Wouldn't you love a box made out of pickles? I know I would. A magically pickly-delicious pickle box.
Ok, so I regret to inform you that this will be my last post as your babysitter. I had something go down this week and as such am going to be pretty absent this weekend getting my shit together.
Basically what happened is my doctor found a lump in my breast when I was at my appointment on Wednesday. I can't tell you what happened after that on Wednesday because the day is pretty much a big old fat mess of diarrhea. Not literally; I didn't get the nervous squirts or anything. That could have been fun though. I did have an egg salad sandwich for lunch that day.
Let's get serious for a minute. Doctors are always saying, you don't need to worry too much about breast health until you're in your 40s. Well, let me be a prime example as to why you should worry about it long before that. I'm 25 years old.
Now, I don't know what this lump is yet, and given the statistics, it's probably just a fybrocystic mass, so don't go feeling any pity for me or anything. Well, you can, and I'd think it was sweet, but that might make me cry a little, and I don't want to do that.
It's been two days since I found out and I can tell you that my life has changed since. The minute you hear your doctor say things like 'lump' and 'history of breast cancer?', it's not really a hypothetical situation anymore. I've spent my entire life thinking forward: "What am I going to do this summer?" "I'm going to spend 2012 in Ireland" blah blah blah. Now, all I can think about is today.
When I left my doctor's office, he sent me away with a requisition for an ultrasound and mammogram, and the first place I talked to said, "We can get you in on May 12th." Excuse me? I called a few more places and the best I got was April 29th. Guess why. Because I'm young. Women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s, who may not even have a problem, come before myself who has a lump. Why? I don't fucking know. With all due respect, I've got my entire life ahead of me. I should be buying my first house, getting married, having babies, flipping out in preparation for my 30th birthday. Most women in their 50s have already done all these things. Why is my life much less deserving of seeing these things than theirs are of remembering them?
This pissed me off significantly. So I fought. And fought. And I got myself an appointment for March 10th. Only a week and a half if I know whether I can think about the house, the husband, the babies, being 30th, without a big 'if' being in front of them.
I'm only a couple days into this experience, but if I can share anything it's this: look after yourself. If you think anything is wrong, ANYTHING, get it checked out, and don't listen to a word they say if they try to tell you it's nothing to worry about just because you're young. Kick them in the balls, tell them to cut the shit, and pay attention because it's your health. Do the breast self-exams, even if you're terrified about what you might find. Trust me, once the brain starts working, it becomes more of an issue of what you're terrified to lose. Finding it is the key.
It's been a fun week kids, and I wish you all the best. Love, pickle boxes, and German hardcore wishes go out to all of you.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wouldn't you love a box made out of pickles? I know I would. A magically pickly-delicious pickle box.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Yeah, I don't know what that means either. Let's roll with it.
You know what's great about being a bachelorette? Dinner. I'm sitting here with two different coloured slippers on eating crackers with mayonnaise on them and a bowl of leftover macaroni. All that's missing is a bottle of Coke that'll make me release a burp that would make my dad proud followed by a bellow of a laugh from yours truly at how absolutle filthy I am when no one else is around. Alas, no Coke. Sadness.
Now that we're purposely on the topic of grossness, I had a bit of an issue last weekend that I will share in hopes of possibly helping anyone else that finds themselves in the same situation.
Rewind to Saturday. I thought, "I want some juice." So, I went to the store and bought some juice. Some deliciously fruity pink grapefruit juice to be exact. Mmm, it was good. I must have plowed through probably a litre of that stuff in a day. I thought, how can something so delicious exist without being harmful to me? Enter Sunday.
I swear to God if I was married, my husband would have divorced me due to the odour coming out of my ass on Sunday. I don't know WHAT that pink grapefruit did in my tummy... maybe it threw a "Let's be stinking assholes" party for all the food that was in there and any newcomers. Or maybe it just took little grapefruit shits all over my intestines. Anyway, whatever went down in there, it revolted.
