Manifest Green

TMI Thursday: When Friends Share EVERYTHING!

As That Special Little Twinkle In Our Eye, Lilu says:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

 

Ok, because, once again, I have not done a TMI Thursday in a while I decided to go outside of the "Lilu Group" and have someone else write a TMI!  Exciting, no?

 

So I present you with Danish Muffin (I iz suddenly hongries for pastries!), a sweety that is overseas playing Soldier.  So when you read this you can silently thank him for being over there drinking Coke LIGHT while you pour more Jack into your DIET Coke.

 Here is his story:

So in the truest form of too much information, I would like to express a short coming of age tale that hopefully will make you laugh and in the end, reflect back to your own life for inspiration and good times, as well as overcoming small hurdles that make you a better person. This story is one that I can honestly say, was the truest form of me expressing my duties and loyalty to upholding "Man Law" in it's purest form. You may find this selfless act of manism under chapter 3 section 2.5a in the Man-Law handbook, this section is formidably known as the "bros before hos" act.
Years ago, I moved in with my mother in Cheyenne, Wyoming from Southern California, having a strict father, I was forced to be that kid in school with the over sized backpack, parted hair, tear drop bifocal glasses, shorts above the knee, no car, no real girlfriend, high tops and was only allowed to skateboard if I was wearing my knee and elbow pads and helmet. Truth be told, I know it's hard for most people to fathom, but I was the dorky kid in high school. So I moved to Wyoming where most people have never heard of the sun, let alone someone that is from a state full of it. I'm not sure if it was my tan or what, but I untucked the shirt, spiked my hair and all the sudden, I had girls swooning. So I started dating one of them and we were hot and heavy for about 8 months.
During this time, I started meeting some cool people, playing guitar in bands, working at subway. I even got one of my best friends, Kevin, to start working there with me. Often times, Kevin and I would hang out in the back of subway skateboarding or just generally doing nothing that we were supposed to be doing. When all of the sudden, the manager installed a closed circuit security camera system. so we thought it would be funny to play to the camera as often as possible. We tried re-enacting the civil war, fighting with loafs of bread and olives (what can I say, it's a small town and there are 5 subways, we weren't always the busiest) So one day Kevin and I were on the closing shift at Subway and my girlfriend of 8 months walks into the store during a slow time where no one was coming in and says to me the lines EVERY guy hates hearing, "We need to talk!"
So my heart rate starts to beat faster, my palms get sweaty, I start going over in my mind how I'm going to explain whatever I did wrong. Honestly, I was thinking about all the bad shit that might have happened at the time and how I was going to deny everything (as told in chapter 8 in the "Man-Law" handbook for emergency situations). So I tell Kevin that I am going to go talk to my girlfriend and if he can watch the front, he say that's fine and she stops and says, "no, I need to talk to Kevin too, he should hear this as well." So now I'm feeling fairly confused. So I went with it thinking, oh man, maybe she wants to tell us something totally cool! And then the girlfriend spoke these fateful words, "I have Chlamydia!"
Now, a lot goes through a man's mind when a girl tells him this, like, how did you get it? does this mean we're breaking up? what are some steps you're going to take to fix this? why are you telling me in front of Kevin?
Well, the answers to that were talked about in the conversation that I had with her later that night. The story goes like this, "blah blah blah, I'm fucking Kevin and all the guys in your band, blah blah blah, I'm a dirty tramp!" So she leaves and I am stuck still working with my bro all night and we talk about how it happened and so on and so forth. I was pretty pissed at him, but he only did one offense, she did like 80. So from there I told Kevin, hey man, we need to go get tested, he agreed and we picked a time to go down to the free health clinic to get tested.
Getting rodded is one of the most excruciatingly painful ordeals a man can go through in his life. Having a metal rod with a Q-tip end shoved up your pee-hole the length or you penis is not my idea of a great time. I know anyone out there reading this right now that has had it can sympathize. I was rodded and released, then it was Kevin's turn, he comes out 30 minutes later looking like he's in excruciating pain. I asked him what happened and he said that after he was rodded, the nurse was trying to put the Q-tip in the bag and accidentally dropped it on the floor, so she had to do it twice. I have never laughed so hard in my life and thus started believing and understanding the true meaning of Karma and the "what goes around, comes around" theory.
I broke up with that girl immediately after that night and forgave Kevin because I would rather have my friend around than a cheating hoochie. We never spoke of it again, our results showed up to a friend's mom's house a few weeks later, we were both given a bill of clean health which we celebrated by eating Subway sandwiches.
Years later, Kevin passed away from an overdose, I hadn't been in town for about 5 years and had been pretty distant from everyone in Wyoming, So I went back for his funeral and at the reception, people were all telling stories about how amazing Kevin was and how awesome he has been. I proceeded to tell this story that you just heard. I was a bit tipsy and forgot that his parents were there as well as his grandparents and all his friends, however, afterwards, his mother came up to me and said, Dane, feel free to never tell that story again. He was a good boy and is gone now, no one needs to hear about made up stories just because you and him stopped talking.
So here I am telling you a few lessons learned,
1. Don't ever try to tell stories involving your penis at your good friends funeral reception
2. Always follow Man-Law, it was put into effect for a reason
3. Bros before Hos
4. understand that at times, people make mistakes, nobody is perfect, forgiving is one of the greatest things a person can do, accept the things you cannot change.

TMI THURSDAY: Who want's a ride on the poo train?

 

Just as Concubine Lilu reminds us:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

Ok, so I haven’t written a TMI in a while, but it was lack of finding anything TMI-ey.  BUT…I though of something that I figured ya’ll’d wanna know about.  So, here it goes.

