For you, Roscoe.
Dear Young Teacher Down the Hall,
I saw you as you rushed past me in the lunch room. Urgent. In a hurry to catch a bite before the final bell would ring calling all the students back inside. I noticed that your eyes showed tension. There were faint creases in your forehead. And I asked you how your day was going and you sighed.
“Oh, fine,” you replied.
But I knew it was anything but fine. I noticed that the stress was getting to you. I could tell that the pressure was rising. And I looked at you and made an intentional decision to stop you right then and there. To ask you how things were really going. Was it that I saw in you a glimpse of myself that made me take the moment?
You told me how busy you were, how much there was to do…
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I had to visit the hospital for an ultrasound. Not pregnant, just had to get checked out. No biggie.
The pre-ultrasound directions required me to ingest several thousand gallons of water precisely one half hour before my scheduled “appointment time”. Dutifully, I complied.
My ultrasound was scheduled at the same hospital where “the incident” occurred last September (while I was sick, and AWOL from this blog. Sorry about that).
Last September, in a fever induced fit of rage, and unhappy with the quality of service I was receiving (from wherever I was, I wasn’t 100% on that) I yanked an IV out of my arm, (don’t try this at home) cursed at the Dr. (I wish I could remember what I said) and then did the Maggie Simpson (step step crash, step step crash) out to our blurry car, (luckily I found the right one) while my husband tried desperately to finish up the paperwork before I began to think about driving. Or flying.
Maybe they won’t recognize me.
It’s 3 degrees outside and 90 degrees in the hospital. I am sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee.
I smell and I have to pee. I present myself to outpatient services, say the secret word (my doctor said that if you say “diagnostic” with a wink and nod, they get you in faster… Although there is a good possibility that she was shitting me) and got my pretty bracelet. I settle in the waiting room, strip my clothes off, moist stinky layer by moist stinky layer, wring the sweat out, and begin to make camp. Who knows how long it’ll be.
Almost immediately they call my name. The voice sounds like a choir of angels:
I’m so surprised I almost piss myself.
I got up (checked the chair just in case) and tried desperately to disguise the pee pee dance I did back to the ultrasound room. Cha-cha-cha…
The tech is really nice. She understands my predicament and says she’ll work as quickly as possible so I can “relieve my discomfort promptly”.
She tells me to peel off the last of my stinky moist clothing and put this on:
Hmmmmm…. Is one of those holes for my head? I took a quick inventory:
I know for sure that I do not have three arms. It’s also unlikely that any of those holes are for my legs, as she called the thing a robe, and I’m reasonably sure that there are no robes with leg holes.
Time was ticking away. She’d be back soon, and if I didn’t put the thing on she’d walk in on me, still contemplating my hospital wear in the buff.
So I put my head in the middle hole, arms in the sides, and hoped for the best. As the seconds ticked by, I became more and more sure that I had made the wrong choice. The thing was like a python, cutting off my air flow a little more with every breath.
It was too late.
In comes the tech. I put on a confident smile in hopes that it will derail any questions she might have regarding my quiet gasping for air and the conscientious way I’m holding on to my robe.
She immediately directs my attention to the large sign on the wall that says:
We try again. Apparently that third hole is just there to see if you can follow directions.
I do not excel at following directions.
It was close, but I got it in the second half. The tech is nice enough not to mention my prior fumble.
While she squirts goo all over my naked torso, I tell her:
“Usually I charge extra for this”.
She laughs at my terrible joke.
She covers me so thoroughly in goo that I begin to wonder if she’s trying to reinsert my body into the Matrix.
I’m all sweaty in a puddle of goo, laying there doing a horizontal pee pee dance (cleverly disguised as coolly crossing and recrossing my legs), when she finally grabs her thingamabob and begins to swirl my goo sweat around. Once she seems satisfied with the consistency of my sweat goo and positive that I could not hold it any longer, she suddenly takes a southerly turn to my bladder and pushes.
There was a definite squirt.
I WASN’T READY. You can’t just shove somebody’s bladder around after they drank several thousand gallons of water with no warning.
She is a liar and I do not like her anymore. Plus, she laughs like spongebob squarepants.
There’s not much use making conversation after that. She does her thing. I lie in quiet humiliation (or as quiet as one gets while doing a horizontal pee pee dance.
It took 4 towels to wipe all the goo and sweat off when she was done.
At least I finally got to pee; where we all know a grown person ought to pee.
There were directions for the robe in the bathroom too.
