My Wiener Dog Is Fat

This will be a brief blog to commemorate my dog, Gidgett. Gidgett is not dead; however, by the looks of things, I thought that it may be time to write about her.

Gidgett is a fat, slightly angry wiener dog who often smells like an old, dirty burrito.  I like to refer to her as “full figured”… but pretty much everyone that meets her for the first time says –

 GOOD GOD, YOUR DOG IS FAT.

"I'm sexy and I know it...."

Luckily, Gidgett doesn’t speak English, so her feelings aren’t hurt.

One of my sister’s friends once told me that it was a sin to have a fat dog. To my knowledge, this isn’t true and is not clearly documented in the Bible. Yes, gluttony is a sin, however, my dog is not a sinner. OK, so she enjoys a good meal, but really, who doesn’t?

"I'm hungry, Don't  judge"

I Googled "how to tell if your dog is fat" and after a bit of research, I found a “dog-fat test” that looked moderately legitimate.  It involved testing your dog's ability to show self-control, like not eating a whole bag of Cheetos if left unattended. 

"Belly fat is not your fault."

I gathered the necessary supplies and began testing.  

The first test asked me to leave a donut on the floor to see how quickly your dog would run toward it. That fat dog ran like a 12 year old girl towards Justin Beiber.  But, who wouldn’t? I would push my grandma to the floor to get to a fresh, hot, krispy kreme donut. Honestly, I’m not sure if she passed the test because of her agility, or if she failed it because she swallowed the donut without even chewing it. She literally suctioned it up into her mouth and poof – it was gone.

"So I ate some granola bars. Don't make eye contact."

The following day, I left an unpeeled banana on the floor. Gidgett slowly meandered towards the banana and half-assed ate it, looking like she was longing for the donut from the day before.

The next step was to put her on an exercise program. We walked to the end of the block. HEY, no judging.. her legs are only like an inch tall and her belly drags the ground, causing a nasty rash. She made some cursory attempts at freeing herself from the leash; it became clear that it would be too much work for her. So I drug her back home.

"The princess shall not exercise"

So, I’ve decided that as long as she can get up and walk to her dog bowl, its all good. Even if she’s eating mashed potatoes and fruity pebbles. 

The End.

Why I Want To Monkey-Punch Everyone On The Bachelor

Although I’m sure tons of shit has been written about the television show “The Bachelor/The Bachelorette,”  this will not deter me from writing about it too.

I am stuck between being completely disturbed and completely blissful. I can’t stop watching it. I'm like an shriveled up old addict that crawls accross the floor for her drug of choice (the tv remote)... Especially this season with Ben and those STUPID GIRLS…

*example of stupid crying girl pictured above*

FIRST – what are the odds that ONE guy would be in a room with 25 girls and they ALL FALL IN LOVE WITH HIM?  Really??  On this particular season, I could be stuck in a room with that dude, and I’d be like:

“Uh, yeah… don’t give me a rose…. I just want to see Puerto Rico… you don’t interest me at all.”

*I want shove the entire dozen roses up his ass-crack*

I may become slightly interested in Ben if he’d cut his ugly-ass-stringy hair, stop acting like a big wussy, and stop sticking his big nasty tongue in everyone’s mouth....and if he had $30 trijillion dollars. Or if I was deaf, blind, and hadn’t had sex in 20 years. Or if I had absolutely NO self-respect for myself. Or if I was so drunk that I had passed out with my pajama jeans on. 

I’m completely baffled.  I have often been in a room with 25 guys – and THEY ALL HAVE NOT FALLEN COMPLETELY IN LOVE WITH ME.. and fight and cry over me.. blah blah blah…  How come the hell that doesn’t happen in real life?

I cannot help myself... I'm yelling at the tv at Ben to grow a pair of balls. I'm pissed those desperate girls have no self-respect. Stop freaking out and crying when he goes on a date. Have they never watched the show? Do they NOT KNOW that is what is going to happen?

*example of a stupid crybaby contestant. I want to bitch-slap them all*

Ben's nasty make-out sessions with every girl is especially disconcerting to me because at some point, I think we’ve got ourselves a hygienic issue. Why don’t they all just use the same toothbrush or drink each other’s spit. GOOD GRIEF.