Years ago I thought I was super cool because I went to France.  Without my parents.  Me=cool, right?  Right, so anyway.

During one part of the trip I was on an eight hour train ride from somewhere to somewhere (the details of Point A to Point B escape me, but that isn’t important anyway).  The train was going to be making less than five minute stops at stations between the towns (villages, perhaps?) and it never dawned on me beforehand not to drink so much water/Orangina/tiny bottles of Coke/etc.  So at some point I had to pee something fierce, like Tyra Banks-fierce.  So, I totter my way to the next car (frightening) and wait outside of the restroom for someone to come out.  Now, you don’t really realize how much a train sways at fast speeds until you are standing up with a full bladder, doing the pee pee dance in front of a bunch of strangers. 

Finally, the little old lady opened the door and exited the restroom.  I opened the door.  I saw something similar to this:

…except on a train.

There was poop on the floor.  In a pile.  There was no toilet paper.  Puddles that I can only assume was urine all over.  And the odor.  Oh lordy, the odor.  I seriously felt bad for that little old lady for being in there as long as she was until the thought that perhaps she had made the mess crossed my mind.

So, let’s review:  full bladder+swaying train+nasty ass restroom=FUCK NO, I WIL TOTALLY HOLD IT THE NEXT FIVE HOURS UNTIL I CAN FIND SOMEWHERE CLEAN!!!!!!

And that’s just what I did.  I know, I know.  You were totally expecting to read that I went in there, peed, and while peeing the train swayed hard and I fell over from my squat and pissed all over myself, right?

Tough shit.  It didn’t happen that way.  Actually, what happened I think is totally worse.

So about a week later it was time to go home.  Goodbye France *waves emphatically*

I get home and a couple of days later I notice that I am peeing what seems like every 3 seconds.  I go to the doctor.  He diagnoses me with overactive bladder syndrome.  Bull.  Shit.

I take these terrible little pills that make me quit peeing, dry out my mouth, I drink more water, nothing comes out.  And when I did pee it was purple.  No joke.  Purple pee. 

After a week of that I decide I don’t need no stinkin’ pee pills and stop taking them.  That’s when something worse happened. 

I got a pain.  A horrible, excruciating pain.  It felt like that fires of hell were in my belly.  I tried to hold in my pee because the pain was so bad I would sit on the toilet sobbing and snotting on myself.  I started filling the bathtub with an inch of cold water before I would go to the bathroom so that I could hop from the toilet in pain and have my ‘gina soothed with the nice cool water.

And then I noticed what my pee looked like.

I peed something that looked vaguely like this:

Yeah.  Like a nice brandy.  Or Jim Beam Black.  Or a flat Pepsi.  Or pancake syrup.  Just not as thick.

Soooooooo…I go back to the doctor (not the same one.  A totally different doctor).  SHE informs me that I have a severe bladder infection and why didn’t I get it taken care of sooner?  Well, I did but it wasn’t a bladder infection at the time. 

I was immediately injected with something I assume was an antibiotic and given a shit ton of meds to take.

Now, what was today’s lesson? 

‘Tis better to piss on yourself and roll around in someone else’s poop rather than getting a bladder infection.

The end.

TMI THURSDAY: What evil little girls do

As the Queen Bee of Lipstick BeeJays, Lilu says: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

I am pretty sure everyone has something mean that they have done in their past that they should feel ashamed for doing, but they actually don’t.  I mean, I only have one (snarf) and I have decided to share this with you.  I was actually planning on doing this last week, but things came up and I didn’t.  So I am sharing it with you this week! 

I am sure the suspense is just killing you.

And just to add a disclaimer:  I was young and stupid and would totally never do anything this mean to anyone ever again. 

Yes, my fingers were crossed behind my back as I typed that.

One chilly Fall evening I was visiting some friends that lived just North of Atlanta.  They had just married and moved into a new home.  I had been invited over to see their house and hang out, have fun and whatnots.  The evening was getting on pretty well, and the three of us-myself, Gennifer and Chris-were having little drinky-poos, listening to music and talking.  At some point the conversation turned to their honeymoon and Genn started talking about this man-thong that Chris had and that we should totally make him give us a dance in this thong (I know!  What the hell was wrong with us?  Oh, margaritas..that’s right).  I cannot for the life of me remember how we managed to talk him into this, but he ended up climbing on top of the coffee table and doing a strip tease for us, down to this man-thong.  Genn and I were hooting and hollering at him, clapping and cheering.  I can’t remember the song.  Hmmm…anyhoo, his face was bright fucking red.  Like a ripe strawberry red.  But he kept dancing.  I think we may have thrown dollar bills at him.

But that isn’t the worst of it.

The worst part was what we forced him to do next.  I don't remember how we managed to talk him into it, but it was kinda mean (yet funny).  See, the neighborhood they moved to was very quiet, very nice, kinda old.  It had a four way stop a half mile one way and another four way stop a half mile the other way from their house.  And remember how I mentioned it was chilly and Fall?  Well, somehow we convinced Chris to walk down to one of the stop signs.  Naked.  Except for his running shoes.  In the cold.  And we followed him the whole way, giggling and laughing and picking on him.  We even threatened, once to the stop sign, to make him walk back without his shoes so that he would be completely naked. 

Why would he let us do this?

Did I mention Chris is a lawyer?  He knew better!

Man, what would have happened if we had been caught by the police? 

Oh!  And Happy October!

So yeah, I kinda feel bad about it.  But seriously, that was some funny shit.

