Monthly Archives: March 2008

the poop in the bag story

I made a reference to poop in the bag a while back and realize that if I don’t tell the story of what really happened, well, people can make assumptions in all kinds of directions on that one.  So I’m going to clear up the story right here…

Senior year in college (Skidmore), I was working around 28 hrs/week and taking about 15 credits.  Needless to say I was drained and more often then not fighting off a cold.  On top of that, I decided to go home for Thanksgiving, the first time I had done so since I entered college.  It was because my dad had contracted West Nile Virus and after being in a coma for a month, I wanted to go home to see him.  It was an emotional trip and I came back feeling disconnected from campus life and unable to talk about what I had experienced at home with my friends. 

I also returned to campus having contracted something vile.  Something that had me racing to the bathroom after every single thing I ate and gave me stomach pains that had me in tears. I went to health services and they told me to eat certain things and if it didn’t go away in a few days to return.  I followed the diet list perfectly, making homemade compote and eating rice and bread, but I found myself in bed often from lack of energy or on the floor in tears from not being able to follow along to my roommate’s yoga video due to stomach pains.  Upon returning to health services pleading for drugs, they weighed me and I had dropped a significant amount of weight, enough to question what was going on.  Did I get a prescription?  Nope!  I got 3 little containers that I had to provide “samples” in so they could be sent to a lab and dissected. 

I came back to the apartment, looked at my roommate, told her what I had to do, and sat down and probably cried.  I was so miserable my roommate almost bought me a cushioned toilet seat to help ease my suffering.  It took me a day to get the nerve to hold a cup, nevertheless three different cups, underneath what I could only describe as liquid acid that was coming out of my body seeing how I hadn’t eaten for a very long while.  But I did it, and damn if I wasn’t going to bring that back to health services ASAP so I didn’t have to keep it in the apartment.  So I put them in a brown paper bag, drove as fast as I could to campus, parked and ran the shit to health services.  Relieved, hoping to get a quick response to what was ailing me, I came back to my car and found a parking ticket.  Yes, I had knowingly parked illegally, but you can understand why. 

This was back in the day my spending was monitored so closely that if my tuition reflected that I lost my id card, I was docked that amount from my allowance.  Needless to say, my allowance paid the bills and my measly $5.25/hr at the Gap paid for groceries and the occasional dinner out with friends.  I was broke.  So a parking ticket was something I just could not afford.  So I appealed it.  And I wrote a letter to campus security and explained as eloquently as possible “I had to deliver poop to health services, and you can see why I wouldn’t want to spend the time trying to find a parking space with such an urgent matter sitting on my passenger seat in a paper bag.” 

And you know what, my appeal was approved and I got out of having to pay that ticket.  Even though I’m fairly positive my appeal letter is still hanging on the wall of campus security.

Later that week I received a phone call from health services “were you in another country recently?” I responded “umm, no.  Well, I was in Louisiana, so I guess that could be another country.”  I had caught some kind of rare parasite that eventually passed through my system at the expense of 10lbs lost painfully.  And I’m pretty sure it was this incident that keeps me from appreciating food to this day.  But the moral of the story is, if you ever need to get out of a parking ticket, plea poop in the bag.

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fear

Someone once told me they were afraid of dieing without leaving anything behind to be remembered by.  It came across at the time like some ego-driven, selfish comment that I wanted to yell back at “that’s not what life’s about!  it’s not about doing something to be remembered by, it’s about doing something that can make a difference today, whether your name is attached to it or not isn’t important, no one will ever be that important!”  But I think I’m equally if not more selfish and ego-driven.  Because while I can honestly say I’m not afraid of dieing, I am utterly and completely afraid of growing old.  And that has nothing to do with making a difference in the world today and it will never affect anyone else but me.  I am scared of not being that graceful old woman that has long grey hair and still goes for walks and goes snow shoeing with her dog, the one from movies and rejuvenating facial cream commercials.  What if I’m that distant, frizzy thinning haired lady that still wears clothes from the 1990s and can’t keep up with the kids of today and all the technology business. 

Ex-boy and I joke about how we would allow the other to commit suicide or euthanize the other if we get incapacitated.  But it’s true.  Those people that are kept in comas for years and years because someone swears it’s an act of god they’re still alive is bullshit.  Someone else having to wipe my ass when I get old because I can’t?  Nope, can’t do it to myself or the other person.  It’s these kind of things that make me cringe.  Or even watching someone try and make their way through a garden or the beach with a walker?  Sometimes when I run I push myself really hard because my dad lost his ability to run and if that ever happened to me I know I would go nuts.  So I have to get the running in now, be appreciative of it, let it keep me sane while it can, because if for some reason that disappears with old age or chance, I believe I wouldn’t last much longer. 

And then there are the shallow reasons I don’t want to age.  For men, middle age is something society can easily find attractive.  But for a woman, entering middle age and then going through the whole birthing thing if you decide to have children, and having to re-coop from that alongside the slowing metabolism and the old-lady butt, the one indicative of someone who doesn’t work out because it sags and tends to look like you’re wearing a diaper…  Yes, I’m a shallow person indeed.  But it’s what keeps me standing in front of the mirror every morning an extra minute for every year I get older, stepping on the scale in front of the mirror naked, examining if that mole on my butt has travelled farther off to the side or if it’s staying put, if my thighs are touching more than yesterday, if those laugh lines don’t disappear as quickly as they used to, and damn if I don’t start smiling I’m going to have those wicked old lady frown lines. 