Finally – what is up with the host dude stepping out at the rose ceremony and announcing that there is “just one more rose to hand out”? ARE THE GIRLS BLIND? Can they NOT see the last rose?  Thanks host-guy…. for clearly stating the obvious.  I want to take the whole dozen roses with their thorns on and beat everyone in that room.

So, stupid bachelorette contestants……if you don’t get a rose, don’t embarrass yourself by your slobbery, snotty-nose, desperate crying and saying “why didn’t he like me?”… GET SOME SELF-RESPECT.  I’d be all like:

 “F-that ugly dude… I didn’t want a stinkin’ rose because this show sucks and everything is fake. I just wanted to travel on someone else’s dime. And I didn’t have to go to work for a few weeks. YAY ME!” 

BACHELOR GIRLS – STOP EMBARRASING YOURSELVES. You are making all the women that fought for their rights and equality PISSED OFF!  (they are crying for you now....)

This has been a public service announcement.

I Got UNFRIENDED from the Christmas Card list

I have been super busy.. and that is a completely crappy excuse for my lack of blogging.  BUT.. today I received this email from an UNNAMED PERSON.. and I had to share.

Warning: this may only be funny to me.
This particular  PERSON is like an accountant/auditor/money PERSON.  THIS PERSON would log down EVERY cent  spent, including giving me 50 cents to get a Coke out of the vending machine.  good grief. 

So, to set up the scenario - (reading from the top - down).. THIS UNNAMED PERSON sent me the original email *FIVE* years ago explaining why I didn't get a Christmas card. Then, to top it all off... at the very bottom of the email.. THIS UNNAMED PERSON explains that I'm now OFF the Christmas card list.

I even emailed THE UNNAMED PERSON a helpful point system to use to determine who can stay on the list and who gets voted off the list... which obviously has NOT been used.

This is a real email. I'm not making this stuff up.   ENJOY!
********************************************************
From:*****
Sent: Tue 12/12/2006 5:50 PM

To: Kelly

Subject: hey..

I sent your xmas card to your old address - hopefully, it will still forward.

______________________________________________________________

From: Kelly

To:*****
Subject: RE: hey..

i doubt it will.  we moved a year and a half ago.   do you have my new

address?

Kelly

_______________________________________________________________

From: *****

To: Kelly

Subject: RE: hey..

Didn't realize it was that long ago.  I now have your new address because I got your card today.  I'll re-fwd my card to you when it comes back.  You'll get it in Feb.  :)

_________________________________________________________________

From: Kelly

Sent: To:****
Subject: RE: hey..

 just put another .39 stamp on a new card and mail it.  I will reimburse you the cost of the stamp and the extra card. 

Kelly

___________________________________________________________________

From: ****
To: Legg, Kelly

Subject: RE: hey..

I know you will enjoy my logic, so this is the thing:  I bought $170 worth of Christmas cards on ebay this year, one kind of card for each of the next six years for 60 people.  So, everyone gets the same card every year.  If I start mixing the kinds of cards (like I have over the last 10 or so years), then I'll have to keep detailed records so no one will get a repeat card in the future.  It is very stressful - people complained last year when I only took a picture of a Christmas Card and emailed it everyone in lieu of the real thing.  So, unfortunately, you will have to wait for the USPostal service to return your card, at which time I will forward, since I ran out of this year's card. 

Yes, my life is this complicated.  And yes, I will be single for the rest of my life.

______________________________________________________________________

From: Kelly
TO ****

Subject: RE: hey..

I appreciate your logic; however, I am perplexed at the limit of 60 people.

Obviously I am flattered that I am still on the top 60 list... however, what happens.. let’s say.. next year you gain 1 or 2 new friends? (I know that seems far-fetched. but it could happen).

SO, therefore you will need to devise some kind of point system in order to

determine who will be removed from the top 60 Christmas card list. Please

consider the following system:

1.  Length of friendship - 1 point for every year of friendship

2.  Male/Female - 10 points for females/ 5 points for males

3.  Good looks - can assign up to 20 points for females.  0 points for males

4.  Likelihood of intimate relationship - up to 10 points

   (0-points for "not a chance in hell", 10 points for "I've 

      already tapped it".)