TMI Thursday: Because Touching Someone Else's Isn't Bad Enough

Just like Frau Lilu likes to suggest:

 ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

I am actually enjoying using the Comic Sans for these stories that I have others write for me.  This week I would like to introduce my husband, Brett, and his double disgusting TMI that he lovingly wrote for you!  Enjoy!

It was the summer of 1993.  I was 17 years old and had just graduated from high school.  It was still a couple of months until I started college and seeing as how I was still living with the folks, I had next to no responsibility. 
My home during high school was in a suburb of a suburb of Atlanta but when I was in 6th and 7th grade, I lived in a small rental house with my parents while our house was being built.  During those two years I became good friends with a guy that lived down the street named Ted.  Even after I moved out of that house, we kept in touch and hung out frequently over the years.  We usually kept things relatively tame but that fateful night in 1993, things got a little out of hand.

The evening started out innocently enough.  Ted, myself and another friend of his (Matt) were going to make a trip to an indoor paintball place nearby for some fun.  Paintball was fun-  I shot some folks, I got shot, I made a kid cry. You know...nothing out of the ordinary.  On the way home from the paintball place, Matt revealed that his parents were out of town and that it would be cool if we crashed at his place.  To make things more interesting, he said that his sister would probably be willing to go to the liquor store and buy us some booze if we paid for her to have some for herself.  Now, you have to keep in mind that we were not exactly what you'd call party animals so the idea of getting drunk was pretty novel at the time. 

We made the necessary calls to our parents letting them know where we were and what we were doing (playing video games).  When we arrived at Matt's house, his older sister agreed to our proposal and we all piled in the car to head to the store.  With all of us being new to the world of alcohol, we agreed to keep it simple and get a bottle of rum with which to make rum and cokes.  The buy went off without a hitch and before we knew it, we were sitting on the floor of Matt's kitchen taking our first swigs of the liquid.

Up until this point in my life, I had never had much experience with alcohol with the only exceptions being the occasional beer or glass of champagne given to me by my parents.  My limited experience had left me with no real concept of what "drunk" felt like.  I had had a few drinks here and there and never felt anything at all so my logic was that I must have a pretty good tolerance. 

 Well... I was wrong.

We started off with just drinking rum and cokes and things were going well.  At some point early in the night one of us (I think Matt) suggested that we play a drinking game called Chandeliers.  If you've never played, its a version of quarters.

This is where the story really takes a turn for the worse. 

I don't know if we made it through more than a couple of rounds of the game when we ran out of Coke so we decided to just drink the rum straight.  At this point, we were all feeling pretty good and saw no harm in just drinking shots.  After another couple of rounds, our fifth was empty.  Not taking this as a good sign to stop, Matt pointed out that his parents had a bottle of rum in their liquor cabinet and that we should just drink that one too.  Hot damn, that sounded great!

This is where things start getting a little fuzzy in my memory.  I know that Matt and Ted stopped drinking at some point and were sitting in the living room while I was turning the bottle of rum up and thinking about how pretty the bubbles were as they went up into the bottle as I chugged.  I believe that we eventually killed that bottle as well and to be perfectly honest, that is probably the only reason that none of us ended up at the hospital that night getting our stomach pumped.

I joined Ted and Matt in the living room to talk about girls and sports and how awesome we were.  I remember that Ted was the first one to let it go. 
"Sblrrrghs... I dunghs feelghl goooood"

And with that, he staggered to the kitchen and puked in the sink.  Kudos to Ted for actually making it to a quasi-appropriate spot to spew.  Unfortunately, Ted had puked into the side of the kitchen sink that did not have the disposal in it, so it clogged the drain and just kind of sat there.  Matt and I suggested (from the living room) that Ted try to just run water down the sink to unclog the drain.  It sounded like a great idea at the time but the only thing it accomplished was turning a small puddle of vomit into a couple of gallons of watery vileness that smelled like death.  Well, Ted really had no idea about how to go about unclogging the drain so I decided to step in.  You might think that I would grab a long spoon or a spatula or a knife to kind of stir things up and let the goo drain but you would be wrong.  I just stuck my arm into the muck and removed the clog.  Believe it or not, this didn't gross me out in the least at the time, though it makes me a little queasy as I think about it now.  Matt, unfortunately, was not as fortunate.  He bolted for the bathroom and made it just in time to hurl in the toilet.  Double kudos Matt!  You got your sick into the perfect receptacle! 

I had a good chuckle at poor Ted and Matt as I rinsed the last of Ted's vomit off of my arm.  I'm sure that I was talking a healthy amount of trash about them not being able to hold their liquor.  I had no idea that karma was working very quickly that night.

I am not sure what happened in the meantime but my next memory is me sitting on the middle of the floor in the living room while Ted and Matt sat on the couch.  Man... something was wrong in my stomach and the only solution was to empty the contents.  Quickly.

I could barely control my actions... I know that I was drooling a bit and I was pawing for the trashcan as Ted and Matt tried to drunkenly kick it towards me without puking themselves again.  I grabbed the trashcan, wrapped my arms and legs around it, held on tightly. And stared down into the darkness inside. It was at this time that I had the conversation that anyone who has ever had too much to drink has:

"God!  Please... Never again.... Please Please Please God make this go away and I will never drin...mmmmphsghphlurrrgh!"

And with that, I heaved and my stomach expelled its contents with such force that my head was being pushed backwards like it was the nozzle of a fire hose...but I was determined to keep my head inside the safe confines of that bucket.  Unfortunately... and unbeknownst to me (at least for another split second) my body had failed to remain sitting upright and I was falling over backwards...face in bucket...vomit coating the insides like putrid stucco. 