You know those early morning farts you get sometimes that smell like hot bad eggs? Well, take that, add in an entire farm of bad eggs and all the surrounding cow shit in the pastures and you're sort of close to how it smelled. And it was frequent. I'm talking every 5 minutes frequent. The whole fucking day on Sunday, what should be God's day or whatever it is that's special about Sundays, and here I am with a serious case of cat butt with no option of stopping it. Please don't laugh at me. I was quite concerned.
Monday morning rolls around and guess what woke me up? You got it. I'm not even going to say it out loud. Oh, PS, I apologize to all the men that read this. It must be a huge turn-off. I do strongly believe I was not put on this earth to impress anyone. Anyway, the whole day at work on Monday I was running to and from the file room to land my bombs so that it wouldn't hover around me and my desk the entire day. And trust me, it would have. It stung my eyes. I wanted to apologize to the air. It was that bad.
Eventually, it did taper off and my rear was once again smelling of roses and oranges, but let me tell you, I was afraid. I thought maybe I'd been pregnant with a garbage can and it went and aborted itself in my rectum. So let this help anyone suffering from Aborted Garbage Can Syndrome. You're not alone. You do fucking stink, though.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
And so it is, the day to talk about stupid-ass people. Fuck, I could talk about stupid-ass people all damn day long. I could talk about stupid-ass people until all my teefs fell out and my tongue dried up.
So, I had to get a new doctor because mine moved way the fuck up into the North end of town in a totally inaccessible area. I searched the directory for doctors accepting new patients and, as luck would have it, they are all male. And not only that, but they're all males freshly off the boat from India that you can barely understand. I shit you not, that's all that's available. So I made an appointment with one.
I have a physical with him today (full physical; we're talking tit-rubbing, pap smear-having weighing on the scale FUN) and woke up with a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach about him. So, I Googled him. Turns out he doesn't believe in having a female nurse in there with you while he's fumbling around with your naughty bits. Turns out he doesn't even believe in the female patient wearing a shirt while he holds a stethoscope to her back to listen to her breathing.
Stupid-Ass Person #1 - The Nurse at the Doctor's Office
Granted, not entirely her fault, but she could have been a bit more understanding.
I called earlier this morning and made up a story that I'd just started my unexpectedly early period so I couldn't make it to the pap.
"Oh, well, you were scheduled for a full physical so you'll have to come in anyway, and he'll do everything but the pap."
FUCK. Creepy Indian man's going to be feeling up my tits after all! Not only that, but he's going to be weighing me and measuring me and touching me and looking in my earholes and in general being 10 inches too close to me at all times. Not impressed. The nurse did reschedule a pap for me with a female doctor, so she redeemed herself a bit, but she's still a stupid-ass for not letting me cancel entirely. I am so dreading this appointment.
Stupid-Ass Person #2 - The Idiot from Toronto Who Can't Read English
Basically what I do for work is I advise potential law students on what they have to do to get into our law school, and furthermore advise the ones who are already in on how to wipe their own asses, because somehow they've all forgotten.
Ok, back to Stupid-Ass #2. Let's call him Roger Chow, because I think that might have been his name. This douchebag writes me a long-winded email claiming he read our website but can't find some specific information, then proceeds to rattle off all these questions, which the answers to are in fact on the first page of our website. Anyasshole, this douchebag proceeds to email me another 5 or 6 times in the period of about an hour basically asking me the same things over and over in different ways. By the 6th email, I've quite sufficiently lost my patience with him, so not-so-nicely told him that he can't get into our law school on a part time basis because he doesn't fit the criteria of what we consider as being 'deserving' of part time status. Haven't heard from him since.
Stupid-Ass Person #3 - My Headband
This fucking thing is so fucking tight! It's squishing my brain, and it hurts! Take it off, you say? Brilliant idea; the only problem is, after 5 minutes of wearing it, it's so tight that it already formed a stupid-ass looking crease in my hair, so if I take it off now, it'll sure as fuck look like I've been wearing a brain-constricting headband all day and let's face it, people with the headband hair line look stupid.
