| Estoy estas esta estamos estan. |
Suzie and I think it's really, really funny to speak bad spanglish. I think that's the only preface you need for this pathetic excuse for a post.
me: hi Suzanne: het friend hey not het me: het yersef 4:14 PM how are you Suzanne: fine just doing paperwork 4:16 PM me: at work? Suzanne: home paying parking tickets, rsvping to stuff, filing, etc 4:17 PM me: ah, yes i do none of that BUT as soon as Thursday rolls around I be free like bird 4:18 PM Suzanne: no more physics? me: no mas! solamente genetics y trabajo 4:19 PM y...necesito correr porque estoy gorda 4:20 PM Suzanne: a mi tambien 4:22 PM me: a dios gracias, porque tengo mucho sweatpants con el waist elastico Suzanne: shut up I just cooked steak while wearing pajamas 4:23 PM me: estudio mucho en los sweatpants Suzanne: Sweatpants era la mejor ropa para todos los actividadios me: y necessito comer muuucho mucho mucho Chexo Mixo cuando necessito estudiar el mixo de Chexo, lo siento mucho 4:24 PM Suzanne: Yo quieroa mas el mixo de crispixitos 4:26 PM me: si, si todas las dias mi amigo Dr Poop no le gusta el jerky de carne NO ME DIGAS 4:27 PM Suzanne: que triste me: si muy Labels: friends, these are things I do instead of studying |
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| lists. sue me. |
1) My little brother and I had the following text conversation the other day:
Brother: Hey, can I cook salmon frozen or do I have to thaw it first?
Me: Thaw it in a bowl of ice water, then cook it.
Brother: Okay. Say I already cooked it frozen and ate it. What then?
2) I'm still in summer physics, but I have one more week left. And three more weeks of genetics. Hooboy. It's so intense. I like Physics, actually, and I like Genetics too, but my little pea-sized brain takes about a week to adjust to a new concept, by which point I've already sat for an exam on it (whoops) so this whole wild ride is getting a little old.
3) Last weekend Dr Poop and I went to a wedding in Chicago. Well, it was in the 'burbs. The ceremony was at a lovely church. Dr Poop did a reading (he's literate) and was an usher, so I was on my own a lot of the time. When the bride and groom emerged from the church, I wandered around to take pictures of them, but my photog session was cut short when a bird took dump on my head. A very public dump. Like, I hope someone rushed that bird to the hospital because I believe it was dying. I had to scurry inside and de-fecetize myself (I can't believe spellcheck allowed that) before I rejoined the group. I decided to keep the incident to myself because while I'm sure nothing says Your Girlfriend is Sexy like hearing her discuss waste on her head, I'm more subtle than that. So naturally when I sidled up to Dr Poop and all his friends and the entire wedding party, and he said "Where were you?" I screamed "GOT DOODY ON MYSELF!" which is the least flattering way to describe what happened. DPs friends were a bit thrown, but Dr Poop just leaned in and inspected my hair and said "Good job! I think you washed it all out!"
4) Remember when I had boob flu? It's back.
5) On a whim, I auditioned for a dance concert here. You know, because of all my free time. I saw the ad, thought "That sounds fun," and then auditioned before I could stop myself. I really miss performing, I guess, and I danced for so long that I thought maybe I could grab a chorus part or a small ensemble part or something. Turns out, I can fake talent because I got this soloist part, which is neat, BUT. BUT BUT BUT BUT. Here is what I'm wearing while I dance. In public. In front of actual people who I assume will not be visually impaired (yet): 1) A long sleeved shirt. 2) Underwear. Underwear. I have to dance in my underwear. Apparently it's because this dance is about intimacy and feeling uncomfortable and exposed and whatnot, but I was all "HEY! I was a theatre major! I can ACT uncomfortable, especially when clad in sweat pants! No problem there! Right? Guys?" but that fell on deaf ears. So I'm horrified. I'm not eating till September. (kidding). (sort of).
6) My birthday is next week, and Dr Poop emailed me saying "What do you want to do for your birthday? I have some ideas, but I thought I'd see if there was anything in particular you wanted to see/eat/do/etc..." And I wanted to say "Well, let me hear your ideas. Because if my idea is 'ice cream' and yours is 'jewelry' then let's do yours." But I didn't say that. Maybe we'll do both.
7) Ice cream? I guess I already forgot that I'm not eating till September. Dang.