BANG! 

My head found the sliding glass door behind me.  It didn't give and I slid to my left....onto my back...face still in the bucket...still puking...

I'm sure that you realize that gravity was indeed still in effect that night and there was only one way for the vomit to go.  Down.  On my face. 

 Unfortunately, I remember details about this moment.  The warmth of the stomach juices as they coated my cheeks.  The way things sounded differently as my ears were filling.  The tickle of juices dripping down the back of my neck.  The way my nose filled with liquid and chunks of Arby's roast beef.
Blacking out at that time was very fortunate for me.  I woke up the next day laying in a Lazyboy recliner with no idea (to this day) of how I got there.  The scene surrounding me was horrifying.  Puke covered the entire floor of the living room.  The plush carpet, soaked with foul smelling chum.
The rest of the day wasn't nearly as traumatic as the previous night.  I somehow managed to crawl into the shower and wash off the filth before driving to Wal-Mart and purchasing every cleaning supply known to man with which I somehow restored that room to its previous condition.

I was banished from Matt's house by his sister, never to return.

I was hung over for the better part of 3 days.

I didn't drink for 2 years afterwards.

Isn't that just appetizing?
Matt's parents never knew.

TMI Thursday presents: I Could Have Had A Famous Stepdaddy (Had He Not Been Married Already, That Is)

Just like Schoolmarm Lilu likes to suggest:

 ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

Ok, this isn't a gross TMI about vomit or poo or anything like that.  This is the story about how I could have had a famous stepdaddy!  Well, not really, because the celebrity in question has been married to the same woman since 1950, but the story is humorous.  I really wish I could find what I did with the second photo, but after you read the story you will see a photo explaining who it is and whatnot.  So yeah.

I'm gonna begin this by asking you a question:  do you ever feel that there are some things that your parents say, or stories they tell, that you just really don't want to know about?  But when they don't tell you you wonder and then you just get really creeped out?  Well, this is one of those stories.  It is told by my mother.  And, because if you read this then you already know what kind of storyteller she is.  You will be saying, "tell me more!" but I think this is more than enough.

So, submitted for your enjoyment, TMI Thursday presents:  I Could Have Had A Famous Stepdaddy (Had He Not Been Married Already, That Is) *notice how I make her story Comic Sans, also!: 

So, you want to know the story behind the photo of me and a celebrity so very long ago . . . so be it! I won't tell you the whole story because . . . "you know!" Well, so there was a photo shoot where I worked for the government, and my boss (the colonel) was going to be out of town that day. He said to me before he left, "Gin, BE GOOD while he's here." So, I was way beyond knowing what he meant, but I knew I'd be good no matter what! So, here is the photo shoot going on, and I was being good just working and ignoring the fact that everyone else in the building and hangar were weighting the building to tilt to one side while I, as the lightweight, was working hard at my desk on the other end of the building. Well! So, somehow the folks I work with figured I was the one to approach to get autographs from the celebrity, so I tried to accommodate them. The celebrity was still in the cockpit when I went down to the tarmac with a pad of paper with various names at the tops of various pages. The guy who was sitting on the tailgate of the station wagon seemed to be somewhat in charge, so I approached him . . . pointing at the many faces plastered to the windows of my building. He told me to sit with him and that the celebrity would give me the autographs. Funny, I didn't have a page for me! Oh,well! It didn't occur to me. Anyway, the celebrity finally descended the stairs from the cockpit and said, "I want a fucking cigarette." I jumped down from the tailgate and said, "You can't smoke on the tarmac." I led him into the hangar area where there was an ashtray on the wall just inside the door. So, then, an airplane maintenance guy came out with a camera to take a photo. I told the celebrity about what my boss had said about being "good" while he was there and would he like to sit in my bosses chair. So, the 3 of us went upstairs where I found myself sitting on the celebrity's lap with the maintenance guy taking a photo. I was saying to the cameraman, "Make sure Col. So-and-So gets a shot of this." Well, the other photo is my being kissed by the celebrity. So . . . he asked me to meet him later at the Officer's Club. I called my friend, a female noncom, and asked if she wanted his cigarette that he'd put out in the ashtray on my desk. She did, so I wrapped it up in a Kleenex. She went with me to meet this guy at the Officer's Club, but she was SCARED because she was noncom.  So, I went there with my noncom friend, who left before I did, from the dinner we had, after I danced with the celebrity and he treated me to Black Russians! . . . Oh, WAIT, I introduced him to my Col. who said to him as he shook his hand . . . "I understand you sat in my plane . . . I understand you sat in my office . . . I understand that my secretary sat on your lap . . . I want to know how you did it!" Well, wish I had men wanting me to sit on their laps now . . . oh well. I won't tell any more stories about what happened after that little bit of info I've given . . .it was quite interesting, though. Ah, the good memories . . . ah . . . so, well here we are in the present . . . wish I were so beguiling now! Maybe someday I'll tell you "the rest of the story," Stephanie. Hold your breath! I'm not sure you can take it! It was, oh, never mind!

 

My Mother with Peter Graves circa 1981

So, there you go.  It was Peter Graves.  Yes, the colonel from 7th Heaven and such films as Airplane! and Airplane II: The Sequel.  Yeah, that Peter Graves.  I really, really wish I could find the kissing picture, but I don't know what I possible could have done with it.  It's probably in my closet somewhere.  

I promise to give you more of a TMI next Thursday!

TMI Thursday: Who Wants To Do Lunch?