I wish I could focus my energies on leaving something behind that I could be remembered by, it’s starting to be a more admirable pursuit than being the girl stuck in the mirror, trying to figure out how she’s going to pull off fooling everyone into thinking she’s aging gracefully.

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completely juvenile

I love ferns.  Why?  because they have FLAGELLATED SPERM!

and I know that is completely 12 years old of me, but I laugh every time I think of a plant having FLAGELLATED SPERM.

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signs of addiction

ever see a girl go almost teary-eyed at the prospect of no cadbury cream eggs?

surveillance video at the 7-11 on the 900 block of Market may have some footage. 

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Life Before Jack

Garfield Minus Garfield

 (thank you cecil vortex)

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when time collides

I worked at the Gap in college.  And yeah, I was a total Gap girl.  I actually think it did a lot of good for me, taught me not be afraid of girlie clothes (even though nothing really beats a cozy men’s sweater).  Ex-boy was working at the Discovery Channel before moving into its corporate office and having the whole division shut down.  During one Christmas break I stayed with him in Florida and transferred to the Gap for that month, which just happened to be directly across from the Discovery Channel.  It was fun.  Slow mornings found me standing next to the mannequins in the front window making goofy faces and slapping my butt while ex-boy did the same and passers by must have thought that particular store was nice to hire a mentally retarded girl. 

When holiday shopping picked up tons of people trapped me in the store, literally.  Some nice, some pissed, and some weirdos like they guy who asked me to try something on for him because his girlfriend was the same size as me (yeah, no.)  And then I turned around and right in front of me was ex-boy.  But, it wasn’t ex-boy.  It was the ex-boy of 10-15 years in the future.  And I stopped, and stared, and I started at the top of his head with the dark curls streaked with grey fly-aways popping out all around his round head, to the pigeon feet around his eyes, he was a bit thinner in the middle than I’d expect, then the scrawny legs, to the black converse.  Grey sweater, dark jeans, black converse.  I looked right into his eyes and did the goofiest laugh and smile that I can still mimic because it’s not a laugh and smile I had ever done before or since that moment.  This was perhaps in the expanse of a good few minutes of this guy probably thinking once again, how nice, they hired a mentally retarded girl.  But he was smiling, and it was cute. 

Recently I’ve been noticing ex-boy (yes, people, obviously we’re dating again but he hasn’t yet come back to being just boy b/c there are still issues, obviously, issues) what?  oh, he’s starting to get these wild grey fly-aways that poke out straight in his head of curls.  And the pigeon feet are deeper.  And the smile with teeth is more frequent.  And sometimes I see him standing up watching TV (why he always stands to watch TV I don’t know) but he’s becoming that same person I met at the Gap 5 years ago.  And I keep wondering when we’ll find ourselves back at Cordova mall in Pensacola during Christmas time for him to run into the me of the past.  I keep hinting that he has to put things in his wallet, pictures and stuff to carry with him for when he sees me again.  I tell him what I want him to say, the things to warn me against.  But I know he’ll forget, and he’ll stare at me with that smile on his face, maybe thinking wow, I never noticed how much she’s aged.

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that guy

On my first day in lab this semester there was this sorta hot guy that caught my eye.  He was scruffy with a hat on and grungy clothes, unshaven.  And when someone sneezed he said “salut.”  and that killed it.  He followed it up shortly with a way too loud proclamation of how he spent the holidays in Peru and it was just amazing despite the fact that his tone stayed completely flat while he described this life-changing experience.  Ugh, I hate those types.  Loud-talkers annoy the crap out of me, but that’s b/c I have way too sensitive hearing in a society where everyone has already blown their ear drums (and yes, I know I’m a low-talker.  Quite aware, no need to point it out.)  It’s that I’m indifferent because I’m trying to be indifferent attitude.  It’s why I cringe when I hear Paris Hilton’s voice on the television.  It’s why I don’t trust people who wear big fat sunglasses indoors and act like it’s nothing out of the ordinary.  It’s what prevents me from being friends with some people, I just can’t get passed it. 

I’m pretty sure I feel so strongly about it b/c in high school I was completely unable to be indifferent.  I cared way too much about grades and over-reacted at most things.  Then I went to England for a senior trip and in Bath there was this student-waitress that served us at a cafe and we said something and she responded “cheers” and omigod I so wanted to be her.  So indifferent and living in Bath working at a cafe.  In between ordering and waiting for the food to arrive I had already decided I was going to go to college just so I could become her.  And then she came back with the food and we conversed more and she said “cheers” about four times over in that short period of time and I realized I had to change my life’s plan because now she just sounds stupid.  And I don’t want to be stupid.

I’m glad I decided to accept that I could never be that.  Because I remember distinctly the first time I saw wild turkeys on the side of the road and if I had to hide my excitement at that moment in order to maintain my image, I would have blown up.

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