8) I'm really in to dinosaurs lately. This is my current Facebook picture:
Isn't that the most exciting dino you've ever seen? It's a therizino. Look at all its flair. Plus, it was a vegetarian! All bark no bite!
9) I'm off to class. See you soon, poodles.Labels: accidents, potty humor, scholarly hats, these are things I do instead of studying |
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| goodness. |
Hey dere ho dere.
What's new, kids? Did everyone have a good weekend? Mine was okay. Not bad or anything, just shit tons of studying. I went to a baseball game on Friday which was fun, and then on Sunday some friends and I ran a race that went through the zoo, so that was nice too, but other than that it was physics till the cows came home.
Oh. So. Remder those pesky birds that live in my windowsill that I hate? I got so desperate and sleep deprived that I finally emailed my landlord asking for help. I can't get to them myself because my windows are bolted shut, but I begged him to call someone or do something because I was being driven mad by incessant chirping. Chirpscreaming. They're truly awful.
So he called some people and turns out, nobody can do anything until we have the birds evaluated by Conservation to make sure that they're not endangered. "But they are endangered," I thought. "Because I am going to smother them." Obviously, I'm not REALLY, but I don't go to bed until midnight or one because of school work, and then these fuckers start chirping at 5, so I'm exhausted constantly.
That being said, I suppose I can wait to make sure they aren't endangered. And I will just point out that I am sure they are, in fact, endangered for real. I'm sure they're extinct, even- a family of dodo birds perhaps. Because of course the only birds that would choose to take up residence mere inches from where I "sleep" are probably so ridiculously endangered that Conservation will end up offering them my whole house. "She doesn't need it," Conservation will say. "She doesn't sleep anyway, and she probably can live off her chub for quite some time." Go to hell, Conservation! I'm curvy!
I totally had a Monday today, you guys. The birds and I woke up early because we had to finish this big report and when I went to print it (obviously 7 minutes before I had to leave) the printer jammed and pooped out. I frantically emailed the last few pages to my friend who printed them for me (thanks, Katie) and then I booked it to school. It started pouring on my way, and by the time I got to my lab, I was absolutely soaked. Perhaps now would be a good time to tell you that I was wearing a white dress.
Just when I had convinced myself that my dress was not THAT see through, my grosso professor commented that he never knew I had a tattoo. My tattoo is on my hipbone. I was basically naked. Horrifying. It was like a combination of all the nightmares you ever have about school- showing up late big exam that day naked creepy professor who looks like the Hamburglar (robble robble) hellhole.
Plus my exam was dreadful. Whine whine whine.
I was in a pretty awful mood by the time I got to work. But then something lovely happened.
A few months ago, the project I'm on started following this (at the time) almost five month old baby who was in chronic respiratory failure. He is part of a large, beautiful, loving family that I adored immediately. In fact, even after our service with him ended, I would still go up and visit a couple of times a week because he was just such a doll. Everyone at work calls him my boyfriend. Dr Poop, to his credit, knows about my relationship with this baby and is very supportive- the one concession is that he refers to the baby as my "weekday boyfriend."
It started off as a joke, but then I think everyone realized what a wackadoo I am because they would say to each other things like "Isn't Meg coming to see Harry today? She KNOWS it's his 7 month birthday!!" And when I'd finally be able to sneak away from the NICU to go see him, I'd walk in the room and his grandparents would help Harry hold up one little fat finger and they'd say "Meggie is the number one girlfriend!"
That's because I told Harry once that it was okay if he had other girlfriends, I just didn't want to know about it.
Anyway, so obviously Harry and I were in super baby-creepy lady love. He was just so cute and happy and such a good sport about having a trach and a million different lines running out of him and stuff, and when I'd make him laugh he'd throw his baby head back and smile, and when he cried it would be big fat silent tears because the trach prevents him from making any real noise.
So, enough background. I got to work today and two different staff members saw me and ran towards me at the same time. I thought something was horribly wrong, but they said "Meg! Where have you been!? Harry got new lungs last night!"
You guys! My boyfriend got new lungs!!! Hooorrayayyyyyy!!!!!! This is such great news. Please forgive my gratuitous exclamation points!
I'm just so happy for him. Obviously I know we're not out of the woods yet, but I am just over the moon with joy. I'm so sorry for the family that lost their precious baby, but I'm incredibly grateful for and awed by their magnanimous generosity, and loving spirit. Because of them, lives have been saved and stories have new endings. That beautiful giving family is full of brave, darling, miraculous souls.