Sorry if this post wasn't funny. Let's see if I can fix that. All last night I had a booger way in the back of my nose that wouldn't come out no matter how hard I blew (I'm getting over a bad cold so am Pocahontas Manyboogers). This morning, it was still fucking there. It wasn't until I'd been at work for about half an hour that I gave one hell of a nose honk and it came out in all its immensely-thick-yellowy goodness. Boy, that was satisfying. LOVED IT. Yeah, no, that wasn't funny.
I'm going to use this hump day to get humped by a donkey, I think. NOTHING seems as bad as the inappropriate fondling I'm about to get at the doctor's office.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
It's Poosday! Hee hee Tuesday, Poosday, get it? Yeah, you do. Good for you.
Ok, so this really probably only applies to women because from what I can tell, guys could not care less about taking a dump in front of other guys. In fact, it's probably who can drop the biggest, smelliest, toilet clogging load there could ever be. High five to you.
Here's the situation. You're sitting at your desk, working away, and all of a sudden you feel the urge to go and do a #2. No problem. You don't have an issue #2-ing at work, so you head over to the public washroom. As you walk in, you see a pair of legs sitting in the middle stall. As you walk in, you listen for the tinkle-sound or the pulling of toilet paper or rustling of clothes that tell you it'll be no time before you can start releasing the hostages.
You sit down, get settled, and notice that you haven't heard a sound from the stall next door. Is she just drip-drying, or is there something more sinister going on in there? As you're patiently waiting for her to finish up, you realize that she's not drip-drying. She's not even fumbling with a tampon.
And she's waiting for you to leave to finish.
The problem is, you're waiting for her to leave so you can start. It's far too late to hike up your pants and come back at a later time, so it becomes a contest of stamina. Who's going to cave and poo first?
It's been a good two minutes since you sat down and there's been no action. You decide, fuck it, I'm going to offend Mrs. Stall #2. I'm going to drop the rankest turd the world has ever seen and she's going to wish she bit the bullet and shit before I got started.
Unfortunately, you chicken out from dropping Offensive Poo and you sniff, cough, blow your nose, rustle your pants, ANYTHING to stifle the sounds of your logs and/or pellets hitting the water. You can only do this so much before you realize that it's pointless. Your shits are going to be heard. You suck it up and drop freely, and once you're done, you feel quite good about yourself for being brave enough to have your shitting be heard by another human being. You wipe, pull your pants up, flush, and head out to the sink.
Unbeknownst to you, from the second you flushed Mrs. Stall#2 started shitting furiously so she could emerge from her stall in time to see who held up her unloading. As you dry your hands, you see her head out of her stall and towards the sink, giving you the side-eye like you'd just stuck anal beads in her husband's asshole while playing the Pussycat Dolls' "Dontcha" in the background.
It's ok, all that furious shitting has left Mrs. Stall#2 a little tender in the derriere, so call this an overwhelming success for you. Congratulations.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Today was porn talk day, right? Or is it tomorrow? I'm pretty sure it's today. I can't wait to get old. If I'm this forgetful now, I won't even be able to remember if I wiped my ass 3 seconds before when I'm 50, so I'll be an old dementia-ridden pervert with either an overly-chafed ass, or a really smelly one and skids all over my underwear. Wait, shit talk's for tomorrow.
Ok, so my first porn experience came when I was 18. It was my 18th birthday, in fact. I was so excited at the prospect of being able to walk into a porn store and actually be able to rent a porn, so I did. I had a few of my (younger) friends with me, and we settled in with some popcorn and probably Nibs and Coke, cause that's how we rolled, and we pressed play on '00Sex' (like 007 Bond-style).
Oh. My. God.
