TMI Thursday - No, but really...this happened.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

I'm writing this on Tuesday because well, because it happened last night. I'd like to keep all the details fresh.

Last night, after I got home from work, I decided to take a bath before meeting my mom for dinner. For those of you who know me, you know how much I love a good bath. I had about an hour, so I settled in with a book for a good soak.

Of course, in the middle of it, I had to get out and poop, but that's a whole different TMI story. Probably one that doesn't need to be told.

Anyway, I finished my bath, but instead of reaching down to unplug the drain while I was still sitting in it, the way I normally would, I just...got out of the tub. With all the water still sitting in it.

I realized my mistake as I was drying myself off, so I went to the side of the tub where the drain is located, so I could lean down and unplug it.

Sounds simple, right? But here's the thing. My skin was still all wet. And my shower curtain is vinyl. It was basically like sitting in a car with vinyl seats on a hot summer day. My skin stuck to the shower curtain like a tongue to a frozen metal pole. All of my momentum was carrying me forward. I lost my footing and proceeded to fall, head first, back into the tub. Pulling the shower curtain into the tub with me, but somehow not ripping it from its metal loops on the rod itself.

It took me a few minutes to come to terms with what had just happened and then a couple more minutes to untangle myself. I got out of the tub, dried myself off and realized...I still hadn't unplugged the drain.

TMI Thursday - Gynecologists are the new celebrity hairstylists, apparently.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Today is my 30th birthday. WTF? How did this HAPPEN?

Boys? Feel free to skip this one. It's about going to the GYN. (That's gynecologist, for those of you who didn't bother to read the title.)

A little over a year ago, I found a super great awesometastic gynecologist. I'd tell you his name, but I don't remember it.

And therein lies the problem.

I can't remember his name. Which makes it really hard to make an appointment. I do remember where he practiced, so I went online to look him up, just knowing that if I heard the name, it would trigger my memory.

It didn't. Or else he's not there. I'm pretty sure he's disappeared off the face of the earth. So after a small freak out, I set about the business of finding a new GYN. Fun!

This, of course, involved asking all my friends for referrals.

I quickly realized that all gynecologist's offices, if not all doctor's offices, have incredibly long, convoluted answering machine thingamabobbies that make very little sense. Could you at least go in numerical order, guys?

The first lady parts doctor I called wasn't accepting new patients at all. Apparently she has all the business she needs.

The second womanly doctor was accepting new patients, but she didn't have any "new patient appointments" open until March. Thanks, but I'd like to not get pregnant in the next three months.

The third woman didn't have any appointments until June.

The fourth wasn't accepting new patients.

The fifth had retired.

What the HELL, people? I feel like I'm in Hollywood and trying to get an appointment with the latest and greatest waxer or hair stylist or something. You poke around in people's vaginas.

Luckily the woman who retired worked in a group, so I managed to get an appointment with one of the other doctors at the end of the month. Whew.

Now I just have to deal with all my anxiety about having a new lady in my parts. I almost had to resort to Planned Parenthood.

I don't know how many of you have ever used Planned Parenthood for your basic gynecological needs, but...it's not very pleasant. At least, my experience never has been, and I went for years.

I had one doctor tell me that if I was so worried about getting pregnant (after I asked her a simple question about trying a new method of birth control. Something along the lines of, "How effective is this, compared to the pill?"), I should probably just not have sex. Um, dude. You're PLANNED PARENTHOOD. I asked you about BIRTH CONTROL. You should be thrilled that I'm responsible.

Then there was the doctor who acted like I was some sort of sinner and she would have to cast out the demons because I have...SLEPT WITH MORE THAN ONE PERSON.

Then there was the doctor who didn't bother to, ya know, even TRY to be gentle with my girly bits. That one was the worst.

In related news, I hate the gynecologist. I just want my awesome dude back. No, that's a lie. What I want is to be a dude and not have to worry about this crap. What I want is to not be forced to go have my business poked and prodded just because I don't want to get pregnant. I'm being RESPONSIBLE and for that? I'm forced to go have my bits checked out once a year, for which I have to pay, then I have to pay for my prescription for birth control.

What I really want? Is to have my tubes tied, but I'm not allowed to make that decision until I'm 35-years-old. Which, let's face it, is coming at me like a freight train. Now, I love being a girl, and I wouldn't trade it, but let's stop with the inequality where this shit is concerned, mkay?

TMI Thursday - The Poop Ninja

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

In a new relationship, there are always some adjustments to be made. I like to watch TV when I fall asleep, he doesn't. He likes to keep his syrup in the fridge, I don't. You know the drill.

The biggest of these (hopefully) is poop. Not only am I not a big fan of sharing the bathroom with ANYONE, I don't want anyone smelling my poop, I don't want anyone to know I'm pooping, I don't want to poop in someone's bathroom, etc. I'd rather we all just pretend that pooping? Is not something I do.

Now, I've been around enough men to know that pooping isn't really as big of a deal to them. And by the way, thanks guys. I really do love to smell your poop in the morning. Or the evening. Or all afternoon while I'm working. It's awesome.

Well, Princess and I have been spending a lot of time sleeping in the same place. For warmth and the whatnot. You understand what I'm saying. Interestingly, neither of us is really willing to poop while the other is around. I was raised in the South with Southern Manners and all that, so technically I'm not even supposed to talk about my poop. You'll notice that lesson didn't really stick. At first, I thought I'd just be clever and suddenly have to "go home" for something. So I could poop. Of course that leads to all kinds of questions and eventually I just had to say, "Look. I have to poop. And I'm not doing it here."

One morning, things were getting really rough. I had to poop REALLY bad. I'm pretty sure I said, "Uuuhhhhh...I have to poooooppppp..." about a dozen times on the way to my place.

What I had yet to see, though, was Princess pooping. I don't mean see. Princess, if you're reading this, please. I never ever want to see you poop. Like ever. I mean it. Anyway, it was like the man never pooped.

Then one night, I woke up from a deep slumber (I'm like the soundest sleeper in the WORLD) to find myself alone in bed. Um, confusion, party of one. Then I looked over to see the light on under the bathroom door. Hmmmm...

It turns out that, all this time, Princess has been waking himself up in the middle of the night (he claims it's early morning, I claim those are pretty much the same thing) to take a stealthy poop. So I'd never be the wiser. But I am. I saw it. Again, I didn't see the poop. Just the evidence that the poop took place. Stick with me here, people.