As the Teacher You Wish Had Made You Stay After Class, Lilu says, 

 ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

 

So I have this friend who is one of the greatest story tellers of all time.  To watch him tell a story is a thing of magic.  No freaking joke.  So I had heard this story a year or so ago and I politely requested that he send it to me to post for TMI.  And he did!  OMG, excited so much I nearly pissed myself. 

So, I present you with Mr. Mike Chvasta of the super famous Light Pupil Dilate and the soon to be famous Cowboy Jammies with his true (yet disgusting) tale of.....LUNCH! 

I posted it in Comic Sans to further your enjoyment:

"So my friend’s girlfriend, who’s been w/ the Atlanta Police Dept for years, told me this story. Basically, some folks witnessed this suit with a briefcase going into an abandoned building repeatedly over a course of days or weeks or something. It aroused enough suspicion for the locals to call cops. The cops watched him go in and gave him a few minutes, suspecting the business douche was buying coke, fucking boys like Michael Jackson, listening to alt country, or something ungly like that. They walked in and to the cops surprise, he was sitting with his briefcase open, eating a sandwich. A SHIT SANDWICH. The dude was a coprofiliac getting has daily dose of poo casserole. He was too embarrassed to sit and eat his turds in public. Good fuckin’ times.

She also mentioned this was more common than one would imagine. She said she had busted into many criminals houses that had SHIT ROOMS, where literally, the whole room was full of shit. Like “Here’s my bedroom, with master bath, here’s the guest room, kitchen, and don’t mind the smell at the end of the hallway, that’s just my SHIT ROOM WHERE I MAKE MY FRIENDS SHIT ON THE FLOOR SO I CAN CUM BY SMELLING DOODY”.

Go Atlanta. "

Yes.

Go Atlanta.

Happy TMI!

 

TMI Thursday: Green Eggs and Ham? I don't think so!

Once again, as "Rocket Scientist By Day, Dirty Libriarian By Night", Lilu says

 ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

Does anyone else remember those little juice containers that were shaped like barrels and had a round piece of foil over the top that you had to peel back?  And the flavors were red, orange and purple (‘cause they tasted like the colors, not any flavor, yo)?  And they couldn’t have possibly been good for kids, but they were cheap so parents bought them anyway?  Well, this story isn’t about that, but it plays a roll in it.

I can remember clearly what I had for lunch that day.  In case you didn’t know, I have a super awesome memory.  Ask Cat.  Seriously, I remember more about my childhood than other people remember.  Anyhoo, what I had for lunch that day was a bologna and American cheese sandwich on wheat bread (my mom never bought white bread), a granola bar, an apple, a hard boiled egg and one of those barrel drinks, red flavored.

My best friend (in elementary school, at least), Robin, and I were sitting on the benches right outside the cafeteria away from everyone else because we were cool like that (actually, we weren’t cool at all, seeing as I had on my sweater with and elephant head whose trunk ran down and arm and Robin was wearing a dress her mom made for her that was brown and green and reminiscent of Heidi).  Anyhoo, we ate our lunch and then went to play on the playground.  And all was well. 

Let me set this up for you now, now that you know a slight back story.

The year was 1984.  Winter of 1984 (well, kinda…Long Beach, California doesn’t exactly have a winter, but it was the time of year and I was wearing that stupid sweater so it might have dipped into the lower 70’s that day).  The place was the last row to the right, third desk back in Mrs. van der Moore’s third grade classroom.  In front of me was Eddie.  In back of me was Veronica (who I hated because she got to be one of the Cinderella’s in our Girl Scout troop's  play…but she was ugly and a bitch and I had to be Gus, the fat mouse and I hated that she got…wait, sorry…I got off track here).  It was nearing the end of the day, like maybe 15-20 minutes left of class. 

And I suddenly was not feeling well at all.  At all, at all.  And I raided my hand to let Mrs. Bitch van der Moore know I wasn’t feeling well.  She ignored me.  So I started shaking my hand around in the air.  You know what I’m talking about.  Flinging the old hand all over the place.  She still ignored.  I kept my hand up there.  I did the arm hold move where you place your opposite elbow on the desk and use that hand to prop your tired arm in the air.  She still ignored me.

So I talked out of turn.  I said, “Mrs. van der Moore, I don’t feel well!”.  And she turned around and glared at me.  GLARED at me. 

“Can I please go to the bathroom?  I don’t feel well.”

“No.”

So there I was.  I wasn’t feeling well.  And I knew something was going to happen.  Something bad.  So I raised my hand again.

And as I opened my mouth to tell her again that I didn’t feel well, it happened.  I threw up all over the fucking floor.  And it splattered.  Red.  Bright, fake red juice with chunks of bologna and American cheese.  Chunks of apple.  And dyed-red chunks of HARD BOILED EGG. 

And that bitch of a teacher just stood there for a moment, speechless.  Eddie, my savior, ran out of the room and down the hall to get my mom, who walked up to the school everyday to walk home with me.  Robin jumped up and came to semi-comfort me.  And that stupid teacher just started fuming.  Fuming!

When my mom came running into the room and saw me sitting there, in my stupid elephant sweater, sobbing and thoroughly embarrassed, the bitch teacher came running up and pretended to be worried.

“Stephanie, oh Stephanie, what happened, sugar (my mom was born and raised in  Tennessee…sugar is everyone’s name)?”, my mommy asked.

“I didn’t feel well and then I threw up!” I sobbed.

“Well, next time you need to let your teacher know so that you can go to the restroom, ok?” my mother said gently whilst hugging me.

“I did, mommy, and she said no and I tried to tell her over and over again but she didn’t call on me!” I sob.