    This only applies to new female applicants, obviously.

5.  Likelihood of future employment - up to 10 points  - Evaluate if the person is a potential employer, owns his own company, or if you can benefit financially by knowing them.

The person with the lowest accumulative points is eliminated from that year's Christmas card list.

Hope this info helps.

Kelly

_________________________________________________

From:****

Sent: Monday, December 19, 2011 10:35 AM

To: Legg, Kelly

Subject: FW: hey..

Just ran across this email (from FIVE years ago), and had a good laugh!  Merry Christmas!!

_________________________________________________

From: Kelly

TO: *****
Subject: RE: hey..

OMG!!  I just laughed my ass off!!Am I still in the top 60 list ?  My point system was awesome.

And apparently you're still single. :)

Kelly

From: ****
Sent: Tuesday, December 20, 2011 10:45 AM

To: Kelly

Subject: RE: hey..

Well, I actually got my cards off this year, but I'm down to about 20 now. sorry, you didn't make the cut.  I just don't have the energy/time anymore for large #s of cards.  Doesn't mean that I wish any less Christmas/New Year's sentiment for non-card recipients of course.  Watch for my impersonal facebook Christmas greeting at some point... :)

I'm better off single, but I'm not giving up all hope.  Ha! 

________________________________________

From: Kelly

TO: *****
Subject: RE: hey..

I refuse believe that I didn't make the top 20 if you continued to use my extraordinary point system.

According to your email in 2006, you bought 6 years worth of cards. That was only 5 years ago.  I should still get my card this year.

MAKE IT HAPPEN.

Kelly

__________________________________________________

To: Kelly

From: *****

I'll make it happen.  Only since you are lobbying hard.

Fornication vs. Flatscreen TV

I haven't blogged in a while... I was going to post this on my facebook... but decided to use my discretion.. so I am blogging about it.. so that EVERYONE in the world can see it.. except for my children who apparently have decided that reading is evil.

My very simple announcement is that -  I am a DREAM CRUSHER.

You know when you are a kid and people tell you that you can be "anything you want to be.".... Well, those people are *LIARS*...

Here is my very true story...

My 13 yr old son says to me:
"Mom, you always told me that you'd support me in anything I do, right?"
Me: "Hmmm. No,No, I'm pretty sure I've never said that. For example, I wouldn't support you doing drugs."
Boy: "Well, I want to break into the music industry."

*Not actual son in picture, but very close*

Me: "Sure, great idea. People break into the music industry all the time." (undetected sarcasm)
Boy: "Great, I need for you to buy me some video production software, an editing system, and some other various expensive pieces of equipment."
Me: "I was just kidding. I'm not going to support you BREAKING INTO THE MUSIC INDUSTRY."
Boy: "You're a DREAM CRUSHER."
Me: "For god's sake. Just be an orthodontist."

*pause, pause, pause*

Boy: "I'll still go to college. I'll probably live with my girlfriend."

What the hell did he just say to me?

Me: "Ummmm, well... that's not going to happen."
Boy: "Why?"

This is when it occurs to me that I'm a complete failure as a parent. He honestly has no idea why this would probably not be ok with me. All my efforts seem futile.

I thought of all the logical reasons why.. .such as (but not limited to...)

 .. DON'T YOU WATCH JUDGE JUDY??

People are always suing the people they lived with. It's an epidemic. Co-mingling is a bad idea.. especially in college. Especially if you think I'm paying for your love shack. Not.Going.To.Happen.

Trying to not act alarmed, I decided to go with the Christian angle... 

Me:  (in my calm voice)"Well, you just went through confirmation at church. So, you should know why living with your girlfriend in college isn't a good idea."
Boy:  (BLANK LOOK)
Me:  "You know.. God doesn't really like ..you know....ummm.... ummmm... fornication."
Boy: "AND HOW DOES THIS APPLY TO ME??"
Me:  (BLANK LOOK)

EPIC FAIL. Approximately 3, 956 thoughts flew through my head... of brilliant things to say.. words of wisdom... and I ended up with...