I happen to know that another baby I followed for a while was the recipient of a liver from the same little one who gave Harry his lungs. That baby and I were not in a relationship, but I'm elated for him as well.
It was just nice to have a gift of perspective, you know? I so easily fall into that trap of the Low Down Dirty Suburban White Girl Blues. Wahhh, my test is hard and wahhhh, my dress is wet and wahhhh, my car smells like crayons. Snap out of it, Meg. Life is full of miracles. And if I don't have to fall asleep every night praying for some other baby to die so mine can live, my life is pretty much just fine.
booya!Labels: on the job |
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| flattering. |
This morning I was getting ready for class while Dr Poop, who is on vacation this week, snoozed away. I'd already been up for 2 hours, studying and reviewing material for my summer physics class (one year of physics in 8 weeks- jealous?) so I was at least dressed and somewhat caffeinated when I went in to rouse him, but I was by no means put together.
Now, we all know I'm a big hot mess. Just kind of a disaster. Fine, whatever, I'm okay with it. I mean, it's not like I can HIDE it, right? But I really do TRY to maintain an appearance of normalcy. I fail a lot.
Like this morning. I was brushing my teeth while I multitasked, washing dishes and putting my school books away. I leaned over to reach a folder and my toothbrush, which is surprisingly heavy, fell out of my mouth. Grosso. Fortunately, my keen instincts kicked in and I caught it between my shoulder and my face because my hands were full. Even grosser. So then I had to go to the bathroom and wash the toothpaste off of my face and the little sweater I was wearing to work. I thought I'd done a really thorough job too, like really compensated for the fact that most people choose to catch things with their hands, but not me, no sir, if god didn't want me to catch things with my face he wouldn't have made my cheeks so big, you know? Anyway. I thought I'd cleaned my sweater really well.
Then I went in to my room and climbed in to bed next to Dr Poop, who rolled over and told me that the birds who live on my windowsill are bastards. Right he is. "What time is it?" he asked. "Almost seven," I said. "I have to leave for school soon."
"That means I have to leave too."
"Yeah. I don't want you alone with my stuff."
"Okay." He sat up, a little more alert but really, not awake. He's kind of like a toddler or Bob Dylan when you wake him up. He might need a minute or two to adjust to the world, and the whole process will go faster if you give him a juice box.
I handed him his belongings in order to hurry things along a bit. As he was taking them from me, he squinted and grabbed my hand, extending my arm fully. "What is that on your sweater?"
"Oh. Um, well I-"
He gently brushed at the huge white smear of crap I'd neglected on my shoulder. "You have stuff on you," he said helpfully. And then. AND THEN. He said completely seriously and without any derision or facetiousness, "What happened here? Did you drool, or sneeze on yourself?"
Apparently, I am so calamitous that my significant other assumed that the spot of bother on my sleeve was, for lack of a better word, snot. Usually I feel quite the walking disaster; at that moment I felt like Pig-Pen. I guess I seem like the kind of girl who could sneeze on herself and not let it be a day-ruiner.
Or, he's so accustomed to my self-imposed shitshow presentation that the thought of me drooling on myself, whilst awake, and not feeling any compulsion to hide or apologize for it, is not a ridiculous one.
Either way. I don't think it makes me look very good.Labels: I'm hopeless and really starting to feel bad about it |
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| people are funny |
via text
Brother: Hey, hows about for your birthday I take you to see La Boheme? Only it closes in late june so it would have to be an early gift.
Me: That would be lovely!
Brother: You are probably not too familiar. It was written by Jim Puckini, the same guy who did the opera Miss Moth. And it was the basis for the Broadway hit Grease.
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Nurse at work: I love your top!
Me: Oh, thanks. Only I realized too late today that it's a little risque. See? When I lift my arms like that, you can see my sides!
Nurse: Oh, yeah. You're right. Plus it's see-through. I can see your bra from here.
Me: Oh. Well. This is getting better by the minute.
Nurse: At least you WEAR a bra. Not all women do.
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Friend: Dude, I do NOT know how you are putting up with those damn birds. They would drive me insane. Are they driving you insane? Do you want me to make you a tinfoil hat? |
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| Erma's revenge |
Hey you guys. Do you remember Erma, the bird that lives and screams on my windowsill?
