TMI Thursday
TMI Thursday – But…I’m RIGHT HERE.
Apr 8th
Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen! It’s time for LiLu’s TMI Thursday.
In case you guys didn’t get the memo, it’s the LAST TMI THURSDAY EVER. So whether you generally roll your eyes or lose your lunch, let’s show our darling LiLu some love, eh?
Today, I’m going to spin you a tale of lost vriginity.
But not mine.
One of my best friends in high school was a twin. Not that her twin wasn’t my friend, but you know how it is in high school And this one was my “bestie.” Only we didn’t call each other “bestie,” because even then that sounded silly.
Or no one had made up that word. It was probably that.
So my bestie, let’s call her Toots, was a little, shall we say? Behind with the boys. Her sister was kind of a knockout and also more outgoing (and more of a bitch, but that’s really not the point). So Toots hadn’t really made the rounds with the boys yet.
I’d had boyfriends in high school. One in particular for most of it. Aside from freshman year when I “went out” with this guy for a couple of weeks and wouldn’t let him kiss me and then broke up with him over the phone (because we never saw each other, yo) and then he sat across from me in Spanish class and cried. I think that was where the “If you date me and we break up, you must cry. No matter who does the breaking up.” rule was founded.
I was essentially a late bloomer though. I didn’t really know anything about sex, so I didn’t actually (voluntarily) get my groove on until after high school. And by “after high school,” I mean “on graduation night.”
But Toots? I think she had kissed a boy once in sixth grade on a dare or something.
She never dated anyone, she never made out with random strangers in clubs in Mexico (like the REST OF US, duh), she didn’t flirt with boys, and boys didn’t really pay her much attention. As you can imagine, she wasn’t fond of any of this.
Well, after my boyfriend and I broke up, but before I got back together with my regular high school boyfriend, I slept with another boy. Not a cute boy. And a REALLY sweaty boy. With a less than average penis and absolutely no skills. Don’t worry, I used a condom (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool). I didn’t really like this guy. I didn’t even really want to have sex with him. But I also didn’t want to seem “uncool.” So I did it.
A couple of weeks later, I was hanging out with Toots at her place. Her parents were out of town and her sister was out with her boyfriend, and for some unknown reason, it seemed like a good idea to call Sweaty Boy and invite him to hang out.
Still to this day, I could not tell you why THAT’S the boy we chose. He was a sleazebag.
He came over and we were all doing our best “hanging out.” We decided to watch a movie. In her parents room. Just the three of us.
Again, how this ever seemed like a good idea, I do not know. I was young and stupid.
Sweaty Boy keeps trying his best to touch my lady parts again. I keep pushing him off because EW. And now I know it’s EW and I don’t need to prove I’m not a prude AND he wasn’t even good at it, so I dare him to say anything bad about ME.
I didn’t feel any groping hands for a few minutes, so I looked over. And yeah, he and Toots were makin’ out.
Awkward, party of one.
I thought maybe they’d stop, so I just kept really still and quiet.
Pretty soon, soft moans were coming from Toots. This was because Sweaty Boy had his hands all up in her pretty parts.
I sat up and started to leave, but he reached over (I’m HOPING with the non-Toots parts hand) and said, “What if you just stay right here?”
I said, “You disgust me. Toots?”
She was looking at me with that determined “I am so going to lose my virginity and you better get the hell out of here” look.
So I went out in the hallway (I had no vehicle and stealing Toots’s car seemed a little dramatic) and had to listen to my best friend lose her virginity in her parents’ bed to the sweaty boy I’d had sex with a couple of weeks earlier.
TMI Thursday – A tale of two poops.
Apr 1st
Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen! It’s time for LiLu’s TMI Thursday.
Well, it’s TMI Thursday, guys. And TMI this will be.
And Rebecca? If you puss out on me? I will travel to Arizona and kick your tushy.
This, dear readers, is a story about poop. Twice. Well, sort of. Let’s just say I’m going to ease you into it, mkay?
As most of you probably know, I’ve been doing a lot of working out this week. My first post on In It To Gym It was cathartic. I decided THAT was the day. I was going to start taking care of my physical self. So I waited approximately two days and THEN started. What? I’ve been a procrastinator my whole life, you think I’m going to change now? Unlikely.
You can read my post on the first day of Jillian Michaels’s 30-Day Shred here.
Sunday afternoon, after I started working out, I claimed to have found Jillian’s master plan. Making my arms so tired/sore that I couldn’t lift a fork to my mouth. Well, on Monday, I discovered that the plan had a…very unfortunate side effect.
You see, I was in the middle of a Dancing with the Stars Latin Dance Cardio blah blah blah video, when I had. to. stop. Because I had to poop. So stop I did. No amount of Maksim sexy hips was going to keep me going.
I went into the bathroom, plopped myself down on the toilet and proceeded to do my business. Well, not much of it, really, but that has nothing to do with the story. When I was done, I carefully (sore muscles, remember) reached over to get some toilet paper and then discovered a HUGE problem. My arms were too tired and sore to WIPE MY OWN ASS. Legit, I sat there for a few minutes trying to figure out what to do. Obviously, I couldn’t two-hand it. Aside from logistics, both arms were EQUALLY sore. The only answer was to do the best I could and then hop in the shower.
Not exactly a long-term solution, but it worked. I was reminded though, about a story I ALMOST told you for a TMI Thursday a while back. This one is worse, folks, so feel free to stop reading. It’s still about poop. It is, in fact, the story of the time I shit my pants. AS AN ADULT.
I used to work in new home sales. For the uninitiated, that means I worked in a model home, showing people floorplans and drawings of houses they could build from the ground up. No, I was NOT a realtor. I worked for the people who built the houses. I did this for about six years before college. It was fun, but I can’t sell things for a living any more. It makes my soul hurt.