This is a really important topic in my part of the world, and this is a very well written piece regarding the truth about our esteemed governor.
Every two years I turn into a sports enthusiast for exactly two weeks. It’s really a remarkable transformation, I go from 715 days of “couldn’t give one tiny mouse shit” to “watching curling at three in the morning in a state of agitation frightening to people who aren’t into watching sporting events.”
Of which I have seen very few.
Something about the Olympics gets me all up in a lather… And something about the commentators makes me think they might need a break, or a nappy or maybe just took one too many falls during their own athletic career.
Here are some of my favorite quotes so far.
1. Men’s figure skating:
“…Since he stuck it there, it must be nice to know he can come out and nail it.”
(But not in Sochi. They frown upon alternative lifestyles)
“…He’s the total package. He sticks it and he nails it. ”
(Mmmhmmm… I don’t know what’s going on there in Sochi, but I’m a nice girl and I don’t say dirty things like that.)
2. Men’s slopestyle snowboarding:
“…If he wants to win this, he’s going to have to stay on his board.”
(Sounds like somebody bailed on one too many backside buttslides and landed topside, if you know what I mean)
3. Women’s slope style snowboarding:
“…These Olympians have learned the skills that they need to know to be here.”
(With “Captain Obvious” so busy in Sochi, who is keeping the rest of the world safe from hard questions?)
4. Men’s alpine skiing:
“…it’s really important for them to keep their skis underneath them.”
(It’s true. I’ve seen what happens when they leave their skis back at the lodge. Not. Pretty.)
5. Pairs figure skating:
“…do you see how far he throws her? That’s why it’s important that she have a strong partner.”
(That is the physics of the thing, but what exactly are you saying?)
And now for something completely different…
First: My new favorite drinking game.
Every time the commentators say “Russian trampoline” I take a shot. Fun to play with friends or alone, agitated, at 3 in the morning.
Secondly, in the WTF portion of our list, some guy explaining
“Getting bucked around here, quiet head, not quite 90 degree cross, nice angles swinging those pole tips out.”
(It’s like he’s talking to me, I just know it. BUT WHAT IS HE SAYING?)
Lastly, in the category of shit that pisses me off:
Women in athletics have come a loooong way, but obviously not far enough, because this meat popcicle thinks THIS is appropriate and funny to say on national television .
I feel differently.
Men’s alpine skiing:
“…He said earlier in the week that he doesn’t EVEN belong on the WOMENS alpine team!” (laughter)
(You suck, and if I were allowed on the course, I’d stick my foot out and trip your sorry skis. Fuck you, and the alps you skied in on. )
Check for the next installment of “statements commentators maybe oughtn’t have said” coming soon. Maybe.
I just got her dressed,
The dog wanted k’s breakfast.
Peanut butter pants.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t this bad. But it sucked, and then it fucking sucked when I took her to preschool and they informed me that they would have to change her clothes entirely (including socks, I would come to find out) because washing peanut butter off of clothing is not good enough for kids with peanut allergies. She was a Walking. Time. Bomb.
Here are some things that no man has ever said to me:
- God DAMN my johnson is FREEZING! I wish I had a hot dog hugger.
- I have a million dollar idea. Can you knit?
- You know, underwear is okay… but what I really want rubbing up against my twig and berries is worsted weight yarn.
So maybe I don’t own a peeper of my very own, but marriage has taught me a few things about the standard sausage and it’s usage, so I feel confident when I say that there is not a single man on this planet that wouldn’t wear that thing as:
A. a mitten
C. Both, possibly on the same day, if they have do their own laundry.
Has your grandma has ever knit you a sweater? (full size, not a teeny one for your master of ceremonies… that would be another blog altogether…) then you know what cheap yarn feels like, and how it feels to sweat inside a cheap yarn shroud. It feels itchy; and I have never met a man that was tolerant of any sort of physical ailment. Every single one of them spends a week in bed (nursed by a woman) over a runny nose. Should the illness or injury (or uncomfortable itchiness) include his yogurt slinger, make it two weeks, and a trip to the emergency room.
Does it come in sizes? I would think for the sake of the manufacturer that they would make them all one size. Extra extra large. They wouldn’t want all those small, medium, large and extra larges sent off to rot at the dollar store.
Also, I don’t think the common phrase “freezing ones balls off” counts as a mandate. In fact, if my information is accurate, that thing sweats more than a pregnant nun.
How you all walk around with those things I’ll never understand.