Ozone Schmozone!

As far as personal hygiene goes, usually I use Secret stick deodorant. I've always chosen it because: "It's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman". Well I guess I was feeling poor so I decided to try an aerosol-style cheapo brand of deodorant. First time out, I exit the shower, towel off and begin the application. Sometimes my body just takes over and spazzes out, because all of a sudden...it's like the can came to life and jumped out of my hand and crashed to the hard tile floor. The nozzle snapped off. It didn't just pop off to where you could jam it back on. No...it broke off. The can started spewing out a thick, giant cloud of ozone killing mist. I panicked. I tried to jam the broken nozzle back on the can. Meanwhile being asphixiated by chemicals. I thought about running with it through the house to throw it outside. Luckily I remembered that I was stark naked. I wouldn't want to scare the neighbors. I screamed for my husband who came a running. He threw a towel over the geysering monstrosity and calmly walked it outside. It felt like my lungs were going to collapse, but at least they weren't sweating. So anyhoodle, thanks to my heroic husband the crisis was averted. Sort of. Sorry Planet Earth.

P.S. I love using paper towels...so on the flip side.... Suck it Planet Earth!

What do you think of the rectum as a whole?

Ok...for the faint of heart....I'm warning you. Blog of graphic nature coming up.
About 15 years ago, I had to have reconstructive surgery on my *ahem* bunghole. I ended up with a nasty fissure up in that area. Oh Lordy it was painful. And just for clairification, I don't know how it happened. Don't jump to any conclusions. Nothing entered that delicate area. Hey folks, as far as I'm concerned, that's an exit only ramp. So for heaven's sake, get your mind out of the gutter. I can't really tell you went on during the surgery, since I was asleep and all. But before they will let you go home, you have to drink something and pee. Well, with this kind of surgery, they bandage you up by taping your butt cheeks together. Let me tell you, you can't pee when things are bound tightly down there. I asked the wonderfully kind nurse if we could free my ass from it's tapes of bondage. She complied. Yay! Free at last. Free at last. Thank God I can pee at last.
Ok....fast forward two weeks. Now I have to go back to the Doctor to have him check over the healing process. I go into the examining room and the nurse asks me to strip from the waist down. Then she hands me a bundle of cloth. I'm thinking it's the regulation sheet that they give you when you're at the " ladybusiness" doctor. She leaves the room, I strip and shake out the sheet. Low and behold, there is a perfect circle cut out of the center of it. Um....what the heck? I know I can be slow at times. However I just couldn't figure this out. Do I put it over my head and wear it like a poncho? Thank goodness I took a minute to think that through. How embarrasing would it have been to be sitting there wearing it like that? No....I'll just climb up and sit on the paper covered table and drape it over my naked parts. The nurse comes back in and pulls a step out from the side of the table. She tells me to climb off the table and kneel on the step. She called it the "praying position".
So I'm thinking:

Now I lay me down

to sleep

Here's my butthole

take a peek

She throws the sheet over my backside with my heinie poking through the hole. Okay, you probably saw this coming. But when you're naked and having to show a very private spot of your body to a virtual stranger, you don't always think straight. From that point on, that sheet has been lovingly referred to as the "Butt Poncho".

Anyhow...All was well and my bottom healed beautifully. That, by the way was a direct quote from the doctor. I took it as a compliment.

Marking your territory

I've been trying (sort of) to get back into shape. I'm not ginormous or anything, but I sure do need to firm the old lady up. So I've been walking in my neighborhood early in the morning. I've taken to dragging my wonderful son along with me, and it has proven to be one of my favorite times of the day. We talk about all kinds of things. Movies, literature and life in general. And as we're walking I point out all the dog poop along our journey. Not because I love poop, but I'm alerting him to the dangers of stepping in it. I'm sure he sees it for himself, and yet I must announce a new sighting each and every time.

There is a section along the way that some one has marked the pavement with spray paint. I'm pretty sure it's Zorro. About every 3 yards a white Z is painted. So we remark to each other....Zorro was here, oh look Zorro was there too. And so on and so on. But right next to one of the Z's is a big pile o' poop. Hmmmm....Looks like Zorro pooped here. Oh ..hahahahahaha. Aren't poop jokes the funniest? Maybe I do love poop.

tick, tick tick...BOOM!

As far back as I can remember, I've had a problem with noises. I don't mean every noise, but things like finger tapping, faucets dripping, and clock ticking. Some folks find these sounds soothing. Me? No! They turn me into a stark raving mad lunatic. Yes, it's the noises. Not my fault. No sirree. Uh Uh. No way. Not my fault, I say. But the thing that really makes me super duper, over the top, fists flying crazy is GUM POPPING! My darling sister was a master at this...um skill? I don't know if she was bitten by a radioactive spider or what, but this is totally is one of her super powers. It's like she has a a special set of teeth and a microphone imbedded in her jaw, because the level of sound was and still is unbelievable. Now when we were growing up, and someone would offer her a stick of gum, I would feel the panic start to rise in me. And holy crap on a stick, if I was trapped in a car when this would occur....well, you know the look of terror on Bruce Banner's face before he turns into the Incredible Hulk? Well that was me. Because look out! I would feel the anger rising and.....KABOOM! I would start yelling. I don't even remember if I first asked nicely for her to stop. I'm sure I did. I have impeccable manners. But she wouldn't listen. Plus, I swear, she loved to torture me. Which is the duty of all big sisters. And when my fury would reach the physical level, that's when our mother would intervene. Oh.....the betrayal. She would pull me off of Snappy McPopperson and tell me to go and look up the meaning of tolerance in the dictionary. What? I'm the one in trouble?....Mother, can you hear the ear-bleeding popping that is coming from that girl's mouth? Ack!.... Well as you can see, I'm quite scarred from those early years. And I am reeeeeeeaaaaallllly well aquainted with the definition of tolerance since I had to look it up a jillion times in my childhood.

I now live across the country from my sister and I miss her terribly. I recently had a brief but lovely visit with her. But at one point she reached for a stick of gum..........Where the f**k is the dictionary?

Third time's a charm.

First thing yesterday morning I took my little doggie for a walk. She pooped three different times on our journey. I have to say that when I was picking up turds for the third time...........not so charming.

Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining.

I think it would be great if I was given a law degree due to all the many hours I've logged watching "Judge Judy" and "Law and Order".

CHUNG CHUNG!

Where crazy never stops!

I work at a mental health center. I'm the person that answers the phones, so I'm the first person to deal with any of the crazy folks that come our way. It can be a very interesting and wacktastic.
Last week a dude called and wanted to know if we provided "anger management" classes. I said no, but that we have several therapists that deal with those kind of issues, and would he like to make an appointment? He wanted to know how much a session was. So I quoted him the price. He then asked how many sessions it would take to clear up his problem I told him I really couldn't say. That would have to be a decision between him and his therapist. He started to get a bit peeved and demanded to know HOW MANY SESSIONS WOULD IT TAKE AND HOW MUCH WAS THIS GOING TO COST HIM! I told him it depended on how angry he was. Mayyyyyyybe not the most professional response . He replied rather loudly "MAYBE YOU NEED ANGER MANAGEMENT". I thanked him for his suggestion and hung up the phone.