This morning, when I went to pee, I noticed that, even though I was the last one to pee last night, there was a new roll of toilet paper waiting for me. (Yes, Princess does actually put a new roll of toilet paper ON the toilet paper holder every time it's empty. I know. He's mine, ladies.) When I came out of the bathroom, I glared accusingly at him and said, "Did you get up and poop in the middle of the night again?!"

He looked at me and said, "Yep." Cue knowing smirk.

Apparently, he's a morning pooper and he can't poop while I'm there (even though I leave for work before he does most of the time), so (because he's this regular) he's trained himself to poop before I wake up. Ya know, at like 3:00 am.

This led to an amusing conversation about super powers and that he should from now forth be called "Princess Poop Ninja" and how he poops so stealthily, no one will ever know it was him. Kinda like The Spleen from Mystery Men only...well, more subtle. And with a tiara.

TMI Thursday - The Pancake Story

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Disclaimer: Despite what you may think after reading this story, I AM a good cook. I promise.

A few years ago, I moved in with a boy. It was pretty much my first (and last) time ever to do so for any length of time. I had sort of lived with my high school boyfriend for a few months and I had kind of lived with my first Dallas boyfriend briefly, but technically he had his own room and we had another roommate. And when we broke up, we still had to live together. THAT was fun.

So anyway, on a bright shiny day in December, I began the process of cohabitation. And yes, I do mean BRIGHT AND SHINY. We had a heat wave and it was nearly 90 degrees the entire time we were moving. I was only moving from about a half mile away and he...well, he didn't really have much stuff.

Our apartment was wonderful, still one of my favorite apartments, despite the two soccer players who moved in upstairs and tortured us until all hours of the night. We had a pretty sizable balcony, on which we put my old breakfast table.

On our first weekend, I got up early. I was going to surprise him with "breakfast on the balcony."

I decided to make eggs, sausage or bacon (I can't remember which), and pancakes. From scratch. No Bisquick for this girl. I set up the table outside, started the coffee and then pulled out all of the ingredients for the pancakes. Everything turned out beautifully. I poured the coffee, put the food on the plates and took everything outside.

He took his first big bite of pancakes and got this funny look on his face.

"What's the matter?"

"They taste kind of...funny."

So I cut off a piece of mine, forked it up, and shoveled it in my mouth. My mouth exploded with the flavor of salty, syrup-covered hairspray. I spit my pancake out into the courtyard below our apartment and said, "THE PANCAKES ARE BAD."

He said, "They're not that bad," and started to take another bite.

I said, "STOP EATING THEM. THEY'RE TERRIBLE."

I couldn't figure out what I had done. I followed the recipe exactly.

Then I went into the kitchen. Immediately, the problem was clear. Instead of baking powder, as the recipe suggests, I accidentally grabbed the baking soda.

TMI Thursday - I guess you could call it a submarine.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Today's TMI post is brought to you by...my childhood in East Tennessee. Oh yes, we lived in the STICKS.

I used to have this cousin. I say "used to" for good reason. She was probably never really my cousin in the first place. See my mom married my sister's dad (not my dad) who had a brother who used to be married to her mother (but who was not her father), but wasn't any more. So basically we're like twice removed by divorce at this point.

She wasn't always terribly nice to me. I was younger and new and my mom wouldn't let me do anything fun. I will say though, that she's the reason I saw Dirty Dancing at the ripe old age of eight, when my mom probably would have chosen for me to wait until I was married. Sorry Mom!

Dirty Dancing: It's where I learned all about pre-marital sex and awesome dancing.

So anyway, when I met this sort-of-cousin, I was four, I think. She was five. We hung out a lot. I spent the night at her house all the time, which was cool because her mom let us do cool things like build blanket forts with chairs in the basement and listen to Michael Jackson records and dance until past my bedtime.

One evening, we were taking a bath together. I have no idea why. Probably it was just more efficient. Possibly we had made a mess of ourselves in the mud. There's really no telling.

We were in the tub, playing and splashing and I'm sure being ridiculous. Just by the way, this cousin is the reason you will never hear me pick dare at Truth or Dare, which I have still never played to this day because I was so scarred from her trying to get me to do or say things. Now I'm not scared of the truth, but I'm still a little scared of the dare.

Anyway, we were in the bathtub and all of a sudden, I looked down and saw something weird in the water. It wasn't floating, just sort of...sitting at the bottom of the tub. It was brown and kind of log-like in shape.

Yeah, you guessed it.

She pooped in the bathtub. WHILE WE WERE IN IT.

Oh, I wrote a blog today.

Yes, yes I did.

Go find it.

TMI Thursday - But she can't use tampons...

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

When I was 11-years-old, my mom moved me and my sister from Nashville, Tennessee to Honolulu, Hawaii. The whys and hows are long and boring.

We lived in Honolulu for a year. (I know what you’re thinking…no, it wasn’t really awesome.) During that year, my mom and my (now) step-dad tried their hands at a few tropical hobbies, like scuba diving.

This also happened to be the year that my uterus decided to start releasing eggs or whatever, so I could make the babies. Apparently my uterus thinks I’m Mormon or in a cult or something.

Dear uterus,

I do not want to make the babies. I certainly didn’t when I was 11. Please fall out and die and stop making me bleed every month. This is getting ridiculous.

Love,
Shine

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…

On the blessed day, I was home alone with my (now) step-dad. Let’s just say that he wasn’t on my list of favorite people. And here I am, bleeding from my tiny girl parts with barely a clue as to what’s happening to me.

I asked to call my mother, he asked why. I said, “I just want to call Mom, okay?”

I called my mom at the hospital (she’s a nurse) and explained what was going on in hushed tones. She laughed and told me it was just my period and no big deal. Turns out I wasn’t dying after all. I didn’t want her to tell my (now) step-dad because I was horrified about the whole thing.

She said she wouldn’t tell, but she would have him bring me to the hospital so she could give me some stuff.

Yes, I’m the only kid probably in the history of the world who actually had to go to the hospital for her first period.

I handed the phone back to my (now) step-dad and of course my mom proceeded to tell him what happened.

He turned to me with a big shit-eating grin on his face and said something horrible like, “I hear someone’s becoming a woman!”