Me: "Because YOU'LL END UP ON JUDGE JUDY, THAT'S WHY."

Boy:  "Ok. Then, can I have a flat screen tv?"

Moral of the story: The boy has learned that if he says something absolutely unreasonable, that it will throw me so off-balance, that asking for almost anything else will sound COMPLETELY reasonable.  Fornication vs. Flatscreen TV.  Flatscreen will always win. HE.IS.BRILLIANT.AFTER.ALL.

My Sister Pushed Out A Potroast

In honor of the one year anniversary of a day that will live in infamy, I proudly dedicate this blog to my niece, Potroast.

At 5pm on May 27 2010, I was washing my dogs because, frankly, they both smelled like dirty burritos. The phone rang. It was my sister who calmly said, “My water just broke.”  Then she hung up.  This was surprising to me because it was a month prior to the date in which I was expecting this call.  I called her back because I thought maybe I misunderstood the abruptness of the announcement. 

Me:    Did you just say your water broke?

Calm Sister:  Yes.

Me:     So, should I come to the hospital?

Calm Sister: Yes, dumbass.

Then she hung up again.   I was her self-proclaimed BIRTHING COACH.  Much to everyone’s surprise, I was taking this position seriously - I was quite sure that I wanted her to have either a hypno-birth, a water-birth, or a silent birth.  My sister was considered of “advanced maternal age” – she was 38, and she wanted me to shut the hell up because she was getting an epidural.  (I still tried to hypnotize her when I got there, but she tried to beat me with her IV pole.)

It was a three hour drive to the hospital. IN. RUSH. HOUR. TRAFFIC.  I literally jumped in my car with my wet, dirty dog washing clothes, no makeup, and my Betty Ford Clinic baseball cap.  My mother called and told me not to bother even coming because the baby would squirt out before I got there.  But, luckily I knew that my mom is almost always wrong.

When I arrived, the room was full of various people who were all sitting in the room with my sister, and they were all on their laptops. On Facebook.  Updating their status.  Except for my mother who cannot use a computer. My sister was 4 centimeters dilated and it was obviously going to be a long night.  By 2am, all the “others” left to go home, and I had the joy of sleeping on a couch with my brother-in-law, and my nieces Kate and Rose.  Comfy.

My niece, Rose was in her “transition” phase.  She had been the youngest daughter for 12 years, and now her birth-order was changing.. she was becoming the MIDDLE daughter. Her transition was neither easy nor pretty. 

About 3am, my sister was in more pain. Strangely, I felt more joyful.  However, my joy was ripped from me when the epidural doctor lady entered the room.  She was an old lady and was tired and looked pissed.  I tried my last effort to convince my sister to have a completely natural birth.. and then she screamed some profanities at me and told the old lady to shove the needle in her back or she was going to crush her windpipe with her bare hands.

Fast forward to 7am. Still no baby. 

This is where the fun began.  My brother-in-law had come straight to the hospital the night before from being out of town, so his suitcase and toiletries were still in his car.  He decided that he needed a shower, because clearly the baby needed to see a clean daddy when she squirted out full of goo and blood. He left the room to go to his car in the parking lot to get his change of clothes and shampoo, etc.   He had only been gone about 3 minutes when my sister started screaming “The baby’s coming out!”

I call Donnie on his cell and tell him.. and he seemed confused.

Confused brother-in-law:  I JUST left and everything was fine.

Me:     I know, but the baby’s coming out now.

Confused brother-in-law:   Are you sure?

Me:      Do I look like a damn doctor to you? Just get back up here.

But, Donnie doesn’t come back up.  He goes to the car, takes a stop to do #2 in the bathroom in the lobby, and then shuffles in  - and looked amazed at the chaos.  My sister’s epidural seemed to stop working (YAY!), the doctor was scrubbing up, there were about 3 nurses that had brought in a bunch of equipment into the room and my sister was already in the stirrups.

