Friday, March 27, 2015

Thoughts I Had During My Most Recent Bout with Explosive D

I know that you’ve just read that title, and you’re right now patting yourself on the back, thinking, “I am so proud that I continue to further myself by reading classy and educational stuff like this very blog, which can only serve to make me a greater person in the end…”

Or not.  I might guess, instead, that at this very moment, you’re wiping the tears from your sobbing face, thinking, Where did I go wrong?  WHERE did I go WRONG that I continue to visit this blog, day after godforsaken day, to see what this dumbass has written??

Whatever the case may be, I love you for sticking around, even when the title is such as it is today.

On that note, here are the two prominent thoughts I had a couple of weeks ago during my third bout with this nasty, hellacious bug that has continued to strike my family.  I blame my younger son, who goes to school with a bunch of other snotty preschoolers. 

I should blame myself, however, because although quite a clean person who maintains a pretty damn clean house, I am so far from being a germaphobe (I once popped a half-eaten chicken nugget that I found between the seats of the car into my mouth, even though I was fairly certain that my boys and I hadn’t visited McDonald’s in at least a week) that perhaps those dirty little bastard bugs think they’re welcome in my house.  I really ought to start making my family wear those sickie face masks everywhere we go.  Those people never get sick, right?

I feel like I’ve gone off on a tangent, no?  Ahem.  So here are the thoughts I had during my most recent bout with explosive diarrhea:

1.)  I could totally make it into work today.  Even though I’ve been up shitting myself since 3:30 AM, and the stuff coming out sounds like pee—it literally sounds like I’m pissing through my butthole—I haven’t had an “episode” since 6:30 AM.

It’s 7:30 AM. I’m texting my boss and telling him I’m coming in.

I felt almost giddy with relief as I bent down to put on my shoe, giddy with relief that I was finally going to join the land of the living once again.

Here’s what the text actually looked like:

I was just getting ready to text you that I was coming in today after all. However, when I bent down to put on my shoes in order to take the kids to school and head into work, I pooped my pants and had to change my underwear. 

And here’s the text I got back:

Hadn’t we already decided that you were staying home today?  DO NOT COME IN.  For the love of all that is holy, Shay, STAY HOME!!!  Nobody wants the shit you’re cooking (pun intended).

Later that very same day, I picked up my older son from school.  I had to time it just right; I was feeling better and although earlier that morning there had been a glorious spell during which I hadn’t shat for 2 hours, my body could still only guarantee about ½ hour between episodes, if I was lucky.

I was feeling so good during that ½ hour, in fact, that when my boys and I passed a Taco Bell on the way home, I found myself turning around and getting into the drive-through line.  And that’s where the second prominent thought I had during my recent bout with explosive D came in:

2.)  I am fully aware that a chili cheese burrito—or any item off of the Taco Bell menu, for that matter—is not a good idea at this point.

Mature realization, no?


I haven’t been able to eat all day, and I’m so damned hungry and a couple of bites of that chili cheese burrito (+ sour cream) will totally be worth any amount of time spent in the bathroom.

The two bites I got to have weren’t worth an hour.

They weren’t.

But on a positive note, I did finish the book for the most recent book club I’ve joined, the one that my dad and niece threatened to kick me out of because I was taking too long with last month’s choice.

So my time in the bathroom was totally win-win.

Or just win. Whatever.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Trashy Shorts: Sexting

When your husband tries to sext you, and it probably doesn't go down quite like he had planned:

In my defense, I wasn’t trying to be a tease with my, “Ummmm” response.  Picture me saying it a little less eyebrows raised in a suggestive expression, lips pursed, throaty whisper...

...and more face red, sweat dribbles forming at my hairline, uncomfortable cough.

Because that last one is how I meant it.  Not because I’m a big old prude; I think anyone who’s read this blog long enough or knows anything about my skanky past knows that it’s not that.

It’s just that…well, I’m not good at this sort of thing.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Trashy Shorts: Febreze the Pits

Febreze-ing the armpits of one of your favorite shirts is exactly the same as washing it, right?

Oh, good.  That’s what I thought, too.

And if you can believe it—no, Febreze is not actually sponsoring this post.

In fact, let’s just go ahead and keep the whole thing on the down low, mmkay?  We don’t want to alert anyone at the Febreze headquarters, because who knows what makes those high-powered execs in their really messy but really fresh-smelling suits, cars, and offices start to feel litigious?  Could it be being unwittingly associated with a blog this trashy?

Who knows? But just in case…shhhhhhh.

(Oh, and I added a link to the definition of “litigious” specifically for my little sister.  She doesn’t know, like, words that well, but she’s only 31, so there’s still plenty of time for her to learn.

Plenty of time.)

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Trashy Shorts: A Shadow of My Former Self

Over the weekend, my husband and boys and I were with extended family.  And as we do when we're together, we took lots of pictures.  Just after I posed for one with my little sister, she noticed me studying my phone.