Gross.

I immediately burst into tears.

The ride to the hospital was silent. We found my mother and she took me to the bathroom. Apparently the only “supplies” they had at the hospital were the, uh, GIANT PADS they give the pregnant women AFTER CHILDBIRTH. It was almost as tall as me, and nearly as thick as my arm. And I was supposed to fit it in my pants…

I waddled out and my (now) step-dad took me home.

Over the next couple of months, my mother suggested I try to use tampons. That was a no-go. At the ripe old age of 11, my vagina was a steel trap. And it did NOT want to be stuffed with cotton. So every month, when I got my period, I couldn’t swim.

One of said weekends, my mom and my (now) step-dad were going scuba diving. I went along to hang out on the boat. Some of their friends were there, and one couple brought their 18-year-old son.

Their drop-dead gorgeous (mind you, I was 12, at this point…) 18-year-old son. I fell in love on the spot. I had no plan, but I knew that we should get married and make many babies (And I could! I started my period!). I’m guessing he didn’t even really notice me. At first.

As we’re heading out on the water, the beautiful boy’s mom asked my mom, “Is Shine going to be snorkeling?”

Now, this would be a time when a simple “no” would suffice.

Instead, my mother said (right in front of the beautiful boy), “No, Shine is on her period. She hasn’t learned how to use tampons yet, so she can’t get in the water.”

Cue red face.

I don’t think I spoke a word for the rest of the trip.

Thanks, Mom!

Violence UnSilenced

I know that today is TMI Thursday (click for all of LiLu's TMI goodness). And this post? Is certainly TMI. But it's not funny or silly. If you want funny and silly, stop reading now (and come back tomorrow for an awesome guest post that makes my bad dates seem tame). This is the story I wrote to submit to Violence UnSilenced, a website dedicated to giving men and women an outlet to tell their stories domestic violence and sexual assault. Anyone can submit a story, and it can be done anonymously. The stories I've read have brought me to tears. This is mine (no tears necessary).