So it turns out that part of the reason she was so irritable is that she was knocked up. There were several buns in that oven, and she now has a passel of loud babies and they can all be happily loud together.
These little ones really do follow in their mother's footsteps. They are seriously loud for such tiny things. And I don't know if you know a lot about babies, but they need to eat a lot. And they wake up a lot. So I hear them all the livelong day.
I made this video so you could hear how loud these tiny babies are. You can't see them because of the awkward angle at which they live, but trust me. They're there.
Enjoy! They kind of do have cute little voices. I just wish they would simmer down sometimes, you know? Give a girl a break.Labels: babies, on the homefront |
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| that one time i went speed dating |
A few years ago, when I still lived in New York, my friend asked me if I would go speed-dating with her because she didn't want to go alone. Her offer was pretty enticing- "It's free," she said. "And there will be liquor and snacks." I don't remember exactly how I responded but I bet it was somewhere along the lines of "YUM I LOVE TASTY FREE HAPPY FUN BOOZE TIMES."
We decided to meet a few minutes before the event started and walk in together. And here is where my poor planning began. See, my friend showed up in a cute green top, nice jeans, and heels. I had worked all day nannying so I showed up in playclothes covered in yogurt and baby spit. What, boys don't like that? I think my outfit sent messages like "Wow, I sure am somewhat competent with children, or I at least am allowed to be near them a lot," or "Why no, that's not impetigo. I think it's banana bread batter...or paint...or shaving cream...I don't remember." You know how it goes.
Anyway, my friend was the one who had signed us up for this business, so I met her outside, immediately offered excuses for my outfit, and sheepishly followed her in.
There was a reception table staffed by three very lovely and attractive people who asked if my friend and I would like to be seated near one another. We said yes, which I believe to be the beginning of my friend's undoing. You see, I'm pretty sure they took one look at panting, sticky, misguided me and banished us to what I like to call Busted Girls Corner. It was the one dark, dank spot in the whole well-lit room.
And the room was pretty, indeed. Most of the other female daters had been placed in romantic, cozy, velvet-lined booths with whimsical light fixtures. They deserved it too. They had known better than to consider melted crayon near your eyebrow "a kind of makeup." So they were all dolled up and presented like some sort of Jane Austen/Red Light district hybrid while I was sent to squat on what seemed to be a milk crate under a spiderwebby fake ficus.
My friend was at least offered a chair, but she was guilty by association so it wasn't in the pretty, softly lit area of the room. It was like we walked in and they said "Um, miss? Seriously? Make an effort. Until then, into the dungeon corner with you. Try not to look at the guys directly or breathe when they're around. Give dignity a shot sometime, okay?"
I didn't mind. I had it coming. I felt sorry for my friend though.
So anyway, the way this speed dating thing works is you park your ass on a milk crate armed with a dull pencil (so you cannot effectively stab yourself in order to get out early) and a slip of paper with names on it. Every two or three minutes, a new gentleman saunters over to introduce himself to you and if he's dreamy you thrust blindly (not literally) for some sort of connection, or if he's terrifying you play Baby Elephant March in your head until the bell rings and he goes away again. Well. This is what happens when I do it. How I managed to be nearly thirty and unmarried mystifies us all.
The first guy who came over to me said, no joke, "So, I take it you aren't on the Jamaican bobsled team?" Before he said hello or anything. He said that. And waited for an answer. "Well." I said. "Well, no. Um. No. Why, are..are you?"
"No!" He said indignantly, as though I'd asked if he was up for eating a scab or two after this was all over. "I'm KOREAN." Believe it or not, but things went downhill from there. "I think we are done," I said.
No matter though because "DING!" And along came a new man.
"Wow!" He said when he sat down. "Hey, wow! You have really white, straight, even teeth! I heard that's something you should look for in a female!" (When I told my mom about that later, she tittered and said "I think he got you confused for a horsey.")
"Oh, thanks." I said, my awkwardness exploding by several orders of magnitude. "I brush!"
I was taking notes the whole time, because it was a good chance to break eye contact with people, and reviewing them later I realized what a judgey hobag I am. My notes say stuff like:
"tour guide" (I remember this one- this guy started his own tour guide company in New York but had only been able to sell tours to his parents thus far. Hope business has picked up, Jazon! (and that is how he really spells his name))
"I think he's 11"
"Gaston!"
"Wine teeth"
"Lazy eye"
"Fuck no!"
