Posts Tagged ‘did you really want to know that?’

I’ve never been much of a poop talker.

And it’s odd, considering I find potty humor hilarious.

But Nepal has changed all that.

Or rather, I still find it hilarious, but now I’m involved in the conversation. In Nepal it was hard not to be.

There were at least 10 of us in the volunteer house at any given time, and I don’t think a week went by when someone didn’t have the shits. It actually got to be a common greeting among some of the volunteers with more consistent problems.

Hey! How’s the poop situation?

Not an uncommon phrase to hear. Nor was it uncommon to hear (or ask for) detailed descriptions of bowel movements. Because everyone had suffered at one point or another, we all felt qualified to offer our opinions on dealing with the situation. And we all knew the elation felt when one girl answered the poop greeting with, “It’s a good day! I can actually fart without pooping!

It’s truly amazing how much bowel movement chatter can bond a group. Maybe it’s along the lines of misery loves company, but there’s some humor in there, too.

There’s the look on someone’s face when he knows he needs the toilet ASAP, but he’s at least five minutes away from the volunteer house. And running makes it worse.

There’s the frantic tone in someone’s voice when she calls out, “I’ll be right back!” to her boys, as she’s already sprinting out of their house and to the safety of a Western toilet.

There’s the grudging admission that someone won’t be leaving the house at all, for fear of being too far away from the bathroom, just in case.

And then there’s the realization that you have to poop, but there’s absolutely no toilet paper left and you’re out of time.

Maybe some of those are only funny later on, or maybe you had to be there. But the bottom line is that poop talk (among other things) bonded us as volunteers.

I haven’t tried this bonding technique with friends back here, yet. But it might be worth it if only to see the reaction to, “How’s the poop situation?

Just out of curiosity – how would you respond?

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Every now and then, my grad school classes will remind me of something I haven’t thought of in years. Things I didn’t even know I remembered.

Case in point: in my class last night, the professor brought up Idi Amin’s rule in Uganda. She’s talking about this terrible dictator, and truth and reconciliation commissions, and what comes to my mind?

Idi Amin used to eat oranges to increase his sex drive.

I can’t source it. I  know I was in high school, possibly a sophomore, though I don’t remember what class I was studying Idi Amin for. But I can tell you that my high school self found it both absurd and entertaining. And might have giggled upon discovery.

I didn’t share that tidbit in class last night, but I encourage you to bust it out at your next dinner party.

As a conversation starter, how could it fail?

*I know, I know. I couldn’t help myself.

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I don’t know if you’ve ever gotten a bikini wax, but if you have, you know what a vulnerable position you’re in. It’s similar to a visit to the gynecologist, but slightly more painful (depending on your waxer). Guys – I don’t know what to compare it to for you.

The point is this: you are vulnerable. Naked from the waist down and flat on your back.

When I first started getting waxes, I avoided eye contact with my waxer and gritted my teeth against the ripping.

As I got more comfortable with my current DC waxer, we started chatting – about the weather, weekend plans, engagements, etc. We covered it all.

But yesterday we crossed a new line. Yesterday we delved into American civics.

She’s taking the citizenship test in March and showed me the book she’d been studying from. As I flipped the pages – while flat on my back, mind you – she said, “Go ahead! Ask me anything!

So, from my slightly awkward vantage point, I asked, “How many years do we elect U.S. senators for?” *riiiiiiip* Six!”

And how many senators are there?”

*riiiiiiiiip*100! Two for every state.”

And who’s the Chief Justice of the United States right now?”

*riiiiip* *riiiiip* *riiipriiip*

When she didn’t know the answer, there were clearly far more rips between responses.

But every time I stopped asking and focused more on the hair being yanked from my body, she urged me on. “Ask me another one! Ask me more!”

Never have I ever had such an educational waxing.

And never will I forget that John Roberts is the current Chief Justice.

Though I will probably always think of his name surrounded by *riiiiiiiiiiiip* from here on out.

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Last night after a horrific loss at softball we trekked to the usual bar and proceeded to drown our sorrows.

This particular pub is often overrun in the summer with interns, students, and other young DC newbies. And, in the course of our drowning, we met one such newbie who eventually told his name was Steve.

No,” BNF said. “I’m not going to call you that. I’m going to call you Jor-El.

Jor-El was a pretty good sport, so he went along with it. Embraced it even. (By the end of the night, even the other guys in his program were calling him by the new nickname.) And then he played along with BNF’s next game.

We’re not going to tell you our names. You just tell us what you think we look like. First name that comes to your mind.

And that’s how I became a Jessica.

(Later he dubbed me Jezebel. I’m honestly not sure which I prefer.)

Now, before I get yelled at, I don’t have a problem with the name – for other people. But for me, after 26 years of identifying as something completely different, it just felt all sorts of wrong.

I’ve been toying for a while with the idea of putting my real name out here on the blog. I’m sure it’s probably dropped at some point and I’m friends with several bloggers on Facebook (and real life!) so I know that it’s not a complete secret.

But I figure there’s no time like a) my 500th post! today! and b) after being called the wrong name all night to officially reveal it.

So, hi! I’m Elizabeth.

Not Jezebel.

And definitely not Jessica.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

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Last week before the wedding I treated myself to a manicure and pedicure. I’ve never been good at painting my own nails, and I wanted them to look nice for the event. Plus, to be fair, I didn’t want to have to deal with my own feet.