Somehow, this does not deter Donnie - he still wants to take his damn shower. He insists he’ll take a “fast” shower. My sister screams that he never takes a fast shower.  The shower is in the attached bathroom in the birth-suite, so he starts the shower and we all were resting easy that Donnie would at least be fresh and clean.  My sister tells “Middle” to beat on the bathroom door.  “Middle”  keeps beating on the door, but Donnie continues his shower as if nothing is happening.

My sister is in the stirrups, the baby is coming down the birth canal, and Donnie  emerges from his refreshing shower.  His hair is still wet and he has no shoes on.  Oddly enough, he still looks confused at the situation. Yes, Donnie, the baby is coming. We used duct tape to keep her in until you finished cleaning yourself. Welcome to the birth of your child.. glad you could join us.

My sister screamed profanities; Middle ran out of the room, I felt a confusing combination of delight and disgust while looking at my sister’s who-hole… and I grab the older niece and shove her head in between the stirrups in my attempt to keep her sexually inactive for as long as possible. (She’s 14, so she needed some sex-ed.)

After a few short pushes and shrieking “GET IT OUT OF ME…”  My sister pushed out the potroast.  She was small, and the nurses weighed her  - she was 5 lbs .. and I said, "I just cooked a potroast in my crockpot bigger than that."  Thus, how the name POTROAST was born.

I suppose the hospital staff may not have been accustomed to our family’s particular type of insanity… as my sister’s exit papers said “Mother displays bizarre behavior.”  We had no idea what they were talking about.  They obviously had NO frame of reference.  This is how we always are.

(example of normal behavior of my sister)

So, Potroast was here, Middle was adjusting to birth-order change, my brother-in-law was clean, my mom never made it to the hospital, my older niece will never have sex now…… I think I was the BEST birthing coach EVER.    The end.

I Don't Know Any Of My Neighbors Because I'm Not Mr. Rogers

I'm just throwing this blog together.. no time for editing.  Here it is, if you don't like it, too bad.  I'm documenting real things that happen to me, so if for some reason there is some kind of grammatical error, just go ahead and correct it in your own mind.

So, I went to let my dogs out.  No, they were not on a leash.  I decided to let them out the OLD FASHIONED WAY, I opened the damn back door and let them run loose.  Those were the good old days… when you could let your dogs could run loose without fear of being sued on television by your neighbors. 

*my actual thoughts, blossoming from my cartoon house in a cartoon cloud...*

The neighbors to my left (I’m laying my bed right now – so they are to my left… if I was pulling into my driveway, they’d be on my right).. .those neighbors are awesome.  I’m not only saying it because they read my blog (hey Denise and Shane).. but because they’ve basically put up with my foolishness for almost 6 years and *to my knowledge*, they’ve never called the police. Not even when they may have spotted my son playing with fire and a machete.  Now that I think about it, maybe they completely suck, because they should have called the police.  But, I cannot vouch for their judgement calls.  I should be at their house right now, except for I’m laying in my bed writing this blog about different neighbors. 

 *not actual picture of my son.  My son has black hair and sets things on fire*

So, I let my damn dogs out, and there are these two strangers in my backyard.  They looked annoyed that my dogs are barking at them.  I look annoyed that there are strangers in my backyard.  I walk out there to see what is going on, and they are making plans to re-landscape part of the backyard.  WEIRD. 

So, I say, “Hey, what’s the dealio – strangers?”  Ok, that’s not EXACTLY what I said, but whatever.

They say “This blah blah blah tree is being choked by these vines.. we are planning on saving this tree.” 

Me:  "REALLY?  Who are you?"

Strangers: "We live two doors down.  We originally wanted to buy your lot."

AWKWARK SILENCE.

I size them up.  She is middle aged, possibly from Little House On the Prairie.  Her husband looks like he may have had his ass handed to him a few times back in high school – but he was sportin’ some pretty cool white socks and black tennis shoes.

They continued to identify all my trees and what was wrong and right with my vegetation on my property.  Luckily, I had already had some alcohol in my system, so I was able to tolerate them with some general amusement. 