I didn't write this for your sympathy. I didn't write it to persecute anyone. I wrote it because it's part of me. I've told a few people over the years, but it's not something I generally share. I had a lot of trouble putting it in this little box. I'm having a lot of trouble clicking the Publish button. Trust me, it's not easy. It's my story, though. And now I'm going to tell it.

~~~~oOo~~~~

My mom was always “over-protective.” She practically interviewed my friends’ parents before I was allowed to sleep over at their houses. I wasn’t allowed to go to parties or stay out late or do any of the normal things that teenagers do.

Of course I didn’t understand. And of course I wasn’t okay with it. I whined and moaned and complained. And then one night (yeah, okay, no…this wasn’t the only time), I lied.

I was 15-years-old and there was a party. My high school boyfriend (though we weren’t together at the time) was going to be there and a bunch of my friends and I wanted to go. I knew my mom would ask if parents would be there. And if I said, “Yes,” she would say, “Then I want to talk to them.” So I lied.

I had been told that a bunch of people were just going to crash at the party, and I was welcome to do the same. So I told my mom that I was spending the night at a friend’s house and went on my merry way.

I may have been going to a party, but I had no intention of drinking. I didn’t drink and had never drunk, so I didn’t even really know what it was like.

Someone handed me a bottle of Coke and I drank it. I thought it tasted a little funny, but I didn’t want to complain. It tasted funny because about half of it was rum. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, now I would know the difference. But then I just didn’t want to complain or seem less cool. So I drank the damn Coke. All of it.

At some point in the evening, the party got a little loud and someone called the police. We all scattered like ants when the police arrived. I ran with one of my friends, to his car. We hopped in and he drove us down the street, where we parked and waited.

He was a cute boy (sort of). And I sort of liked him. I think he kissed me in the car.

After about 15 minutes, we drove back to the house. Most of the party had cleared out. This is when I discovered that “a lot of people crashing at the party” meant me and eight guys. Me. And eight guys.

I was freaking out. And more than a little drunk.

My high school boyfriend secured me a room by myself and I went to bed. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. The boy I liked.

“Can I please sleep in here? I have practice tomorrow and if I sleep on the floor, my back’s going to be all screwed up.”

I didn’t really know what to do. So I just sort of stared at him for a minute.

“You mean, you want to sleep in here in this bed with me?”

“I won’t touch you, I swear. I just can’t sleep on the floor and you have the only other bed.”

This is where the smarter, stronger girl says, “Too fuckin’ bad.”

But I said, “Um. I guess.”

And so it began.

The rest of the night is a blur of touching and crying and pain. I don’t know if I ever said “No.” I really can’t say that I did. But I was crying and trying to push him off me. The weight of him was so overwhelming that I couldn’t keep pushing. I tried to roll out from underneath him, but he had me pinned down. He was a basketball player; tall and strong.

And he was my friend.

So I thought.

But he wasn’t my friend.

I gave up. I gave up and let it happen. And when it was over, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep. All night, he snored while I cried quietly. I didn’t sleep much at all. I went to the bathroom to try to clean myself up at some point. It wasn’t pretty.

In the middle of the night, he rolled my way and carelessly tossed an arm over me. He was still sleeping, of course. His arm almost made me throw up. As I squirmed to get away, he rolled into me and pushed me off the bed. I hit my cheekbone on the bed frame on my way to the floor and gave myself a bit of a black eye.

Pretty.

I didn’t know what to do the next day, so I talked to my best friend about it.

Turned out she wasn’t my best friend at all.

She told everyone what had happened. Unfortunately, he didn’t see it my way. He called me a couple of times over the next weeks. Cussing at me, telling me that he didn’t rape me.

But he did.

I never told my mother. I never really told anyone else, save for one or two close friends. I don't think anyone believed me, so I just pretended it never happened.

A few years later, I ran into him at the mall. He walked up to me, smiling, and tried to hug me. I looked him dead in the eye and said, "DON'T touch me."

He seemed puzzled by my reaction. I walked away. He didn't think he did anything wrong. I'm sure he still doesn't.

But he did.

TMI Thursday - Possibly my worst date ever.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Yeah, I know. I've already told you about some bad dates. But this one happened a really long time ago.

About six years ago, I had a friend. I know, right? I had a friend! Okay, no. But this friend had a little boy who...was my world (and you guys know how I feel about kids). Cutest little thing you ever did see. He was three when I met her and five when she chose to cart him off to Louisiana to marry a crazy, controlling freak of an asshole.

None of this has anything to do with the story, except to say that I had this friend who wanted to join Match.com. So of course she wanted me to join Match.com. So I did. And this is the story of my very first online date.

His name was something I didn't bother to remember. James or John or Jeff or something. We chatted for about a week before we finally bit it and met up for a drink. Now, at the time, I didn't really drink at all. So when I say "a drink," I do in fact mean, one drink. We met at Gloria's in Dallas (really far away from where I lived). I had a margarita, he had a beer, we ate chips and salsa and talked and everything seemed okay.

He asked if I wanted to do something after the drink, so I said okay. But then he discovered he had left his wallet at his apartment.

"No problem," I said. "I can get this."

Thinking all the while, "Oh great...he's one of those..."

I paid for our drinks and then he said, "Yeah, but I can't be without my wallet for the rest of the night. I need to go get it."

Let me back up a second to say this, he was already at the table when I got there, and the waiter brought him his beer shortly after I arrived. He had already ordered it. When I ordered my drink, they asked for my ID. But this isn't unusual because as a general rule, I look about 15. I hadn't really thought about whether or not they would ask him for his ID, though.

I said, "Well, okay, so do you just want to tell me where we're going and then meet me there after you get your wallet?"

"My place is really close. Why don't you just follow me there and and I'll get it and then you can follow me to the next place."

This seemed harmless enough in my naive little mind, so off we went. I followed him to his place, fully expecting to sit in my car until he came out with his wallet.

"Why don't you come up and see my place, since we're here?"

"Uh, that's all right. I'll just hang out here," I said.

"What? You think I'm going to lock you in or something. Just come up for a second. You can stand in the doorway, if that makes you feel more comfortable."

Yeah, I'm an idiot. I went upstairs.

He showed me around and then said, "Oh, and this is my room."

I walked in and stood there, willing him not to toss me down on the bed and rape me, while he fumbled around in a drawer, presumably looking for his wallet.

Then he turned around with this weird look on his face and said, "I thought maybe we could play with this?"

I look up and he's standing there, with this really strange creepy yet hopeful look on his face, holding a pocket pussy. A POCKET PUSSY.

Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a pocket pussy before, but it looks like (NSFW! REALLY REALLY NSFW!) this.

"Wanna touch it? It feels really real." (I have serious doubts at this point that he'd ever touched a real one.)

I was so freaked out that I kicked him in the shins, turned around and ran out the door. I discovered that he had indeed locked me in, but I knew how to work a lock, so I unlocked the door, ran down the stairs and got in my car. I spent the next 30 minutes shaking like a leaf in my car, on the verge of tears, lost in Dallas. In another hour, I was home and in the shower.

