Archive for the ‘TMI’ Category

  • TMI Thursday – A tale of two poops.

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

    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.

    33

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

    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?

  • Well, this morning was a kick in the face.

    6

    Last night, I noticed that my gas light was on.  I should have stopped to get gas, but instead, I thought it could wait until morning.  And it could.  It just couldn’t wait until I got to the gas station.

    I did manage to pull to the side of the highway.  At least I wasn’t blocking anyone’s way to work, right?  I called a coworker to see if he would mind bringing me some gas and settled in for a wait.  That is the specific moment for which I love the Kindle for iPhone Application.  I always have a book with me.  Well, as long as my phone isn’t dead.  I don’t really like my Kindle at all, because I like books.  I like pages.  I like the smell of the book.  But it’s super handy to have books on my phone, yo.

    While sitting there, I noticed that my hazard lights had begun to blink faster.  And faster.  It was like they were on steroids.  So I turned them off.  Then I noticed that my clock was off.  You know what that means, folks.  MY BATTERY WAS DEAD.

    Coworker pulled up behind me and we fed my car some gas, all the while spilling it on both of us, of course.  I got it, turned the key and…nothing.  Not even a spark.  The car?  Was dead.

    As we sat there contemplating how he could possibly get his car around in front of mine AND turned in the opposite direction in such a way that neither of us ended up dead, we saw the flashing lights.  Salvation.  The second coming of Jesus.

    No, it was just the courtesy patrol.  Dudes.  We have a courtesy patrol that runs around Dallas helping people for FREE.  With super long jumper cables.

    You probably don’t realize how strange this is, but in a state that thrives on good old fashioned republican values, it’s typically every man for himself.  The idea that someone decided it would be a good idea to put in place a program that just helps people for free is kind of astounding.

    Courtesy Patrol jumped my car, and Coworker and I took off for the nearest gas station.  Where my car died again.  Immediately.  I hopped in Coworker’s car and we drove off to the nearest-ish place I could purchase a battery.  For ONE HUNDRED of my hard-earned dollars.  Which is apparently because the dude sold me the bestest most awesomest battery in the whole world.  And that was unnecessary, but what do I know?  I thought this was just how much batteries cost.  Coworker waited until we were installing said battery in my car to say something.

    I hope his wife let’s him buy really expensive lotion for no reason.  Just because he doesn’t know any better.

    And now I’m sitting in the office, with a fresh battery in my piece of shit car.

    I need a beer.  Immediately.

    OH WAIT!  TONIGHT IS BLOGGER MEETUP NIGHT!

    http://i115.photobucket.com/albums/n300/81Atown/happy-hour.jpg

    When:  Wednesday, February 10, 2010 @ 7:30 pm
    Where:  Sherlock’s @ Park and 75
    Who’s Coming: Shine, Gofahne, Graygrrrl, Natalie, Mary, Carissa, and possibly Blue-eyed Brunette (and you?)

    Let us know if you want to attend!  Email me at ishineoutloud@gmail.com

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