"What is wrong with his cologne!? It smells like the inside of my fridge when the power went out."
"Economist my ass."
"Clearly gay"
"clearly gay"
"CLEARLY gay"
"Greencard!"
"Your job isn't real."
"Your fly is open."
"Where are your eyeballs??" (I remember this guy too- he was so, so, so very stoned. Couldn't keep his eyes open.)
And of course, this one:
"VISIONIST"
This guy told me that he was a professional visionist. pop quiz. do you think this job most closely resembles that of a
a) interior designer
b) ophthalmologist
c) wedding planner
d) fake ass shit pile
If you picked D, you are correct! When I asked that guy what he did for a living, he replied "I'm a visionist."
"What's that?"
"I help you discover your vision."
"Like, vision vision?" I said, gesturing vaguely at my eyes.
"No. Like your inner vision."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
He rolled his eyes and sighed with a little more attitude than I found appropriate in someone with a fake job, and said "You see, let's say that all your life you had dreamed of being a dancer. But somewhere along the way, you lost that dream. I would help you rediscover your dream"
"Oh! So like I'd realize I had always wanted to be a dancer but I'm currently a CEO and I don't know how to make that transition- you'd help me figure it out."
"NO." More sighing. "That would be the job for the life coach. I'm the VISIONIST."
"So you would be the one to tell me that I'd always wanted to be a dancer?"
"Sort of. I would be-"
"I don't care anymore."
Okay, I didn't actually say that last part. I'm too polite. But I should have!
Anyway, it will come a surprise to nobody that the whole thing was a bust. I did NOT meet the love of my life there.
But I got this story out of it!
To close, here is a picture of my friend Laura and me when we got sunburns wandering around the zoo. I am destined to never ever ever be glamorous. I'm the one on the right.
 Labels: accidents, friends, help my brain is weird, this is why i don't have a boyfriend, when it's okay to kick a person in the crotch |
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| sorry in advance |
So, Kelsi, Dr Poop, and my wonderful friend Bean are all very, very gifted at the ThatsWhatSheSaids. I do not have the natural aptitude, however. When Kelsi and I lived together (boo hoo hoo, I wish we still did!) we would have conversations like this:
Kelsi: Our doorbell is broken.
Meg: That's what she said?
Kelsi: No. No she didn't.
Meg: Crap.
And Kelsi always maintained, when I would whine about being so bad at That'sWhatSheSaids, this wasn't something I needed to be good at- I could go my whole life successfully without uttering the phrase even one time. But I was still furious. I wanted to be good.
Then fast forward to my current life- Bean and Dr Poop are co-residents, so they've worked together for a few years, and they have very similar senses of humor. They are both also masters of the That'sWhatSheSaid. It's ridiculous.
Sometimes, when we're all hanging out, Dr Poop will very deliberately and obviously set up a TWSS for me, so that I can share some glory. But I caught on to that after the first one and refused to play. Condescending! You take your pity TWSS and shove it up your ass!
But today, I come to you with a small success. A wee little victory in the TWSS circle. Not to toot my own horn, but it was pretty good.
The problem was the timing.
Here you go:
NICU Pharmacist to a nurse:...unless you are giving it orally. With oral, you can do whatever you want.
Me, typing on a computer around the corner: That's what she said. THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID! THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID OH MY GOSH!
NICU Pharmacist: (Stare)
Nurse: (Stare)
Entire Neonatal Intensive Care Unit: (Stare)
Nurse: THIS is the NICU.
Pharmacist: You are sugar-coated evil.Labels: i'm kind of a jerk, on the job, potty humor |
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| I'm cured already. |
About ten years ago, I had a job at a low-income health clinic for a summer. It was one of the best jobs I'd ever had. I was originally hired to answer the phones, but someone ended up quitting and I got a weird "promotion" to Patient Specialist, which was the title they made up to cover for the fact that I was doing like six different jobs, none of which I had been trained to do. But it was fine. I loved the patients and I loved the medical staff and I had a really good time.
A lot of the patients who came in didn't speak English very well, so I got to practice my spanish while taking medical histories and stuff like that. Additionally, I got to triage patients, plan community education events for the neighborhood, and help design programs to meet the specific needs of people living at or below the poverty level. I felt very useful and helpful and like I was making a difference, so it was a really satisfying summer.