My mom looks up at Mrs. van der Moore.

“She didn’t let me know at all”, the cunt says.

“Yah huh…she did raiser her and hand ask and she said no”, pipes in Eddie.

“Yeah, we heard her”, says Robin.

To which my mother gives Mrs. van der Moore a hard look.

Guess which teacher was in the principal’s office the next day for a principal/teacher/parent conference?

TMI Thursday: It was the 80's!

Just as Madame "I would do the dirty work, if only I wasn't the Madame!" Lilu orders:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

The only thing you need to know about this is:

1.  It was the 80's

2.  It was my first ever dance

3.  Yes, those are braces

4.  I hated the dress, but my mom made me wear it

5.  The dress was a hand me down from the daughter of a friend of my mom

6.  I hated the shoes more

7.  The only song I danced to in this dress was "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" by Poison

8.  I did my hair myself

9.  The guy I danced with was named Justin and he thought we were going steady after the song

10.  When I told him I didn't want to go steady with him he called me fat and ugly

So, enjoy!

 

So looking at the picture I have a few questions for 12 year old self:

1.  What was the hand stamp for?  Was I at a bar the night before or something?

2.  What the hell possessed me to do my hair like that?

3.  Why do I look high?

4.  What's up with the gourds my parents had on the fireplace?

Happy TMI Thursday!

TMI Thursday: At Least I Didn't Drown

The Last Virgin On Earth, Lilu says: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***

Ok, people.  I have actually told this story to several people over the past couple of weeks.  I guess it’s time to share it with you!

It is summertime in Atlanta.  This means it is hot and sticky and sometimes unbearable.  We do not have a body of water nearby, unless you count Lake Clara Meer, which there is no way in hell I consider it a place to play and cool off.  I wouldn’t dip a dead crack head prostitute’s big, fungusy toe in the water there (let alone fish!  EWWWW!).  So, yeah.  Unless you wanna travel for a ways (see:  my day trip to Tybee) you would hafta go to the water park, which does have the Atlanta Beach…which isn’t a beach.

Ok, so yeah.  This is a story about a long, long time ago and the water park.

You ready?  Here we go:

A long time ago I went to the water park, White Water.  I think this was the first time I had ever been to this particular water park, so I was pretty excited.  I cannot remember who I went with, though.  Hmm….they must not have been very important to this story.  Well, it doesn’t involve them at all, actually.  Anyway, I was soooo excited.  I went out and bought a new bikini and all that jazz.  I packed a little bag containing suntan oil (no SPF) and a towel (that I didn’t actually ever use) and some money to get into the park and then rent a little locker to put said towel, oil and money into.  For some reason I think I had bought one of those waterproof disposable cameras, also, but if I did I musta lost it because I don’t have the pictures from that day.  Which is fine.  The memory is enough for me.

Ok, so I tried all sorts of rides.  I did the lazy tubing river thingy around the park.  I did the little two person raft rides down the tubes.  I played on the “beach”.  I had a lot of fun!  But the ride I really wanted to try, the one that looked the most fun, the most daring, the one calling my name…well it was staring down at me, just waiting.  And I decided to go for it.  Whoever I was with said that there was no way in hell they were going to get on it.  So we made an agreement to meet up at another ride after I was done.  With.  The.  Dragon's Tail. 

Let me tell you about this ride:  it’s fast.  It has three bumps in it.  And it’s long.  And it drops you into a fairly deep (not really deep, but at this time it seemed really freaking deep) pool at the end of the line.  No rafts are involved.  The way it works is you trudge up to the top, wait your turn, then climb up on the slide and sit down.  The dood at the top of the slide gives you the instructions to keep your legs straight forward, cross your arms over your chest like you’re dead and then wait for the go ahead.  So, I get the go ahead.  And I start to go down the slide.  And it is not comfortable at all.  In fact, the bump parts are slightly painful on the back.  But that wasn’t what was wrong.  About halfway down I realized that something was VERY WRONG.  And there wasn’t anything at all I could do about it.  Yet. 

**commercial break**

Ok, so there I was, going down the slide and knowing something was wrong.  And then the ride was over.  I was in the pool.  I had another dood at the end of the pool waving for me to hurry up and get out of the way of the bottom of the slide and hurry up and get out.  But I wasn’t moving fast.  And there was no way in hell I was going to be getting out of the pool at that moment.  Oh, no.  I had to take care of something first.  I know, I know.  You are probably thinking, “oh, did your top come off?”  The answer is no, the top was still intact.  What had happened was the speed I was going down the slide, mixed with the rushing water, had caused a massive wedgie.  But that wasn’t all.  It also caused a massive melvin. 

Melvin?  What’s a melvin, you ask?  Well, let me tell you:

A melvin is when you get a front wedgie.  You know, a wedgie that nudges itself uncomfortably between your labia majora.  And in my case, between the labia majora AND the labia minora.

So in essence I had what I would like to call a “meldgie”.  And it wasn’t cool.  And I couldn’t, I just couldn’t get out of the pool like that.  So I am trying to swim to the edge.  And pick this spandex underwear outta my private lady bizniz while a bunch of people are standing along the edge of the pool.  Ho-my-god-it-hurt. 

And the worst part is that some people did see.  I mean, how in the hell can they not?  I was thrashing around in the water, with my hands down the front of my bikini bottoms, looking like I was totally trying to get myself off. 

I am totally afraid to go back to that water park. 

But at least I didn't drown.  Or get e.coli.

TMI Thursdays: Where are you from?