" it a bad one?  Don't tag me on it if you put it on Facebook," she said.

"No, it's fine...I mean, you look fine," I said.  "But there's something wrong with my face in all of these."

She laughed.  "You accept too many ex-boyfriends on your Facebook page," she said.  "It makes you overly critical of all of your pictures."  She grabbed my phone to have a look herself, and I watched her smile fade and her brow furrow as she, too, studied the photo.

"Well, damn, Shay, you're right.  There is something on your face."  She looked up at me.  "But there's nothing there right now."  She looked back down at the phone. "What the hell is that?"

And then suddenly, it dawned on me. I gasped, because it was one of those epiphanies that you wished you hadn't had.  Sure, you were wiser about something in that moment--but it was something shitty and there was nothing you could do about what did that wisdom gain you but unhappiness?

Because the "something" in the picture was the shadow cast across my face...BY MY OWN NOSE.

I heard once that ears and noses are some of the only body parts that continue to grow on us as we age. Have you ever seen a 90-year old in person?  HUGE ears and nose.

I suppose I've reached the point in life where my nose is now at the length, in lighting that's just so, to cast a monstrous shadow across my face.

Where did we go wrong, God?

Where did we go wrong?

Click here to like Trashy Blog on Facebook!

Monday, March 23, 2015

Trashy Shorts: Their Ears Are Bigger than Their Stomachs...or However that Saying Goes

I overheard a conversation between my boys a few days ago.

6-year-old:  There's this guy Mom knows, and he got fired.
3-year-old:  GASP
6-year-old:  No, Bubba, that doesn't mean he got killed in a fire.  It means losing your job because you do something stupid like say the F word to your boss.

Hm.  Perhaps I should speak more quietly when gossiping with their father about people in town...

Friday, March 20, 2015

The Grocery List Addition that kind of "Popped Out" at Me, if You Will

One cannot even begin to imagine the immense pleasure I get when I see something like this added to our grocery list by my husband:

In case you can’t tell, that highlighted item says "Hemi wipes."  It’s short for hemorrhoid wipes.

You guys, it’s not that I enjoy when my husband is stricken with a nasty case of hemorrhoids for which he needs soothing wipes. It’s not that.

It’s just that…well, it’s just that seeing his request scrawled across the bottom of our shopping list cracks me up. It’s the sense of humor with which God blessed me, you guys. It’s totally not my fault.

Anyway, I can tell you how this particular case of hemis started.

As I mentioned in this nostalgia-filled post, last weekend was my town’s huge St. Pat’s Day celebration. Every year, my dad arrives loaded down with corned beef and cabbage, all lovingly prepared for us in advance.  My sisters and their kids and husbands come, too, and while the adults get to go out and listen to the bands and have drinks, my dad and mom watch our combined 6 kids.

Except this year, like every other year, my mom totally bailed.  And unlike last year, I couldn’t find a backup sitter to help Dad.

When I mentioned that he would have to go ahead and watch all 6 kids—ranging in age from 20 months to 7 years—by himself, thaaaaaaaanks, the look of sheer terror on his face stopped me in my tracks. 

Maybe I’m imagining it, I thought hopefully to myself, but just to be sure, I asked him, “Are you okay with that?”

My original feeling was confirmed when he replied, “No. I’m terrified.” I could see from the way his face had gone all pasty white with sweat dribbles running down that he was not lying.

The poor man was afraid.

My older sister suggested that the husbands go out while we girls stayed and had drinks on my back deck, as it was gorgeous outside.  And that was a good enough compromise for my dad: As long as we were within earshot and could hear him yell and find it in our hearts to retrieve him if he got duct-taped to the wall by the kids, he said, we could have all of the wine our little hearts desired.

And so, the hubs went out with our brothers-in-law while we girls stayed in and had a relaxing, calm afternoon.

And when the next day came and I noticed the addition to the grocery list? 

Well, I couldn’t help a teensy, good-natured sneer in the hubs’s direction.  “All of that St. Patty’s Day partying with its hangover shits just popped that hemi right out, did it?” I chortled.

My husband, well, he wasn’t amused.  

But then again, he had a really angry protrusion that he was dealing with, so all was forgiven when he didn’t laugh at my joke.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Trashy Shorts: Lexapro, Anyone?

As I was leaving work yesterday, there happened to be a guy wearing an orange shirt taking a jog at exactly the same time as a police car siren began blaring.

I almost shit my pants and grabbed the wasp spray from my car, because wouldn't your first thought be that you were in the direct path of an escaped convict, too?

And then I realized that it was purely coincidental, and what I was witnessing was simply--well, it was simply a guy in an orange shirt taking a jog at exactly the same time as a police siren began blaring.

Welcome to my anxiety-ridden world, my friends.

I think I need to get on some pills.  I mean, I almost wasp-sprayed an innocent man’s eyes out, for eff’s sake…