Throw a bunch of virgins in a room with a German hardcore with a lot of grunting, hairy men in it and women with no hair anywhere is one of the stupidest things you can do. If you want to scare your kids out of having sex, show them this gem right here. I lost my virginity 6 months later, but trust me, it would have happened a lot sooner had I not watched this. When you're not familiar with just how raunchy sex is, all slapping and wetness and gaping assholes really terrifies the shit out of you.
I'd like to have sex again sometime soon, so I'm going to stop talking about this now. Our porn session for the day is now complete ladies and gents.
In other news, did anyone see Ben Stiller pretending to be Joaquin Phoenix at the Oscars last night? Shit on a popsicle stick, I almost actually did wee in my ginch when I saw that. When he started roaming around the stage it looked like he was looking for a suitable place to take a nice long piss. He should have taken a piss in that beard of his is what he should have done. That thing was like Bounty 17-ply.
I have a secret for all of you out there who, like me, don't do drugs, but would like to experience a little 'strangeness' every now and then.
I have a little obviousness for all of you out there who, not like me, LOOOOOVE doing drugs like they're cupcake sprinkles and you're 5.
Alcohol + NyQuil.
I first experienced this on my birthday this year. I can't remember what I was thinking about, but I remember it was weeeeeeeeeeird.
When I had a drink with dinner then went home and had NyQuil, it didn't make me fall asleep. Oh no. I fucking tripped out like I'd been guzzling down the Jesus Juice and chasing it with Bethlehem Brownies at Michael Jackson's. Last night, I had wine with dinner, and once again, took NyQuil before bed, and all night thought, "I have to get to the Oscars! Have to get to the Oscars! I'm an accountant and I have all the envelopes! Angelina's going to steal my shoes!" Yeah, exactly. Tripped the fuck out. Things get colourful though, I will tell you that.
Oh, also, I had a dream I hooked up with one of the students I work with (it's ok, I work at a University so he's my age. I'm not fondling little chilluns or anything) and it was hoooooooooot. So, if there was a point to this story, I guess it would be, if you want to have a vivid sex dream watch 00Sex, have some wine, then take some NyQuil, and you'll have some pretty weird dreams. Oh, and don't forget, JIF is the safe peanut butter.
PS. Since the post is supposed to be about porn-ish type stuff, here's a video for you. The words are NSFW, but the visuals are oh so suitable for eeeeeeeverything:
Jon Lajoie's "Show Me Your Genitals"
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Well hello everyone, and welcome to Thystle's blog a la Liz. I've been given strict instructions to talk about porn, shit, and stupid ass people, which I fully intend on doing. I think it'll be a themed week. Let's take a look at what we can all expect, providing all goes to plan and I don't end up with a horrendous case of the runs that prevents me from following the plan:
Monday: Porn-ish type stuff
Tuesday: Shit, skids, and more poo.
Wednesday: Stupid ass people
Thursday: Tuna Surprise
Friday: Boxes made out of pickles
Saturday and/or Sunday: Your pick
I hope you're all enjoying your weekends and are as GOTDAYUM PANTALOON-WEEING excited as I am about seeing the look on Angelina Jolie's face tonight when she loses to Kate Winslet for the, what, 3rd time this year? Ahhhh, it'll be grande. So strap on your tin foil hats, stop conversing with aliens, have a fun time tonight, and tomorrow we're going to have a gooooooooood time.
Nighty night, keep your butthole tight!
PS. What the fuck is with those cuticle trimmer things? I'm bleeding out from my damn fingernails! If the holes were bigger I'd be ramming tampons in them. Edward Tamponfingers! That was not good.
PP.S. Hey, wait a sec, I didn't see there were going to be prizes for behaving this week. If they're in the shape of fake poos I can trick people with, I'm SO on my best behaviour.
PPP.S. I'm Canadian. Deal with the extra 'u's and funny words.
Friday, February 20, 2009
I am taking next week off, okay? Now, Now, stop crying, it's only for a week. Seriously, blowing your nose on my shirt sleeve is just being overly dramatic and also? A little gross. I know you'll miss me. Or at least miss the five minutes I help you avoid doing what you're meant to be doing.