 

 Mistress of Tabasco, Lilu says:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, "how many readers can I estrange THIS week??" TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else's!***

And in case you missed her war paint story from last week, you can totally click HERE!  and read it.  For her vlog this week that'l make your eyes water go HERE! HERE! HERE!  Cheers! 

Ok, this snippet comes to you via my desire to amuse people and failing miserably.

Last December my boss decided that since all of her salons were doing so well she and her husband were going to take the managers on a cruise to Cozumel, by way of Mobile, Alabamer.  I had only worked for her at this point for 9 months ( how appropriate for the story) so I didn’t really know the other managers well.  Oh, sure, we saw each other at meetings and during Children’s Miracle Network events, but I hadn’t really hung out with them.  I knew for a fact that I did not like one of them.  She was (is) one of those people that thinks she knows everything there is to know about hair(by the way, I am one of the most critical people ever…I do it to hide my insecurities….).  She was (is) also older, as in maybe 15-20 years older, than us other managers so that means (to her) that she is the all knowing of everything in the world!  The other manager was (is) pretty cool.  She has a ton of patience, but also a mouth that you don’t want in your direction if you piss her off.  I would talk about the fourth manager, but she didn’t go and I had never met her anyway, so she doesn’t matter.  What matters is that I was going to be stuck on a boat, in a room, with two people that I didn’t know that well and I was going to be forced to get along with them.  But the story of the cruise isn’t what’s important here.  The chit chatting on the first night is the most important part of my story.

You know how when you meet someone new, or when you come across someone that you have met but never really carried on a conversation, and you are forced into an awkward conversation about yourself and where you come from and your hobbies and whether or not you would totally get down and dirty with Andy Samberg?  Well, I got stuck in this conversation with my boss, her husband, and the other two managers.  Do I need to mention that all of us were already into our 3rd drink of the evening?  No?  Ok, I don’t think that matters, anyway.

Oh, I do need to mention that I have lived in several states during my lifetime:  Ohio, California, Tennessee (I think for a second or two when I was something like 2 years old), Colorado and Georgia.  This important for where this is going.

Ok, back to the story.  So there we are sitting outside, smoking like jailbirds, drinking frou-frou drinks and talking about the places we’ve been and the places we’ll go. 

And then this:

Boss lady:  “Say, didn’t you say you used to live in Virginia?”

Me:  “Uh, I guess kinda, in a way…”

Boss lady:  “What do you mean ‘kinda’?”

Me:  “Well, my mom’s name is Virginia”

::crickets:: (actually, I guess I should say ocean breeze and water lapping off the side of the boat…crickets in the middle of the Gulf would be pretty fucked up)

And that is how I singlehandedly stopped a conversation on the high seas and cause discomfort in my peers. 

Guess What Time It Is? It's Time For TMI THURSDAY!

Queenie Lilu says:

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, "how many readers can I estrange THIS week??" TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else's!***

Oh, the grossities and nastiness.  I can’t top Lilu's frightening allegory.  Oh, no.  Not at all.  But I will tell me tale regardless. 

This is the story of why I quit drinking cream and sugar in my coffee.  Just thinking about this makes me gag.  *shudder*

Back in high school there weren’t a whole bunch of places to hang out during the non-school hours.  The choices were Arby’s, Classic Cue (guess what kinda place that is!), McDonald’s, the probation officer’s office, or your/someone else’s home.  That town had nothing going on.  I mean, everyone went to Shoney’s on Saturday mornings for breakfast because there was nowhere else.  Anyway, at some point the fashionable art of drinking coffee finally visited our podunk town and it became super chic even before Majorbucks settled there.  So the places to go and drink the stuff and act all grownup was limited to Waffle House or Dunkin Donuts.  The former being where this revolting relation is set.  So, onward!

Setting:  a booth by the window in Waffle House late at night, about 11 p.m. or so.

Players:  myself and a couple of other people, but I honestly can’t remember who they were, just the incident itself.

And….Action!:  I remember I ordered hash browns (in the ring, the same way I always order them) and some raisin toast (lots of butter)  and grits (cheese, please!) and coffee (‘cause it’s cool, yo).  And the coffee was delivered.  At this point the idea of coffee was a somewhat foreign concept to me.  I thought only adults drank it.  My mom told me that coffee and cigarettes would stunt my growth (she was waaaay right about the cigarettes).  So I just never drank it.  But now I was 17!  I was an adult, dammit!  I could drink coffee!  But I didn’t have the first clue what to do with it.  So I watched my friends.  Sugar.  Cream.  Stir.  Done!  Easy enough.  So I put in a coupla packs of  sugar.  I poured in some cream.  I stir, stir, stir (something about the sound of the spoon clinking in the cup makes you feel soooo much more grown, OMG).  And I take a small sip.  Sweet, creamy goodness.  But hot.  Very hot.  Sip of water.  Ah, that feels nice.  Chat, chat, chat.  Stare out the window.  Feel coffee cup.  Feels a bit cooler.  Awesome.  Take sip of coffee.  Great!  Take swig of coffee.  Fantas…..what the fuck?  What is….WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??????  Spit coffee back into cup.  To this day I haven’t the faintest was it was.  But I will describe it.  Yes, yes I will.

Whatever “it” was I know it was slimy.  Gooey.  Gloppy.  And I could only figure it came from the cream.  I could only assume that maybe, perhaps, someone hocked a loogie in the cream.  It had a very loogie consistency.  AND IT HAD BEEN IN MY MOUTH!

I ran.  I ran so far away.  To the back of the diner and into the bathroom where I propelled barf (such a fantastic word!) in the toilet, on the toilet, around the toilet, possibly above the toilet (though I can’t make a promise that last one happened because, unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly taking the time to look up). 