One of the patients who came in regularly was an old man I'll call Mr Robinson. He was eighty two, spunky as all heck, wore a funny little cap with a blue feather in it, and carried a pipe in his mouth at all times though he'd quit smoking some twenty years prior. He just liked the way it made him feel, he said. "Like a detective. Or a professor. Something distinguished with lots of girlfriends." And believe you me, if I had been just six decades older, I totally would have tried to hit that shit. He was absolutely darling.
So Mr Robinson would come in faithfully for his appointments, always calling the day before to confirm. I adored his calls and visits, because he was so cheery and coherent and responsible. Just a delightful person.
One time he called to confirm that he'd be coming in the next day, and as we were hanging up, he said something kind of unusual that gave me pause- "Oh, and tell the doctor I'll be bringing in my samples."
I could not fathom what he meant. Samples? Like, maybe, carpet samples? Was he redecorating? Or samples like at sam's club on the weekends when you can just walk around and gorge yourself on stuff fresh from the toaster oven whilst you shop for a gallon of salsa and a cheese brick the size of your foot? SHUT UP YOU KNOW YOU DO IT TOO. I really love the huge buckets of Twizzlers you can get there.
What on earth could he mean by samples?
Now, I'm not completely stupid. Had he said "I'll be bringing in my sample," I would have figured he meant a urine sample or something. But the thing is, we had a system in place to remind patients what they were supposed to bring with them when they came in for their appointments. There were little boxes that were supposed to be checked off indicating if we needed to remind them about a urine sample, or to bring a list of current medications, or their food journals-- stuff like that. I logged on to the computer to confirm electronically that Mr Robinson would be at his appointment, and noticed he had no reminder boxes checked. He was not supposed to be bringing in a sample.
"Maybe he made brownies. Or potholders or something," I reasoned with myself. And then, la la la, my brain moved on to bigger, more important things, like "Hey, is that security guard looking at me? OH MY GOD HE IS TOTALLY LOOKING AT ME. HUBBA HUBBA, OFFICER BEEFCAKE! I can't believe it! I have been fully in love with him for a week and now he's looking at me! Hooray! Hooray! Hoor- what the shit is on my gee dee shirt? What IS this, pepperoni? Aw, goddangit, it's on my BOOB. No wonder he's looking at me. I hate myself, I really do. Sigh."
like that. that's how it goes in my upstairs.
Anyway, the next day, I was working away when I heard "Hello, young lady" at the front desk. "Mr Robinson!" I crowed. "So lovely to see you!" We made small talk while I signed him in, I agreed that YES it WAS hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, and then I asked him to take a seat until his name was called.
"Sure, sure. Thanks, young lady," he said, turning away. "Oh!" he said, whirling back around and leaning forward conspiratorially, "Tell the doctor that I remembered my samples."
"Yes, yes. That's right. I'll let her know. You are so respons..."
I stopped because I'd been rendered speechless by what happened next.
Mr Robinson, grinning from ear to ear, was holding up his samples. And they were not potholders. No, no, they were not. It was a blue plastic bag from walmart that was chock full of, for lack of a better word, doody.
He had a big bag full of his own pooples. No joke. I was struck absolutely dumb.
"Mr...Mr Robinson...um. Nice samples! Hey. So. Is that...is that your...uh. Did you save...your...did you...did...did..." no joke. I was like a less composed Maxx Headroom, totally stuck on my words and absolutely incomprehensible. Fortunately, Mr Robinson is a sensitive soul, and he took pity on me.
"It's my samples! The doctor said to save them. So i did! I kept them in the freezer though. So they're sanitary."
I managed to nod and smile, and then I turned around and started shaking with that panicked, desperate, weepy church laughing that results from losing control in a situation where it is NOT okay to laugh. Marci, my bitter joyless coworker, noticed my horsey snorts and said "What's so funny?"
I wanted to say " oh my GAWD marci, Mr Robinson froze all of his poop for like three weeks and brought it in in a WALMART bag! A WALMART BAG full of frozen poop! In July! He has it right there FROZEN POOP IN THE WAITING ROOM WALMART BAG POOPY" but what came out was a tearful "poopsicles..." before I dissolved into giggles again.
She rolled her eyes and went back to writing invoices. see? joyless.
So things picked up again, and I missed the point in which Mr Robinson went in for his appointment. In fact, time flew by so quickly that I was truly shocked when the phone rang and i checked the time so that I could either answer "Good morning, Health Center" or "good afternoon, health center" or whatever, and it turned out to be none other than six o'clock. "Good MornAft-um-Evening, Health Center!" I chirped.