Then I excused myself and my rounded up my untrained dogs and headed back indoors.  Because I over-analyze everything, so I thought about the strange encounter for about 60 more seconds… and here is my ANALYSIS:  I would  NEVER been able to indentify those people in a line-up if my life depended on it.  If a mobster had a gun to my mother’s head, and told me that I had to identify those neighbors in order to save her life.. I am sorry to report.. my mom would be dead.

What happened to  Mr. Roger’s neighborhood?  I should know these people, right?  Especially if their in my yard looking at my trees.  So, in order to get to know them better, I let my dogs crap in their yard. 

*picture of Mr. Roger's with his actual neighbor - Mr. Gorilla was in Mr. Roger's backyard giving him unwanted advice about his landscaping.*

Won’t you be my neighbor?  Won’t you please? Wont you please?  Won’t you please.. be…. My….. neighbor….

How I Stretched My Bladder Five Sizes Bigger

Even though I’m a human and have become familiar with many of my body parts, I’m still blissfully unaware of many of my internal organs.  For example, I have no idea how big my pancreas is, but I picture it about the size of a kumquat.  So, sit back, relax, and be entertained as I explain how I stretched my bladder to the size of a small, third-world country.

At the incredibly awkward age of 15, my parents pulled me out of a country-club-ish, private school, and decided to send me to jail.  Ok, it wasn’t really jail, but it looked like a jail.  It was like Martha Stewart living in her mansion on her compound, then - without warning or preparation - getting *thrown* into prison.  Perhaps I would have to brush up on some of my survival skills…

As I was getting dressed for my first day of  prison, I mean…high school, and my mom walks in my room and announces:  “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON”T GO INTO THE SCHOOL BATHROOM.”

Me: What are you talking about? 

Mom:  They perform abortions in the bathrooms.

Me:  But, what if I have to pee?

Mom: Just hold it until you get home.

Now, many of you are probably wondering why I would believe that abortions were being performed in the bathrooms of our local high school.  This is, in fact, the very beginning of my realization that my mom makes up crazy shit sometimes. 

The first day of school was difficult because by fifth period, I needed to pee…. I slowly walked by the restroom, longing to go inside.  But, I heard the ominous voice in my head.. the voice of my mother… “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T GO INTO THE SCHOOL BATHROOM….DON”T GO INTO THE SCHOOL BATHROOM…… the bathroom…....the bathroom.....”

The bus ride home was particularly painful,  - every pebble in the road was cause for potential urine leakage.  I ran from my bus-stop to my house, and started unbuckling my belt and pulling down my zipper on my jeans as I sprinted up the driveway.  I burst in the house like a wild animal and barely made it to toilet – not even closing the door behind me. The same scenario was repeated day after day after day. 

I ACHED to urinate like normal kids, but my fear of the bathroom... and the sound of my mother’s voice repeating her warning, made it virtually impossible. 

I kept picturing some old, wretched doctor name Igor…with big metal instruments…laughing menacingly in a dirty, dark, dank bathroom. 

My powers of observation were strong -   I noticed people at school going in and out of the bathroom, and it didn’t appear any of them were having abortions.  Or performing abortions. Confusing, indeed.

I learned to adapt for survival.  My bladder morphed to accommodate my new urination routine, and I’m certain it grew five sizes bigger.  By the middle of 10^th grade, my bladder was the size of a large cantaloupe.

Then, the day came.  The dreaded day.  I HAD to go.  There was nothing I could do.  I said a quick prayer, closed my eyes, and bravely entered where no man had gone before (except the Janitor.)

I opened my eyes, and to my amazement, there were NO abortions being performed.  Other than perhaps some grammatically incorrect graffiti, the entire bathroom event was, in fact,  UNEVENTFUL. 

A thousand curses to my mother!  When I arrived home that day, I confronted her with my overgrown bladder and demanded to know from whence she received her abortion information.  She stared at me blankly, and there was a long pause, and then she said, “I have NO idea what you’re talking about.”

I Can't Believe I Want A Pair of Pajama Jeans

I'm not feeling all that well - my immune system is obviously compromised because I'm finding myself watching perplexing shows like "The Real Housewives of Atlanta."  I'm obviously very ill.