Now I will still sometimes put cream and sugar in my coffee.  But I cannot ever, never, ever finish that cup.  I think back to that incident and start gagging and getting grossed out all over again.

I only thought about this today because I made Miz Catherine my “special” coffee (heavy whipping cream, brown sugar) this morning and made a cup for myself.  Gag.

Anyone want cream and sugar?

TMI Thursday-Read At Your Own Risk

As Queen Lilusays:

""Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, "how many readers can I estrange THIS week??" TMI story about your life. Or hell,bout someone else's!"

I am in no way, shape or form a good role model.  For anyone.  God forbid I ever have a daughter.  She will have one of the worst people to look up to.  Not saying I am a horrible person, just...well, lets just say I like my beer, my cigarettes (though I am attempting to quit those), covering my body with tattoos, and I have had, in the past, some questionable jobs.  But one of the biggest ongoing choices I make has to do with diets.  I have been on one diet after the other since I was 12 years old and my father's father (I don't call him Grandpa) told me I was disgustingly fat.  I think that day is one of the last that involved sitting at the table and eating with my family.  I pretty much went on a starvation diet after that, eating a Twix bar and  Dr. Pepper in the morning and that was all.  I was on track team, I played soccer, I took aerobics classes and ballet/tap/jazz classes.  I weighed maybe, MAYBE, 95 lbs in high school.  In fact, that's how much I weighed until I discovered beer and liquor.  Then I think I gained about 15 lbs, which, of course, made me unhappy. But since then (110 lbs) I have gained another 30 lbs, putting me in the proper weigh zone for my height, but also making me very, very unhappy.

I have tried all sorts of diets, along with my coworkers, including (but not limited to) the cabbage soup diet, the lemonade diet, Weight Watchers, Hydroxycut and alli.  And the last one, the alli, is where this story begins.

The way alli works is you take a pill with or within one hour of your three biggest meals.  You are limited to 13 grams of fat per meal.  The alli blocks something like a 1/4 of the fat from your food (I could be wrong about this fraction, but lets go with it for now) so that your body won't absorb it.  This causes slick poos.  Not like a horrible mess of a poo, just much, much easier to pass.  If, by some chance, you happen to eat more than 13 grams of fat in your meal then it creates what the makers of alli like to call "treatment effects" which is described as "oily or fatty stools" and what looks like "pizza oily" in the toilet.  And they aren't kidding.  I didn't want pizza for a while after these episodes.  I kinda don't want any for a while now, ew.

Anyway, if others out there are like me, then there is not such thing as limiting fat grams, period (hence the weight gain...or maybe its just because I became lazy, I dunno...).  But after the first day, nothing.  No treatment effects!  I figured that maybe it was absorbing all of the fat and I would be a size 0 in no time.  Oh, I was wrong.  I was so very wrong.

I started it the day before my next day off and in the end (ha!) it was a good idea.  The next morning I woke up, did my usual morning thing and guess what?  There was pizza oil involved.  But it got so much worse.  In fact, because I ate such fatty foods like hamburgers and pasta and all the day before, the pill had to work overtime and what it created can only be described as what looked like super dark green olive oil.  I wouldn't even let Brett see it, because it was so horribly abmormal.  The booklet didn't say anything about that!  So I started cramming myself with fruit and salad and pickles for the rest of the day.  I was satisfied that I had reversed everything, took my last pill for the day and went to bed.

Next morning, all was good.  Not horrible oil slicks or pizza oil.  Everything was normal.  So I go skipping off to work, confident that all is well.  And I was wrong.

The day went by, all nice how everyday should go, until around noon or so.  This is when I realized that something wasn't feeling right.  I went to the bathroom, figuring, you know, that maybe it was that "special girly time".  But what I found was so terrifying that I just kind of stood there and wondered what I was supposed to do.  The booklet tells women that they may want to wear a pantyliner in case of any oily spotting, but I had overcome that, right? (plus, I got to wondering, are the men folk supposed to wear pantyliners, too, or just Depends?)  Oh no, I had what people in the industry (remember WOW! Potato chips?) like to call "anal leakage" (stop reading here if you need to) and it was bad.  I didn't have gas, I guess it just slowly leaked out all day.  Man, I am thankful for wearing all black, everyday, to the salon.  This woulda been superfly embarassing had I been wearing khaki or white pants. 

Anyway, I cleaned myself up as best I could and kinda slinked out to my office.  My coworker was sitting at her station reading a magazine, but caught me looking around the corner.

Coworker-Why are you staring at me?
Me-(in a whisper) I think I need to go home for a few minutes....
Coworker-Um, ok...
Me-(in a whisper) I believe I am experiencing (makes the quoties with the fingers) "treatment effects"...
Coworker-What treatment effects?
Me-(totally not in a whisper anymore) it looks like a oil tanker carrying only pizza oil just sunk in my underwear!
Coworker-......
Me-I need to go home and wash up and change my clothes....you know, to get rid of the treatment effects from the alli...
Coworker-The alli?  Oh!  Oh!  Ewwwww!  Gross!  I am never taking that!  Oh my god!  Ew!  Go!

Yeah.

I called in another stylist to come in early.  The thought of this is totally turning my stomach right now.
Anyhoo, so yes.  After another day, I was fine.  I learned how to control the leakage, but then I was totally over eating bland fat free food.  So I stopped taking the alli.

Of course, a few months later I decided to try it again, bound and determined to do it right.
Guess what happened?  Yeah, that.  Again.

So the moral of the story?  Don't take alli.

I'm hungry!