"Hello, this is Mr Robinson."
"Mr Robinson!" I exclaimed, whirling around to look in the waiting room while still holding the phone, as though I expected to be able to screamwhisper The call is coming from inside the clinic! But he had indeed departed. Who knew.
"How can I help you, Mr Robinson? Is everything all right?"
"Oh, yes yes yes, young lady. I'm just such a silly old man, I left something there today and I was hoping you could peek around for it."
Oh god.
"What did you lose, sir?" please say glasses please say glasses please say glasses.
"Oh, gee. I left my samples, actually!"
NOooooooooooooooooo!
"You did? Where did you leave them, do you know?"
"Well, I actually forgot to bring them in to the appointment with me, as it turns out. So they should still be right there in that waiting room, if you don't mind looking."
"Um, not at all. Will you kindly hold?"
I set the phone down and took a deep breath. "Marci, will you listen for the other lines? I have to go look in the waiting room for...something." Marci grumbled and shot me I Hate You Eyes, which I took to mean 'sure, no problem, meg.' and I stepped around my desk and started creeping through the waiting room like the world's most reluctant cat burglar.
Ew, i thought. What if it thawed out? Oh no, oh no...what if it MELTED?? THIS IS SO AWFUL.
My brief but thorough inspection of the now-empty waiting room was fruitless. I picked up the phone and said "Sorry, Mr Robinson. I don't see your bag. It might have gotten thrown away."
And god bless him, the man sounded So disappointed. "Oh gee. Well, that's what I get for being so darn old, you know? Never get old, young lady! I can't recommend it!"
I laughed and told him I'd keep an eye out for him, but in the meantime he should remember to pick up his new medications and I'd see him in a few weeks.
Then I hung up the phone and looked over the clinic contact sheet to see who you called to talk about missing poopsicles. I settled on one of my favorite nurse practitioners.
"Cheryl! Someone left poop in the waiting room." I tattled.
She didn't even look up from her computer. "Uh oh, someone isn't quite ready to be out of diapers." she said.
"No, no. It wasn't a kid, Cheryl. It was Mr Robinson. He brought in a bag of frozen poops and left them in the waiting room today only they aren't there anymore and I think someone threw them away because god knows you don't want that shit laying around...Ha! Shit! I wasn't even trying. Just came out. HA! JUST CAME OUT! Cheryl! Poop!"
She looked at me with such utter pity for my idiocy that I fell silent. "Meg. We cannot have poop in those trash cans in the waiting room. That's not sanitary. Someone has to go throw it out in a biohazard trash can."
"No they don't."
"Meg, yes they do."
"Ew. No they don't!"
"They. Do. Too."
"Holy disgusting, Cheryl. Are you saying I have to dig through the trash and find this bag of frozen poop and dispose of it properly?"
"Yes. but you should wear gloves."
"GODDAMMIT."
But of course I did it. I had to. So I put on like six pairs of gloves and my sausage fingers and I went to work.
And wouldn't you fucking know it, there were no blue walmart bags to be found in ANY of the publicly-accessible trashcans in the clinic! I even went through all the cans in the exam rooms and in the staff rooms. No poopsicles.
Which can only mean one thing to me, but I welcome your theories:
I'm pretty sure someone stole that man's bag of frozen poop. What they're doing with it, I do not care to know.Labels: old people, on the job, potty humor |
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When I was in college, I was fortunate enough to live with my best friends in a ridiculous suite that we somehow managed to wrangle from Residential Life. It was heaven on earth, basically.
 Halloween. Top, L to R- Bonnie McGee (Her halloween costume was "tits mcgee") Shmift, Fudge, Sarah Marie. Second row, me (my costume was Lady Hulk), and Jen. Bottom- Dawg and the Suzer
We had a really, really good time. I think it was one of the happiest times of my life- we were all surrounded by love all the time, basically. And I laughed all the time.
Mostly, I loved the shenanigans involved. I was in lab today and I got the giggles pretty badly and nearly fucked up my experiment because I was remembering one Shenanigan in particular.
Today in lab I had to make a siphon to measure the decomposition of KClO3 and the TA asked me "Have you ever worked with a siphon before?" See, the answer to that is "Yes. But not in a scientific context." Because my only prior experience with siphoning anything was our junior year when we had a pool party in our dorm room.