I'm sure there was some flirting while we were having drinks. But flirting to the point of trying to put your sex toy on me? No. Just no.

He messaged me the next day. Not to apologize. To see if I wanted to hang out again.

Serious.

TMI Thursday - Be vewy quiet, I'm bweaking wabbit.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Okay, so I had another post all lined up about some lame softball failure. Then, somehow, while talking to Just A Girl, I managed to let slip that I had...um, done something TMI-worthy not too long ago.

Mom, Aunt Kim, um, other relatives and/or coworkers who aren't my sister? Please stop reading now. Seriously. I take no responsibility for your discomfort if you keep this up.

Last chance.

Stop.

NOW.





Okay, at this point, it's on you.

So I have a rabbit. No, I don't mean the cute, cuddly, furry kind. I mean (and this is NSFW. Really.) this kind (except it's orange).

A small while ago, I was...playing with said rabbit. Playing? You know what I'm talking about.

(As a side note, all of this really works better for me if I'm...on top. Even where a toy is concerned. This may or may not be important information.)

Suddenly, I heard a crack. At a crucial moment, if you catch my drift. And the whole thing just stopped. Cold.

I almost cried.

Upon further inspection, I discovered that in my, ahem...excitement, I had actually broken my rabbit.

No, no. It wasn't worn out. Though I've had that problem on many an occasion. What?

This time I had broken it. Nearly in half. The part that houses the batteries was hanging on by a thread.

Sadly, I did not take a picture. So I give you this MS Paint rendering:



Vibrator FAIL.

TMI Thursday - In which I don't have time to write something new, but I wrote this before I knew about TMI Thursday, so you should read it.

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

A while back, something strange happened to me in a Kinko's parking lot. You may or may not have already read about it (sorry!). It really falls into the TMI category, so...

Please to click here.

Also, I know everyone in the universe has probably already seen this since that's the way it always goes with me and YouTube, but this? Made me giggle ALL DAY yesterday.

TMI Thursday - Gas Pump Fail

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

Several of you have commented that you'd like to hear the story of how I accidentally walked in on a donkey show. And I really want to tell you. But I can't tell you here. I'm going to try to write that story up elsewhere today, so if you'd like to read it, shoot me an email (ishineoutloud [at] gmail [dot] com) and I'll send you the link when the story is posted.

Today, at shine out loud, however, I'm going to tell you about a rather embarrassing incident that happened to me quite a few years ago (Read: TEN). You'll recall that I used to work at Kohl's Department Store. If you click to go read that, I'm sorry. Really, I am. But if I had to deal with it, I feel like it would be wrong of me to keep it from you.

I had to dress up for work in the department store, which usually meant I was annoyed and uncomfortable. I had one pair of shoes, however, that looked dressy enough, but had these giant rubber-ish soles, so they were really comfy. Look, it was 1999 or something. Trust me, they were cute at the time. Kind of like this:



I was forced to wear pantyhose at this job. Much like Lemmonex isn't interested in working in a place that will make her remove her nose stud, I am not interested in working in a place that will force me to wear pantyhose. EVER AGAIN. They are the most horrifyingly uncomfortable things I've ever had to wear. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with my legs. Hell, they make pantyhose to look like legs, anyway. Why not just put my legs right on out there? Sexist bastards.

And if you're about to tell me that you've worn pantyhose all your life, and they're not uncomfortable, hear this: That's the pantyhose talking. You've been brainwashed.

That was quite a detour, but I think it was a necessary one.

On the day in question, I was wearing a sheer lavender shirt with a white cami underneath, an A-line skirt, pantyhose, and the aforementioned Mary Jane shoes. I had to be at work right after lunch, which happened to be a really busy time for the main street in my 'hood.

On my way to work, I noticed I had almost no gas, so I stopped at a 7-11 right off the main drag. I pulled my car up to the gas pump (there was only one) and turned off my engine.

Now, I should explain that the gas pump had those concrete barriers around it to make sure that if someone crashes into the ends of the pump, they don't take out the pump itself. Sometimes these consist of giant concrete poles, but these were little concrete half walls. They came up to about my thigh.

I got out of my car, walked over to the pump station, and did the whole paying thing. As I reached for the handle of the pump itself and started turning toward my car, my shoes sort of...tripped me up. They stayed in their current position, while my body tried to make a 180 degree turn. You can imagine that this didn't really go over very well, especially when you consider how clumsy I am already.

I toppled over backward and landed, wedged in between the concrete half-wall barrier and the pump station. Hard. Unable to move my hips and wriggle out hard. Legs up in the air arms flailing hard.

All this time, mind you, there are cars on the road right next to me. Stopped at the traffic light. People were laughing and honking and cat-calling (as everyone could now see up my skirt).

I managed to brace with my hands against the concrete and the pump station, twist my hips, and get my feet on the ground. When I finally got myself into a standing position, which took quite a bit of effort, there were about 15 cars of faces staring at me, not to mention everyone inside the 7-11 and everyone in the parking lot.

My pantyhose were ripped (Oh, darn!), my shirt was torn and smudged with black, and I had huge bruises on my arms and legs. I. Was. Not. Happy. And having a bunch of people hollering (What? I'm from Tennessee. It's a word.) at me wasn't helping.

Also, in the melee, my gas cap flew out of my hand or off my car or whatever. The point? It was lost. I had no idea where it was, so I started looking around for it. Some guy in the parking lot said, "Hey! Hey. Lady!"

I turned and gave him my best bitch look. I really didn't need any more comments from the peanut gallery. "Look. I've had enough, okay? So just keep your fucking comments to yourself, asshole."

He looked at me, sort of taken aback, and said, "Um. I think it's over there." He was pointing at my gas cap.

I felt like a jerk. I was late for work. And my pantyhose were ripped!

TMI Thursday - Tidal Wave

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It's time for LiLu's TMI Thursday!

(This is really gross. I'm just going to warn you now. It still makes me puke in my mouth a little. I don't think I've ever actually managed to tell this story in its full glory. Please don't hate me.)

I used to work retail. A lot of retail. My services (hehe) have graced establishments such as Sam Goody, American Eagle Outfitters, Lids (the baseball cap store), and some shoe store in a horrible outlet mall where I swear they just used a dump truck to dump all the shoes in there without a concern about having them in pairs. Ugh.

But possibly my worst retail experience was at Kohl's. I don't know if you have them where you live, but they're a discount-ish department store, kind of like Target, but without the groceries.

My title? Department Supervisor of the Lingerie Department. Sounds sexy, right? No.

I'm sorry to burst your bubble here, boys, but WOMEN ARE NASTY. Okay, not all of us are nasty, but the nasty ones more than make up for any nastiness lost by us normal girls.

Basically, it was my job to make sure that all the bras and panties and sexy nighties and pajamas found their homes on hangers and that all the dressing rooms were clean. By the way, I wouldn't hang up a bra now if you paid me money to do it (I probably would).

I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't try on underwear. I know what size I wear and I buy that size. If I get it home (wash it) and try it on and it doesn't fit, well, I'm just out that money. Not all women feel this way.

NOTE: If you're a woman and you're reading this, when you buy underwear WASH IT BEFORE YOU PUT IT ON. Trust me on this one.