I've arranged for a babysitter to come in and entertain you in my absence. I'm not saying that I don't trust you not to drink all the liquor, shave off one-anothers eyebrows and then light the curtains on fire but I'm not NOT saying that either.
Some of you will know and love The Babysitter already from her starring roles in such now defunct blogs as "Sometimes I pee when I laugh" and "Sometimes I pee when I laugh; Deux" others of you will be mildly terrified of her from reading the wall posts on my FB page where she and I devise porn plots starring me as a Canadian Mountie and her as Shrek and/or debating the various ways in which one might, hypothetically, dispose of a body. Say, on a pig farm, for example.
Thusly introduced, I present to you guest starring in the role of "Hot Babysitter"; my heterointernetlifepartner, the darling, foul mouthed, potty humored and slightly unstable
Now, y'all go to bed on time, try not to fight among yourselves and for the love of God; remember to FLUSH.
Mama will be back on 3/3 and if you've behaved and left lots of comments there will be PRIZES in it for you! What prizes? You ask? How do you win them? You ask? Well, you'll just have to wait and see.
Goodbye for now, My Lovelies.....
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Dear Boys In My Office,
Why? Because I'm not your damn wife that's why. And if I was your wife, you sure as hell would learn to light a mother fucking match when you drop something that smells like goat afterbirth. What the fuck are you eating anyway? Sheep balls? Dung? What? Never mind, don't answer that. We've got more important things to discuss.
I'll take into consideration that you're all gentle refined souls
I understand why a gross men's room might drive you to desperation. This desperation is known as "taking a poo in the flowery confines of the ladies room".
This is, on the whole, acceptable. After all, I'm a liberal kind of girl. I share. I let you borrow pens, postage stamps, lunch money and even socks. I'm a team player like that. Sometimes. As such, I'm willing to allow you to use my bathroom. Provided you follow these helpful guidelines. I've made them pictures, so that you can't claim you don't understand my high-falutin words like "flushthemuthafuckincan" and "orimabeatyoassifyouleavetherollempty"
Pretty simple, right? I've even gone one step further and made suggestions to management regarding improving your bathroom so that it's more attractive to you! So that you'll WANT to be in there when you pee
Nice, right? See I do have your comfort at heart.
However, money is a bit tight and we might have to make do with what we've got for a bit longer. So, just a word to the wise, if I have to wonder what that liquid on the floor is one more time, I'm going to start making the coffee with toilet water. Just saying.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Que Paso, Puppies?
That's Spanish, you know. That's what we talk here in the desert. Except, not the "puppies" part. That's English. As far as I know anyway.
Today is the first blog review for the Imaginary Book Club, Internet Edition.
As you recall, we were reading "Songs for the Missing" by Stewart O'Nan.
This book is the story of the aftermath of the disappearance of a teenage girl. The daughter, Kim, has recently graduated from high school and is looking forward to her impending departure or college. While her relationship with her parents is fairly typical of most teenagers, we are given to understand that they have begun to view her as an adult and thus, are less vigilant about her whereabouts. Like most parents, they're of varying minds regarding her friends and boyfriends and as the book progresses we learn that they are aware that she both drinks and occasionally does drugs.
None of this, of course, has any real baring on her disappearance, except to muddy the waters. Could her boyfriend be involved? Could it be drug related? Could she have just walked off? Her parents are convinced from the beginning that she has been taken. Her mother launches an all out media and local ground campaign and her father spends every possible hour walking with search teams. Both are convinced that they, not the police who believe she has simply left, will be the ones to find her.
Lost in the mix is Kim's younger and awkward sister. She has long lived in the shadow of her more popular sister and the resultant attention to Kim's disappearance leaves her even farther from the center of her own life and causes her to retreat into her room, both literally and figuratively.
Fringing the edges of the story are Kim's best friend and her boyfriend. They were with her just moments before she disappeared and each finds themselves lost as well with out her as the central figure in their life.