The girls and I had somehow snagged an awesome suite in a beautiful dorm that year- it slept six women with three large bedrooms and a party-sized common space. Shmifter had been named the treasurer of her sorority and as such had a huge budget from which to draw for the planning of events, dinners, etc. She suggested that we use some of her sorority money to buy the fanciest inflatable kiddie pool that any of us had ever seen, and she'd do some backwards justification by keeping it at the sorority house after our party. "I'll just tell them that the girls wanted me to buy one," she reasoned. "They never look at anything I do anyway." Someone sounds destined for a career in public office, methinks!
Anyway, that sounded just dandy to us. So off we went to the local WalMart and found the most ostentatious, high tech, bells-and-whistles kiddie pool ever made. It was about the size of our common area, it was three feet high, it had a slide and a floating palm tree fountain. It even had sections- an actual deep end!- and it was amazing. We spread the word that the party was in our room this weekend, and it was a pool party, so come prepared.
"A pool party!?" everyone exclaimed. "But its February!"
"Don't worry. It will be a heated pool," we promised.
"Gross. Sounds like a breeding ground for bacteria," some people said.
"You are no longer invited."
A couple of the girls didn't have class on Fridays, so that is when preparations truly began. We inflated the pool in shifts so as to minimize passing out and inflating-related headaches. We went to the local FarmNFleet and bought huge horse syringes to fill with vodka to make the floating vodka watermelons that would be bobbing in between guests. We mixed up other cocktails and decorated the party room. And finally, it was time to address the issue of filling that beast of a pool.
We were lucky enough to have some very handsome young men serve as our cabana boys, and I am not embarrassed to admit that we made them wear just black pants and bow ties. One of the cabana boys was a very good friend of mine (I'm attending his wedding next month! Eeee!) and he had the misfortune of living next door, so we dragged him over to our place and explained his duties.
"Jeffy," we said. "We are going to lower this hose down to the nozzle three floors below. Your job is to suck the hose hard enough that you create the pressure difference necessary to force the water to flow UP to our room, instead of down and out. Okay?"
"I have to suck the hose?" he asked.
"Yes please. Really, really hard."
"Okay," he said. God bless him. This is on the list of things we probably won't mention to his future wife. "Congratulations on a beautiful wedding! Your husband used to suck our hose."
We filled the pool three quarters of the way with room temperature water, and then added boiling water to heat it up. The cabana boys were in charge of keeping the pool heated all night.
People loved it. We had dozens of people in our room, taking turns making drinks and sitting in the pool and having diving competitions. Some kids even showed up in full on swim gear- like swim caps and goggles and nose plugs. It was really fun.
Until, of course, yours truly ruined everything.
The suzer and I got into an argument (not a real one) about something- I can't even remember what. I DO remember that we decided to settle it by wrestling. I am sure you see where this is going.
We were standing in the six inches or so of floor space NOT dedicated to the pool when the shoving began.
Shove.
Shove.
Shove HARDER.
Recover, tit punch.
Gasp! Laugh. Dive and tickle.
Full on wrestling ensues.
We were engaged in that ridiculous, drunken, laughing-so-hard-you-aren't-making-noise-and-can't-stop kind of play fighting that always results in tears when it happened:
I overpowered her, thrust her off of me, and we both landed in a tangle on the side of the inflatable pool.
Obviously, the two of us caused the side of the pool to cave in a bit and a tsunami of lukewarm vodka-flavored water surged over our bodies and onto the carpet-covered floor.
There was a huge collective intake of breath, and then a lot of "Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmm! You guyssssssssss! Look what you did!"
Water was, of course, everywhere. She and I were soaked and arguing over whose fault it was. I know, to this day, that the culpability was all mine, but at the time I refused to admit that. Instead, we launched into a blamefest while trying to sop up the water from the floor using approximately 1.3 paper towels. Needless to say, we were not successful.
And it wasn't just a splash here, a splash there, either. I mean, there is NO way that the apartment below ours was saying anything other than "What the fuck is dripping on my face?" when this occurred. Truly awful.
Shmifter took care of everything the next morning by having Jeffy siphon the water back out of the pool through the window and airing the room with a serious of strategically placed fans. Suz and I slept off our hangovers and then apologized a lot. To repeat, not one of my finer moments.
But, so, yeah.
That's how I know what a siphon is.
The end.Labels: accidents, friends |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
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