As I stared helplessly at the TV, this commercial comes on about Pajama Jeans.  Perhaps its my sickness or my boredom, but I think I want to order a pair. 

I fit ALL the criteria:

Do you love stylish, sexy jeans?  YES I DO.
Do you love soft, comfy pajamas?  YES I DO.

There is even a secret DORMA-SOFT lining. 
A. SECRET.LINING  !!

The commercial said that you can even SLEEP in these jeans.  I LOVE TO SLEEP.  And, sometimes if I've had too much to drink, I have been known to fall asleep in my jeans... so these seem like the perfect jean for me.

And, the fact that the jeans that I'm wearing right now are cutting off the circulation to the lower half of my body...this makes the comfy PAJAMA JEANS even more appealing.

Oh, curses to you Pajama Jeans~ CURSES!  Even though I want to be comfy and stylish in a pair of jeans that is full of secret ingredients, I am conflicted about buying something that I can wear to go out to dinner then fall asleep in.  Its a slippery slope....

The commercial says "You can wear them everyday!"  GOD, what if I DO wear them everyday?  Then I'm sleeping in my pajamas and wearing them to the grocery store, and work, then sleeping again.  Before you know it, its like I'm a homeless lady- yet a comfy,stylish homeless lady.

Perhaps I will wait to order them tomrrow...

How A Suppository Changed My Life Forever

As a child, I had random ideas of what I thought I should be when I grew up.  At one point I wanted to be a radio disc jockey, then a veterinarian, then a court reporter, then an x-ray technician.  I thought long and hard about being in the medical industry, maybe even a nurse.  I was quite sure I had super-awesome caregiver skills. 

My sophomore year of college I had a boyfriend (who shall remain unnamed for the sake of this story.)  Actually, I am still friends with this boyfriend, and I take every opportunity to re-tell this story whenever we are together with a group of college friends.  This always makes him very angry.  Ok, unnamed boyfriend – If you’re reading this now – I’m sorry.  Don’t break up with me again. 

In between the fall and spring semesters, he became very sick.  Both his parents worked, so I drove 4 hours to his house to take care of him.  How hard could this be, right?  This would just further prove to me that I would be the greatest nurse ever.

When I arrived, I evaluated his symptoms: high-fever, vomiting, swollen glands, lethargic.  We made a doctor appointment and I confidently threw my sick patient in the car, and we headed off.  The doctor told us that he suspected mononucleosis, and prescribed some kind of hard-to-pronounce medication to ease the symptoms.  I explained to the doctor that because of his swollen glands, my patient couldn’t possibly swallow a pill.  He nodded, he understood.

We headed straight to the pharmacy and I picked up the prescription, then drove my pitiful patient back to the house where I had planned to admire my caregiver skills further.  But first, let’s administer our first dose of medication, shall we? 

I pulled out the package and opened the first “pill.”  The boyfriend’s eyes grew big:

Sick Boyfriend:  There is NO way I can swallow that.

Awesome Me:     This is a suppository. It goes up your butt.

Sick Boyfriend:  That will not be happening.

I watched him moan and vomit for hours.  My caregiver skills were being tested; because, quite frankly at this point I wasn’t feeling as caregiver-ish as I had a few hours earlier.  He needed to shove-in that suppository because I was sick of his sickness.  He repeatedly refused.

Later, I was in the kitchen, and he was walking through – towards the bathroom.  The suppository was sitting on the counter, my patient was coming into close range – NOW WAS MY CHANCE. 

In one quick ninja-like move, I swiped the suppository, whipped down his boxer shorts and SHAZAM!  The mission was complete. 

His fever was so high, that the suppository dissolved immediately upon entrance, but he still screamed like a little girl being chased on a playground by the school-yard bully. 

I washed my hands over 837 times, but I still felt the horror of what happened.  I prayed that God would deliver me from this awfulness. I was a conflicted caregiver.  I felt disgusted by sickness and felt an overwhelming urge to leave to go shopping or something fun and happy.  I was sick of vomit and suppositories. Suddenly, I saw bright white lights – 10 times brighter than the hottest white sun.  God sent me a sign:

Don’t underestimate the power of a suppository to change the direction of your life.