The story unfolds over the course of the year and as the time from her disappearance increases, even her parents begin to accept that they will never know exactly what happened to her.
To save from spoiling the story, I'll not reveal the eventual conclusion.
I found that I wanted both more and less from this story. It was as though, in attempting to include a reasonable number of main characters; parents, sister, best friends and boyfriend, the "meat" of the story was neglected. However, conversely, in an attempt to tell the story of a disappearance, the characters were neglected.
I never really "connected" with any of the characters, in fact, I'd venture that no character, including Kim, was given sufficient time for you to begin to root either for or against them. Certainly, you sympathized with the parents, but even after several hundred pages, I found I cared much less about them than I thought I should. They've lost their daughter, they are wracked with grief and fear and uncertainty and yet, they failed to make my heart turn even a little. The author, in my opinion, failed to give the characters sufficient depth and I spent about half of the book thinking "Yeah, yeah, where's the drama? Give me some STORY!"
This is a readable book, but not one that can't be missed. I am not sitting here begging for those six hours of my life back, but neither am I chomping at the bit to run out and buy the authors other novels.
Did you read the book? Opinion?
Suggestions for the next selection?
Labels: book club
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
(I wave a piece of paper tauntingly in front of M)
M: What's that?
Me: What, this?
M: Yeah, what did you think I meant?
Me: Cat sex
Me: CAT SEX, Bow chica MEOW MEOW
M: OH MY GOD YOU ARE SO ODD
Me: Oh yeah?
M: Yeah, and you know something else?
Me: Cat sex
M: Stop it!
Me: CAT SEX CAT SEX CAT SEX
M (woefully): Why do I even talk to you?
Me (cheerfully): Beats me!
The truth is that I don't know what to think any longer. I hear the words you say to me and I believe them. I see too, the actions that you take and I believe them as well.
What speaks the loudest are the words that you don't say; the things that you don't do.
The choked back words ring in my ears and the withheld kisses linger on my lips.
You wonder what is wrong.
I tell you. I told you. I've said it until the words no longer make sense. What, then, is the point any longer of saying them? Either you believe me or you don't. My actions and my words are true. I promised you the truth of my heart and you have it.
I don't have yours.
I am beginning to believe it's no longer worth wanting.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
This morning on the way to work, they played Dolly Partons "9 to 5" which I must admit I love.
And it got me thinking, I need a good old fashioned mix tape (and by mix tape, I mean "iPod playlist" with awesome songs like that on it.
So I sat down to write a list. Thus far it's got "9 to 5" on it.
Can you kids help me?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
So, yesterday, it occured to me that most of us are pretty avid readers. And then I thought, HEY! What if we had a real imaginary book club?
Do you kids want to do that? We could pick a book and then post reviews/opinions/discuss in the comments.
This week I'm reading
read the reviews here . I purchased it on sale at Barnes and Noble, in hardback for under $5
Labels: book club
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
The lovely and talented Miss Lorrie Veasey did a one sentence book review a few weeks ago and I thought it was total brill.
So I thought to myself, self, (that's what I call me; "self") I thought, "self, you could totally do that one of these days when you don't have anything to blog" and then I said "uh, you mean like every day?" and then Self got all uppity with me and I had to go all Christian Bale on her ass and now no one at Starbucks will sit by my anymore, which is fine, because I prefer that my companions do not smell like cheese anyway.
Without further ado (and by "ado" I mean "crazy rambling"), I have reviewed this months reading list for you.
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Summary: Desperate times mean desperate measures and also lots of walking.
Verdict: No matter how bad things seem, there are good guys out there.
The Year Of Fog by Michelle Richmond
S; A little girl is lost...or is she?
V: The ones who love you most will never give up on you.
Ladder of Years by Anne Tyler
S: Can you really walk away from your whole life?
V: Not if you can't leave yourself behind too.
The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell
S: What happens when the forgotten are not gone?
V: "Female hysterics" aren't funny.
Duma Key by Stephen King