You see, running has wreaked havoc on my little footsies. I have constant calluses and blisters (probably from continuing to pick…at both), and at least two of my toenails are black and bruised at any given time. And I still have one that hasn’t grown back.

I know, I know. Rawr. Totally sexy.

What I *wish* my feet looked like on a regular basis. So very far off...

Anyway, whenever I get a pedicure, I always apologize to the pedicurist before she starts. We both have a little laugh, she assures me it’s not a big deal (probably a lie), and we spend the rest of the time gossiping and/or making small talk. That’s just how it works.

Except for this last time.

I would say something – my apology, a comment on the color, this, that, or the other thing – and my pedicurist would say nothing. She’d look at me, maybe acknowledge that I’d spoken with a movement of her head, and then look back down at my feet.

Now, I’ve had a pedicure or two in my day, and my pedicurists have ALWAYS been chatty. And I appreciate that. A little chatter passes the time, and doesn’t make me feel as awkward about someone being so intimate with all my missing toenails.

But this one? Nothing.

Don’t get me wrong, I still appreciated the pedicure, and I’ll probably even try the place again, but if I get the same girl I’ll definitely be grabbing a magazine.

Ladies – if you’re getting your nails done, do you prefer someone chatty? Or just to be left alone?

Gentlemen – Well, first things first, have you ever actually gotten either a manicure or a pedicure? And if not, what would convince you to do it? (It’s okay. This is a safe place.)

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Today is the end of the TMI Thursday era. It had a good run and, frankly, I was impressed with those who managed to pull out a story every.single.week. I lasted for a little over 6 months until I was grasping at straws. Not to say that I’ve exhausted all my embarrassing stories, but something changed along the way. As recently as December, I was trying to participate in Lilu’s TMI Thursday: Post Secret edition, but I just couldn’t do it – not even anonymously.

I had the perfect photo and the words to go with it. I was logged on to the account and everything…but I couldn’t hit send.

Now, I don’t know how much TMI Thursday was ever intended to be a learning experience, per se, but for me it was. It made me realize that I still have some boundaries. That there are still some stories that I’m not willing to share – not necessarily because they’re too gross or embarrassing, but because there’s some aspect that’s just too personal.

And as much as I love blogging, and putting it all out there, I still need to keep a piece of me for me.

That said, even without it being a regular feature, I’m sure I’ll have some TMIs up here from time to time. I mean, racing season is starting up again, so I’m bound to be throwing up in public at inopportune times. And what kind of blogger would I be if I didn’t share that with you all?

So, though I don’t have a new one to report, I leave you with the TMI that was probably the hardest to write and own up to. Most likely because I kept it a secret shame for oh-so-long.

And, along with that (Why Jack and I are not friends), I offer you these words of (fairly common sensical) wisdom:

ALWAYS Exercise Caution When Drinking Jack Daniels

(Oh, and maybe make sure someone has an extra set of your keys – and an extra pair of shorts. Just in case. For emergencies.)

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According to the website, “The Darwin Awards salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it…” and, I’m blogging, so I clearly haven’t done that. But I did do something fairly ridiculous that makes me question my own intelligence.

A little background: Until now, I’ve never had any real food allergy/bad reaction (except for a couple times with shellfish and alcohol, but that’s a different story for a different time). And I’ve always always had a bit LOT of a sweet tooth.

Bad/stressful day? Pass me a Snickers bar, please.

Celebrating? Of course, I’ll have some chocolate cake.

And this was all well and good up until this past weekend.

Without going into too much unnecessary detail, I started feeling ill after a Saturday brunch of chocolate chip pancakes, and proceeded to throw up throughout the course of the day, several times, in two separate parks. (And one playground. Sorry, kids.) A quick study of some recent stomachaches compared to the food I’d eaten previous to the pain showed chocolate to be the culprit.

I was, understandably, bummed.

Which is probably why, when my mom suggested that maybe it was milk chocolate that was bad, and I’d be okay with dark chocolate, I wanted her to be right so badly that I tested the theory.

Oh, and did I mention I tested it at work? I’ll take that award, now.

I was craving chocolate like whoa, so I got a box of dark chocolate raisinets. Delicious, right? Wrong.

Especially not when they come back up…four times in two hours. And not when you have to email the office manager to tell him that you threw up, and could someone come clean that stall? And not when you get home, start to sip your ginger ale and realize that that doesn’t want to stay down either, because chocolate has screwed your system but good for the day. And definitely not now, when even your home bathroom smells like vomit.

All because I just had to know if I could have some kind of chocolate.

My new nemesis *shakes fist*

When I told my boyfriend, who was with me for the pancake fiasco, about the experiment (and its consequences) he responded, “Ok, it’s chocolate. Or some key ingredient in chocolate. Sucks to be you.” (To his credit, he did not say, “I told you so,” or call me an idiot, though I know he was/is dying to. And he also checked in to see if I needed anything, when I was home, curled up in the fetal position.)

When I told my mom, she said, “Maybe you’re part dog. You know, this is why they can’t have chocolate – it wreaks havoc on their system.

So, I’m either a dog or an idiot – or both. And either way I’m not getting any Easter candy this year.

Thanks a lot, body. You win again.

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