I had to keep a stash of gloves in my little podium because I was constantly finding tried-on underwear in the dressing room. AND I'M NOT TOUCHING THAT WITH MY BARE SKIN. Gross.

Then I started finding dirty, used, pre-owned underwear in the dressing rooms with the empty hangers from the brand-new, clean(ish) underwear that had been stolen.

The last straw?

I walked into the dressing room and was hit with a wave of stench in the air. I gagged and walked back out. But really, no one was going to deal with whatever it was but me. So I trudged back in. One by one, I opened the dressing rooms and peeked in. Expecting to find some small, dead mammal. Oh, how I would have preferred that to what I actually found in the last stall.

It seems the last woman in the dressing room was having a visit. From her Aunt Flow. A really really really really really big visit. Like someone climbed up into her uterus and used a Samurai sword to shred it big one.

In the dressing room, I found her underwear, which was soaked clean through. Her used tampon. And her old, worn, and...distinctly-more-red-than-anything-else pants. And a GIANT red spot on the carpet.

She had taken clothes and underwear from various departments and apparently decided that my dressing room was the place to change.

I nearly puked, turned, and ran. I found my manager and explained. I was told that I needed to start cleaning it up. I quit.

TMI Thursday - Sometimes it just ain't pretty

Welcome to TMI Thursday. Please buckle your seat belts and keep all your appendages to yourself. Or share with your neighbor.

As you know, LiLu started this whole TMI mess and now...well, it won't stop.

If you'd prefer a more racy TMI story, shoot me an email and I'll tell you where to find one. This will probably not work if I actually know you or you are a member of my family.

If you've ever thought to yourself, "Oh, hey, that shine is pretty cute. I might have myself a little bloggy crush on her..." (I realize this is unlikely, but I'm warning you anyway), this story will probably cure you of that. Or you can stop reading here.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I had the brilliant idea to go to McDonald's for lunch. You see, it's close and it's fast, and I really wanted some French fries (yes, Antje, I know French fries are the devil and so is McDonald's, but I did it anyway). I was trying to finish up Water for Elephants for book club with my mom and sister, so I just wanted to sit somewhere and read.

I ordered a cheeseburger and some fries and sat down. Next to the play area. Like an idiot. Just in case you were thinking you could have any semblance of peace at a McDonald's, you'd be wrong. I'm not really super fond of kids to begin with, but screaming ones are really not my fave.

I ate about half my food, read as much of my book as I could, and left with a big, fat headache and an urge to kick kittens. Which I would never do, of course.

When I got back to the office, I dove right back into my work...but within a half hour, something was just not right.

Have you seen Van Wilder? I know, I know, but I love that movie. Possibly because I love Ryan Reynolds (and Kal Penn). At the end, there's a scene in which the incredibly intelligent and talented (I keed!) Tara Reid puts "colon blow" in her douchebag boyfriend's pre-exam shake. Mid-exam, his stomach starts to make all these rumbling noises.

Wait. Here, just go watch it (embedding disabled by request...blah).

Done?

So basically, I'm sitting at my desk when...RUMBLE. It felt like something was shaking up my intestines. And I don't poo at work, people. We only have one bathroom and I do NOT poo in it. But this time? I wasn't really capable of waiting it out. There were noises coming from my intestines that were probably scaring people in the next county.

I went into the bathroom and basically...assploded. It was like liquid in there. My poor insides were practically crying with relief. I've never been so happy to take a shit in my life. Ever.

The bad news? One of the boys had just taken a shit. Which means I had to sit in there smelling it. The good news? No one is the wiser about my assplosion.

I'm sorry to do this to you, folks. And I know you'll probably never look at me the same again. But every once in a while, a girl has to take a really big shit.

TMI Thursday (not really) - My vacation hated me. Or at least the travel parts did.

Okay, so I know it's TMI Thursday, and I should be writing a gross or hilarious story to entertain you. But I'm not gonna. Today, you get to hear the story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down...oh wait, that's the Fresh Prince theme song.

You get to hear about my vacation. Or at least the travel portions of it. It was almost as eventful as my trip to Tennessee. But with less funny stuff and more almost crying. Mostly, it's just that I'm a dumbass. So you already know that:

1. I made my flight arrangements with the AM/PM screw up.
2. I managed to get food poisoning or some kind of bug two days before my trip.
3. The same day I was puking my guts up, all my sleeping arrangements fell through and I had to scramble around to get a hotel in Seattle. By the way, nothing is cheap in Seattle.

What you may or may not know is that on Saturday, after I went to work at my mom's, I was finishing up my packing. I went down to my car to get something and I...fell down the stairs and twisted my ankle. Not a sprain or anything, but still.

So I wrapped it up and kept on truckin'. (That's what she said! At least in my head, somehow.)

My friend Leslie took me to the airport and dropped me off. I decided to check my bag because when I'm traveling for nine days, I really don't want to have to worry about my liquid situation. Plus, I totally hate going through security anyway. The whole thing is getting a little out of hand.

When I checked in at the gate, the woman said, "Well, you got the last seat on the plane!"

Um, hi, excuse me. I bought my ticket on this plane weeks ago and you're telling me that I JUST NOW got a seat?!? Buying a ticket now means the same thing as thinking about buying a ticket, apparently. Let this be a lesson to all you smug bitches who think you've got a seat on the plane. YOU DON'T.

After all that, I figured I deserved a beer. I walked over to the bar and ordered a tall one. The bartender asked the usual questions, so I told him my story. And he totally gave me free beer! The woman next to me said I had "great style" (ahem, in my $15 Target dress, thank you). Things were looking up.

The plane to Denver took off and landed without a hitch, and my friend Bones was there to greet me at the airport. We decided to just stay and hang out in Denver with Joanna and Tony. Everyone had a good time, and on Monday afternoon, Bones dropped me off at the American terminal at the Denver airport for my flight.

Only my flight wasn't on American. Instead, this leg of my trip was on Alaska Air, something I totally didn't realize. So, off I went, across the entire terminal to find Alaska Air. Not that I don't enjoy a good scenic tour of the airport, of course. And this fit perfectly in with most of the other things that had happened on my vacation.

I got to Seattle and my friend Brian picked me up from the airport. We hadn't seen each other in five years, so there was much hugging and excitement. Seattle was wonderful and I promise to tell you more about it at a later date. This story, however, is all about travel hell. For this purpose, I'm going to skip to the end of my vacation.

My flight was at 11:30 pm on Sunday night, which put me back in Dallas Monday morning at 5:00 am. My friend Patrick (Don't blame me if you click that link and don't understand anything on his blog. I don't either.) actually agreed to pick me up. When I got to the airport in Seattle, however (after a day of drinking and hanging out by the pool), I found that my flight had been delayed for an hour. I called Patrick to let him know, and Brian hung out with me for a little while.

My flight was set to board at 11:50 pm, and take off at 12:30 am. They loaded us on the plane around midnight. But the plane went nowhere. At 1:30 am, the pilot's voice sounded in the cabin, "We're sorry folks, but we've decided to screw you all over. This plane is broken and it's not going anywhere. Please file off the plane and line up at the gate to change your travel arrangements."

Okay, so that's not exactly what he said, but it's the general gist of it.