Anyway, I spent most of my days in model homes, just waiting for people to come in to see me. Weekdays were usually really slow, but weekends were enough to make your head spin. One quiet Tuesday afternoon (or some weekday, I don’t really remember, as I’ve been trying to block this from my mind since it happened), I was minding my own business, hanging out, when I heard (and felt) the distinct rumblings of something NOT GOOD happening in my intestines.
Before I could get to the bathroom, though, I heard the beep-beep-beep of the security system telling me that someone had come to look at a house!
Um. Uh oh.
I plastered a smile on my face and walked (with my butt cheeks clenched as much as possible) out to greet them. Generally, I would take customers around the house, pointing out the super awesome features, most of which were upgrades beyond their wildest imaginations. That day, I was thinking, “How can I avoid taking them up the stairs?!? GET THEM OUT OF HERE MY ASS IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE OH MY GOD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!?!?!?!?!?”
We were at Defcon 1.
I managed, through clenched teeth (with sweat starting to form on my brow), to show them around the downstairs area. I gave them a packet with floorplans and sent them upstairs to explore on their own.
I still couldn’t go to the bathroom, mind you, but at least I knew I wouldn’t let one loose in their faces on the way up the stairs. I went back to my office and stood behind my desk, tapping my foot, hoping I would make it.
RUMBLE
Despite my clenched cheeks, the lava in my ass was about to come forth. I was paralyzed. One step, and I would lose all control.
I could hear them coming back down the stairs. The sweat on my brow was dripping in my eyes.
Grateful to be rid of the annoying sales lady, they wandered around the kitchen again and then started making their way to the door. Normally, I would have to accost them and blah blah buy a house from me you know you want to it will be great. Not today.
Holding my breath, standing as still as possible, I heard the beep-beep-beep. I let out a sigh of relief. AND a fountain of diarrhea. In my pants. In the middle of my office.
In my WHITE PANTS. (Because of COURSE I’d be wearing white pants. I haven’t worn white pants since that day, I can assure you.)
In a panic, I ran to the bathroom to relieve myself. And to assess the damage. And oh, it was bad. I still had three hours of work left, and my white pants were now an unfortunate chocolate color in the ass region.
I took them off and tried, fruitlessly, to rinse them off under the faucet. I had no choice but to put them back on. I couldn’t exactly run around the office with no pants on (although, really, wouldn’t that make work so much more enjoyable?). So I sat, for the last three hours of work, in my wet poopy pants.
One other person came in. The dance I had to do to NOT turn around backwards and let him see my ass was impressive. Not surprisingly, he didn’t buy a house from the crazy lady who smelled just a little bit like poop.
That definitely makes the list of my most mortifying days.
TMI Thursday: Hey wow! We’re talking about your penis.
Feb 18th
Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen! It’s time for LiLu’s TMI Thursday.
This TMI Thursday post was actually inspired by the lovely and delightful Travis. You’re reading Travis, right? I Like to Fish? C’mon people, click the link.
A few weeks ago, he wrote a special post about his penis. In which he sort of, kind of, maybe informed the whole internets that his penis is small. Or at least he implied such. Now I can’t confirm or deny such rumors, but I can tell you that his blog caused me to have a really interesting conversation with one of my coworkers.
So I’m blaming Travis for this, obviously. Even though really, it could probably be construed as my fault. Here’s what happened (my goodness, that was a brilliant transition, no?):
I read Travis’s blog and sat at my desk in stunned silence for a good five minutes. I mean, that guy just said…I mean, he just…but he confessed…hhhhmmmmm…HE JUST SAID HE COULD FIT HIS PENIS IN HIS WEDDING RING.
Now, granted, he also said that his wedding ring was really large. I tried to find a picture of a size 16 ring, but I couldn’t, so let’s just say it’s pretty big, dudes.
Okay, so I’m sitting at my desk, in stunned silence because well, no matter how big the guy’s ring is, I’m looking at my fingers and even if his fingers are twice as big that’s not a very big penis, but then I’m picturing huge penises on a hand like fingers and that thought makes me giggle.
Cue coworker walking in and sitting down for a chat. Now, this coworker isn’t really like all the other (read: He’s a pretty cool kid) and we’ve been friends for a while now. Suddenly, out of my mouth pops the most awkward question you could really ever ask a coworker: “Uh, could you like, um, could you fit your penis in one of your rings? And if you could, wouldn’t that mean your penis was pretty small? I mean, even the biggest of fingers aren’t really penis-sized…right?”
He looked at me for a second, as we both absorbed the awkwardness of the conversation. Coworker looked at his hands, which are roughly the same size as mine. He looked at me for a beat. Then he said:
“Shine, I don’t know how to tell you this, and I probably shouldn’t tell you this because man this is awkward, but…a while back, I was on a long car trip and I really had to pee. I didn’t want to pull over, so I figured I’d just pee in a water bottle. And Shine? I couldn’t get my penis in the water bottle. I had to look around for one of those wide-mouth gatorade bottles. If you know what I mean.”
I’m pretty sure at that point, my eyes widened to about the size of saucers. I probably giggled. Mind you, I had listened to this kid have sex for a month one summer, so I certainly knew he was capable of causing some moaning and groaning. His girlfriend does always seem quite happy. But I had never really contemplated his penis before. Ya know, ’cause we’re friends. And friends don’t contemplate each other’s penises.
Okay, sometimes they do, but not in this case.
After we spent some time not looking at each other and giggling, I explained the reason I was asking the question in the first place, and we both decided that it must be true. Poor Travis just confessed to the internets that he has a small penis.
And you can see how this conversation is all his fault, right?
TMI Thursday – No, but really…this happened.
Dec 17th
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.
Dec 10th
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?
