't smoke real cigarettes anymore...I use the fake electric ones. I'd be afraid to use a lighter anywhere around me...scared I'd catch the air around me on fire. I used to know guys who'd deliberately light their farts. I've never done it and I'd hate for them to find my charred body and surroundings burnt to a crisp from accidentally igniting the methane spewing from my hiney. I also have to admit I don't know what "burnt to a crisp" means. Does it refer to the texture of the item? Or is there some kind of item that's a crisp? I think I've heard Karl Pilkington talk about crisps on An Idiot Abroad. I think they were some kind of chips in a bag. But why not call them chips then? Why call the bathroom a loo?
Too many whys for me...for now, I have to change my location. The air around the computer smells really bad...it's the stoopidist thing.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Sneak-A-Pooper Fail
I got a text message from OF yesterday (Old Friend of undesirable snackage fame).
OF: OMG! I went to Wal Mart with BBQ sauce all over my freaking face. Nobody said anything.
Me: Funniest thing I've heard all day. Would've been better with pictures...just sayin'.
OF: I could not believe it when I saw it in the rear view mirror. I looked like a 2 yr old. Nobody said a thing in the store
Me: OMG, The Princess said she just thought she saw one of my friends at the store w/stuff all over her face but was too embarrassed to say anything.
OF: Lol you liar.
Me: She has pictures...you'll be in the next "People of WalMart" email...
It made me laugh out loud. I always love it when stuff like this happens to other people. Usually these little humiliations happen to me so it makes me feel good to know that I'm not the only one.
I was even more glad it wasn't me this weekend at Bunco. The monthly game was at the SIL's (Sister In Law) house where the hostess with the most-ess prepared a feast fit for kings...or in this case queens...because we're all women...not flamboyant gay men...in case I need to clarify that point.
OF, Scari, Smellie and I met at OF's house and all hopped into OF's car for the long ride into old folks land in the hills. OF hosted a party at her house the night before for people from her office where they consumed mass quantities of food and adult beverages...then broke out the karaoke machine...personally, I don't think you could get me drunk enough to sing in public...and I really don't want to test this theory. Anyway, it was a busy weekend for OF whose stomach is apparently not made of cast iron as was previously thought.
When we got to the SIL's, we spent the first thirty minutes drinking and stuffing our faces. The SIL had a bottle of Iced Cake Vodka...sounds really good...and it was...just a little too sweet. I mixed it with citrus punch to try to cut the sweetness to no avail. It reminded me of drinking sloe gin and orange juice when I was in high school. Like the latter, it made me feel like I was going to throw up after a little while. Note to self...avoid cake vodka in the future.
We got through the first round of Bunco fine, but during the second round as we were nearing the end, all of a sudden OF says to her partner "You're going to have to roll for me"...as she jumps up and practically runs from the table.
We finish the round...sans OF...when everyone decides to take a break so we can stuff our fat faces even more than we previously had...and use the bathroom.
"Oh, someone beat me to the bathroom" bemoans poor Smellie while the rest of us stuff our faces. The bathroom door is right off the kitchen where we're all gathered and you can see from the light under the door that the room is occupied.
Smellie's easily distracted by food and chatter for a few minutes when she turns back to the bathroom and sees again to her dismay that it's occupied..."Oh I missed it again" she says, thinking that whoever was in there came out and some other lucky full bladdered party goer slipped in before her. Smellie's now on a mission to be the next person in the bathroom come hell or high water.
"Who's in the bathroom anyway?" yells Smellie to no one in particular. The bathroom door remains shut...
At this point I get the giggles because I know that poor OF is stuck in the bathroom pooping her brains out wishing with all her heart that we'd all just magically disappear from her world so she could exit the bathroom with some shred of dignity...but noooooo....
"Hey, who's in there?" Smellie continues her verbal assault...(In her defense, had she known the circumstances she never would have said a word...and I'm sure she felt bad once she made it into the bathroom where her keen sense of smell told the story of the previous occupant.)
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bathroom door opens and OF, looking six feet tall, is framed in the doorway...all eyes turned...it was an E.F. Hutton moment (there's a blast from the past).
OF musters as much dignity on the walk of shame from the bathroom as is humanly possible. I start laughing again because every time I get embarrassed or nervous that's what I do...and I'm totally embarrassed for OF...and soooo thankful that it wasn't me.
We, at least me and most of the women I know, get so embarrassed by having to poop in public. It's like we think people don't really know we poop if we only do it at home. With the exception of Smellie, who worked in sales for years and spent her days travelling and who proudly declares herself "an indiscriminate pooper" who will poop anywhere, anytime, everyone I know is mortified at the thought of pooping in public. When most of us are forced to Sneak-A-Poop, we do the courtesy flush to cover sound and try to eliminate smell...everyone knows what you're doing...but we still do it. Someday maybe I'll be mature enough to poop and fart loudly and proudly. So far, I'm still an immature wimp.
Most men, and I say most because I'm sure there are exceptions, couldn't care less where they poop. If they gotta go, they go. They may get embarrassed but if they are, they just cover well by making jokes "better light a match, ha ha ha"etc. Which, by the way, doesn't work...it only leaves an unpleasant sulfur smell on top of the poop smell. So please don't think, if the bathroom lacks air freshener, lighting a match will do any good. Everyone will just know you tried to cover the poop smell with a match.
There is, however, a new wonderfully fabulous product called Poo-Pourre. You spray it in the toilet before you poop and it magically eliminates the poop smell. And, unfortunately for OF since she didn't have one, comes with a handy purse sized sprayer...which I will now carry with me wherever I go in case I'm forced to be a Sneak-a-pooper.
I try to get The Husband to spray before he poops. So far, no luck. He doesn't even think of it. He comes out of the bathroom and the whole house (which is really tiny) stinks to high heaven.
"I put that Poo-Pourre on the window sill right by the toilet so that you'd use it" I tell him in between gag reflexes.
This is his reply..."Well, don'tcha want to know when I've been there???"...Um, no, not really...it's such a guy remark...and it's the stoopidist thing...
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