Lucky for me, I was sitting in row 12. Which meant there were only about 40 people in front of me in line. At no point did they bother to call in extra American Airlines employees to help sort out their mess. I suspect that there are some people who are still standing in that line.

I thought maybe I would be sneaky and call to change my flight arrangements while I was in line. My phone had very little battery, but I whipped it out and dialed American Airlines.

First of all, technically, my flight had left the day before. So the system thought I was trying to make flight arrangements for the following year. Yeah, that's not annoying. Once I finally got a person on the phone, she said, "Well, ma'am, I can't really help you. They're not showing that flight as canceled in this system, so I can't change your reservations."

I said, "Okay, let's say I missed my flight."

She said, "Ma'am. As far as I know, you're on that plane. I can't do anything to help you."

Seriously?

So I gave up and hung up the phone. What else could I do?

A few minutes later, the women from the gate (who's supposed to be helping people change their flight arrangements) comes by to hand out the number for American Airlines, so we could all call and settle things. I let her know that they wouldn't help anyone until she pushed the little button for "Cancel This Flight."

She didn't seem to think this was terribly helpful.

I waited in line for almost two and a half hours before I got to the counter. And I was in ROW 12. At one point, someone got on the speaker and said, "We've rescheduled this flight for noon tomorrow (when really they meant the same day, as it was 3:00 am), but there will be limited seating for those of you in line." Really? Who the fuck else have you put on this flight? Shouldn't the people you just screwed over at least get the first chance at the seats on the new flight? No?

The soonest I could get to Dallas was 2:45 pm. My new flight was scheduled to leave at 6:00 am, with a layover in LA. I was so happy to have a flight, I didn't really ask any questions. And she never mentioned my luggage, which I had checked to be on this flight. She didn't even tell me what airline I was flying (Alaska Air...again). The thing about American is, even if you're flying a different airline, they don't really tell you. Nor do they give you the real flight number. You get the American Airlines version of the flight number, which has little to do with the actual flight number on the actual airline. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I finally figured out the airline situation and decided that my best course of action was probably to go find my luggage and make sure it got on my new flight. So I went down to baggage claim, found my bag, went back up to the ticket counters. Alaska Air is, of course, on the opposite side of the airport. I had to pay to check my bag (AGAIN. I had just paid to check it on the American flight), which pissed me right off. Then I had to go through security again because they don't really care if you've been inside the airport all night and just had to come out of the secure area to get your bag because your airline is so jacked up that they canceled your red-eye flight and you just want to get back in there so you can possibly take a nap with the homeless dudes sleeping all over the airport. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I made it to the gate, tried to fall asleep, didn't fall asleep, got on the plane and took off for Seattle. I had a middle seat, making it nearly impossible to sleep on the plane. I'm going to just make a new rule here. If it's a two hour flight, YOU CAN HOLD IT. Stop climbing over me to pee. Go before you get on the plane, and then sit there quietly for the duration of the flight. You're a grown-up. You do NOT have to pee every hour.

What? Everyone else is allowed to make rules, but I'm not?

Anyway, I get into LAX to discover...LAX is like the shithole airport of the planet. I don't know where anything is and there's no one to really tell me. I can only seem to find four other gates, but none of the televisions have things on them that are useful to me. I have no idea where I need to be, I only have an hour to get there, and my phone is almost dead.

I decided that getting to my next flight was totally worth killing the rest of the battery in my phone, so I looked my flight up online. It said I needed to be in Terminal 4. Great. Now where the hell is Terminal 4?

I found a little place for a "shuttle." I think bus would probably have been a more appropriate word, but whatever. I had to take two, TWO buses on the tarmac, WHERE THE PLANES FLY to get to my terminal.

This is when I discovered that it's not possible to get anywhere in LAX in under an hour. The good news (depending on your perspective) was that my flight to Dallas had been delayed for two hours. Not exactly comforting, since my last delayed flight was canceled.

After I made it to the proper terminal and even the proper gate, I realized I still needed to check in to get my boarding pass. BUT WHAT IF I DON'T HAVE A SEAT? There are 25 people in line in front of me and at this point, I was almost in tears. I had been awake for over 24 hours and hadn't had any food since the previous day around 4:00 pm.

It turned out that I did have a seat. And the plane did take off. So a mere 16 hours after I arrived at the airport in Seattle, my flight landed in Dallas. By the way, this was also only about 15 minutes sooner than I would have landed had I just stayed in Seattle and taken the rescheduled flight. Awesome.

I had already decided that there was no way my luggage had made the trip with me, but it rolled off the carousel. I thought I was home free.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

On the way to my place, having stopped to get some food and feeling much better about life, I stuck my hand in my purse to retrieve my keys. But there were no keys to be found. In a flash, I remembered using my bottle opener earlier in the day and tossing my keys on top of my bag. They must have fallen into the couch or something.

My apartment complex does not consider being locked out an emergency and the tears of frustration and exhaustion were threatening to fall. I won't bore you with the rest of the story, but I will say that there was a locksmith involved (and the stupidest man I've ever met in my life) before I finally found my keys in the bottom of my suitcase. WHERE THEY HAD BEEN THE WHOLE TIME.

Asshole keys.

Please feel free to share your traveling horror stories to make me feel better.

TMI Thursday - Lock it up

Even though I'm on vacation (sitting at Tougo Coffee in Seattle, having a latte with Brian who runs the place), I thought I would share this little TMI Thursday story with you. Thanks to LiLu for once again encouraging me to make an ass of myself on the internets.

I used to live in this house in the suburbs with a couple of roommates (one of whom was my boyfriend at the time). When we all moved out of the house, I had to move back in with my parents for a little while. Yuck. Love you, Mom!

My neighbors had a little dog named Hunter, or "Hoosty." I have no idea why he was Hoosty, but there it is. Shortly after I moved out, they asked me to dogsit. Of course I was happy to do so. My boyfriend wanted to go to some party with his work people, so we did that first. I soon got tired and wanted to go home, but he wanted to stay out (I used to be kind of a wuss...). He drove me back to the neighbors house and then went back to the party. But he was going to come back and stay with me later.

I put on my cute little white nightie with the little pink flowers. And the matching cute little white panties with little pink flowers. You know...so I would be ready.

Then I walked out into the backyard with Hoosty.

Seems pretty safe, right? But what I had failed to notice (and my neighbors had failed to mention) was that they had the kind of door that appears to be unlocked on the inside, but when you get outside (in your nightie), it is most definitely locked. And then you're stuck outside. In your nightie.

Probably in this scenario, you would stay put. Wait for your boyfriend to get back from the party and let you in, right? I mean, he had a key and everything.

But it was cold. And I had no idea how long I would have to wait.

My parents house was only about two miles away, and I was a little tipsy, so really my only logical choice was to walk. To my parents house. Barefoot. In my little white nightie.

So I set off. I should mention here that my feet are really sensitive. I can't even walk on those aggregate sidewalks. You know, the ones with the little pebbles in them? Yeah, no. Ouch.

Well, between my neighbor's house and my parents house, there was maybe a half mile of sidewalk. I spent most of the walk through the neighborhood on my tippy toes, trying not to step on so much as a twig. Unsuccessfully.

Once I made it out to the main road, I had almost forgotten that I was only wearing my little white nightie. Which maybe covered three-quarters of my ass. And maybe three-quarters of my boobs. Sexy.

All I could think was, "Oh, sidewalk! Glorious sidewalk!"

Then, "Oh fuck. I'm naked."

What choice did I have at that point, though? I was no longer tipsy and really contemplating my course of action. It was a stupid thing to do, but I was already halfway there. The half ahead of me had a sidewalk, where the path back to the house had twigs and rocks and crap. I forged ahead.

It was about midnight and cars were sparse on the road. Two cops passed me, though. You'd think, if you were a cop, you might come to the conclusion that the chick on the side of the road walking barefoot in a little white nightie (in a residential neighborhood) might be having some kind of issue. They did not.

Right about then I heard an odd hissing sound. I looked around, but didn't see anything and then --

FWA SSSSSSSSS CH CH CH CH!

Sprinklers. On me. On the side of the road. In my little white nightie. Ugh.

Quickly I was soaked to the bone. And far more naked than I was before.

A pickup truck sped by me on the road. I thought, "Whew. At least he didn't stop." And then I saw his brake lights. He threw his truck in reverse and backed up to my location. The whole time I was chanting, "Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit" under my breath.

He got back to me and leaned over to roll down his window.

"You look like you've gotten yourself into a bit of a mess. You need a ride, little lady?"

Uuuuhhhhhh. Crap.

"No, sir. I'm good." I meant to do this, obviously.

"Is there someone you could call or something? Do you want to use my phone?"

"YES! Could I please call my 6'5" tall, incredibly buff (this was a lie...) boyfriend and tell him I'll be at my parents house. It's just right up the road."

"Sure. You sure you don't need a ride?"

"No, thanks."

So he let me use his phone and I called and left a message. Then I walked the rest of the way to my parents house, soaking wet and freezing cold. But I made it.

When my boyfriend came to pick me up, we had a "discussion" about how stupid it was to walk to my parents house naked. I had no choice but to agree. I didn't even get any that night.

And I haven't worn that particular little white nightie again.

UPDATE: Upon request and because I forgot initially. My little white nightie possibly looked something like this...but white. And with little pink flowers.

TMI Thursday - In which I show you some pictures

So I'm sitting at home. I think I have food poisoning. I've been puking...among other things all day. I feel like shit.

What better time to go through some old photos and share the embarrassment? Now, I don't have a scanner here, and these are all old photos, so...I took pictures of the pictures with my phone camera. True story. They're blurry, so it's pretty much useless to click them. But I think you can get the idea.

First up, the wedding of my mom to my dad. They were both 16-years-old at the time, I think. My mom is gorgeous, by the way. And like six months pregnant with me. So I guess technically, this is our first family photo.



Now for a family photo in which you can see me. I haven't bothered to ask my mom what's up with the unfortunate haircut.



And the whole family shot? Just look at all that lovely '70s hair! Props to Aunt Kim, at the bottom, for keepin' it real with the long hair.



Proof that I'm pretty adorable?





That kid in the picture up there? Yeah, that's my dad. Say hi to Dad's acne, everyone!

As I got older, I got even more cute. Which is hard to believe, I know.





This post has been cut short due to the internets I steal at home being really sucky today. Get better internets neighbor!

TMI Thursday - Please keep your penis to yourself.

I don't usually participate in TMI Thursdays because I don't want any family members who read my blog to have a heart-attack. However, I might have mentioned this to LiLu, and she might have said, "Um, why haven't you written that up as a TMI Thursday?" So here we are. Don't worry, you won't throw up (oh, the build up!). It's not even about tampons this week!

I pretty much had the same boyfriend all through high school. Of course, being high school kids, we broke up probably 37 times. And during those breakups, I dated other people. Somewhere near the end of high school we had a much more permanent breakup (it lasted six months, I think). I met this older guy who worked at (gasp!) CompUSA and played the guitar and had tattoos and thus started my fascination for semi-geeky musicians (to date, I have seriously dated TWO astrophysicist musicians. Who does that?).

Also, my mom hated him. That helped tremendously.

As I said, he was older than me and had more experience and didn't really care about my innocent high schooler status, like my high school boyfriends. And he had his belly button pierced. Which is just weird for a guy. I thought it was cool. I was young.

We both still lived with our parents, but as his were infinitely cooler than mine (read: didn't really care if we were at his place alone), we hung out at his house way more than we hung out at mine. Plus, my mom hated him.

So I would go over there and hang out. His parents loved me.

The other thing about his parents? They were nudists. Of the naked variety.

Aside from one really awkward hot tub experience (in which they were naked in the hot tub, but I did not see the nakedness), they kept their naked to themselves. I'm pretty sure you can get arrested for exposing yourself to a minor anyway, so it was a good call.

Then one day, I decided to go over unannounced. BAD DECISION.

I rang the doorbell and my boyfriend's dad's PENIS answered the door. I think it's still staring at me to this day. Hi, I've never seen your son's penis (that might be a lie, I can't remember the chronological chain of events), but looky there at yours! Eyes up, eyes up, DON'T LOOK DOWN.

That is definitely in my top ten uncomfortable moments.

After that, it was like all bets were off. His mom did naked aerobics in the living room (OUCH! She had no boobs, though), his dad worked on the '69 Mustang naked (Is it just me or does that seem dangerous to anyone else?). I don't think I ever saw them with clothes on again.

TMI Thursday, if you're a boy.

I'm not sure this counts as TMI Thursday in the true sense, but it's on my mind today.

Boys, this one is not for you.

No really, stop reading.




Still reading? Okay, don't say I didn't warn you...

What the hell is up with tampons these days? (You're sorry you kept reading now, aren't you?)

They stopped making my favorite kind years ago. What is so freaking hard about a flushable, biodegradable applicator? I mean, okay, and one that doesn't scratch the inside of your lady parts to bits, thank you Tampax.

And this no applicator thing? I don't get it. It's small, so that's nice. No awkward tampon sword for you to pull out of your purse in front of your boss or that cute boy at the bar who just offered to buy you a beer. But let's talk logistics for just a minute.

So the demon blood is visiting you (What? That's not what you call yours?). Let's say you're out with your girlfriends. Somewhere public. You go to the bathroom and need to exchange your cotton. So you unwrap this no applicator piece of crap, wiggle the string around, put your finger and the bottom, and shove it up there. But now...your finger's kind of a mess, yes? (WAR PAINT STYLE) And you still have to pull up your pants and get to the sink. BUT HOW? It's just gross. I refuse.

And I hate plastic applicators. I hate having to wrap them in toilet paper and touch that biochemical waste plant that is the little trashcan in the public restrooms. And ladies, while we're at it, please stop like wiping your "sanitary napkins" all over the bathroom. Unnecessary, mmmkay?

It just really seems like we could come up with some better options here. And don't even try to talk to me about the demon blood cup thing. 'Cause no. Just no. Let's just say I tried it once and it spilled...SPILLED. Yeah, and I wasn't home.

I don't want to have children. I have no use for the demon blood. Shouldn't there be a box I can check to opt out?