So the Olympics are done. I barely watched them, but what I did manage to see was pretty damn amazing. We have such tremendous athletic talent in this country. I do buy into the patriotic everything that I get fed and watching these kids succeed could easily make me swell with USA pride.
What I saw of the closing ceremony was incredible. The months of practice paid off. My Mudder would have loved the show. And the way the announcers kept talking about how wonderful the people of Beijing were to the foreign athletes and tourists would have thrilled her.
Mom always loved China and would defend their culture when I would bitch that too much of our products were made in China. “Buy American!” was always met with her somehow turning the conversation to the wonderful people of China and not politics.
It should have come as no surprise when Mom announced that she was going on a AAA trip to China. In January. She was over 60 and I was terrified for her safety in the middle of winter. IN! CHINA! When I started asking questions about the trip halfway around the fucking world that she stumbled upon in the Triple A newspaper thingy, she had all of the answers, including that she had just bought a floor length down coat with a (fake!) fur trimmed hood to keep her warm.
My favorite volley? “Well, just who do you plan on going to China with?” “19 friends I haven’t met yet.”
I am so my mother’s daughter, no matter how I try to fight it.
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This is most likely an oldie that I hadn’t seen before, and it is so wrong, yet it really hit my funny bone. Yep, I recognize that I was in the mood to laugh. And that Mom, the former nun, would have cracked up at this…
While shopping in a food store, two nuns happened to pass by the beer section.
One asked the other if she would like a beer.
The second nun answered that, indeed, it would be very nice to have one, but that she wouldn’t feel comfortable about buying it.
The first nun replied that she could handle that without a problem.
She picked up a six-pack and took it to the cashier.
The cashier had a surprised look on his face, so the nun said, ‘We use beer for washing our hair; a sort of shampoo, if you will.’
Without blinking an eye, the cashier reached under the counter, pulled out a package of pretzels and placed them in the bag with the beer. He then looked the nun straight in the eye, smiled, and said, ‘The curlers are on the house.’
The past couple of days I have read some pretty funny drunken peeing stories, one that even had another character sharting herself. Got me to thinking about some of the embarrassing things that I have done in my life…drunk or not. There is no way one little post could possibly hold all of the stupid shit I have done, and yet when I really think about those stories, I find that I am really not embarrassed by them. Sure, at one time I probably was mortified, but life happens, I do dumb shit and the world continues to rotate.
However, even though the world is rotating, I still find it difficult to walk into the veterinarian’s office without at least blushing a bit. I was so embarrassed by an event that occurred a few years ago that I always make sure to get any of the vets in that office except the one that examined Ludo when he was a little over five months old and roughly 45 or 50 pounds.
Naturally I was already having “a day” when I had to leave work early, pick up the puppy and get all the way out by the airport to the vet’s office. (They have been taking care of Reilly since he was a baby and it was natural for me to just add Ludo to their client list. It was simply a checkup appointment, probably with shots or something…but basically in and out.) As usual I was running a tad late, so when we arrived they quickly ushered my flustered self into an exam room. Thankfully I had taken the time to change into wearing old crappy clothing because I was already covered in dog hair. Sigh.
All the rushing to get to the vet’s office and there I sat, without any reading material to entertain me, just sitting there looking at the ever growing puppy. Lou’s parents were rather small German shepherds (dad was 70 pounds and mom was 75) and I had it in my head that as the runt he would top out around 65 or so. Boredom and curiosity started to get the best of me, so I decided to pick up Ludo and place him on the metal table that is also a scale. As you can see from the photo up there, he never minded a bit when I scooped him up, so I bent over, without using my knees the way we are all taught, and gathered Louie in my arms. Just as I started to stand up, ass sticking way out, I heard a terrible ripping noise and midway in my lift I froze in the realization that my ancient grubby pants had split up the back. Fuck. Giggle. Giggle some more.
Ludo was quickly put on the scale and I kept giggling as I took off my long sleeved button down shirt to tie around my waist. (Everyone who knows me will appreciate that of course I was wearing a tank top under the long sleeved shirt.) The puppy did great on the scale so I got him down from the table scale in the way too small, way too hot little room and sat myself down in the little chair awaiting the doctor.
She was a woman I had never seen before…hurried and harried. It was obvious that she didn’t want waste time, that it was the end of her day and she wanted to head for home. In an effort to help speed up the process, I offered to pick up the puppy and put him on the scale exam table. The vet seemed grateful that she didn’t have to crawl on the floor after Lou so I squatted down in the totally incorrect lifting position, again wrapped my arms around Ludo, began to stand up and proceeded to rip the loudest, longest, nastiest, smelliest fart that I have ever let loose. There, in mid lift, I froze. Ass sticking out, puppy in my arms. Frozen. Only my eyes moved, darting from the doctor’s eyes to the puppy and back to the vet. My brain flashed the faintest glimmer that possibly the vet might have thought Ludo was having gastrointestinal issues instead of me. It was painfully obvious that I was the one who blew ass, just as it was painful to stand in mid squat for so long. I stood up, tried not to throw up from the immediate stench, and placed the dog on the table.
Did that really just happen? Can I make it uphappen? At that point I didn’t know what to do or how to act. My cheeks were burning red from embarrassment and I could feel the heat starting to travel to both my ears and neck. Might have been the lack of oxygen, might have been the pure mortifying knowledge that the fart’s ringing was still in my ears as it was probably in the doctor’s as well.
For what seemed like days, we both stood unable to breathe or move or think. Until the doc, with one hand’s back on her nose, used the other arm to gesture towards a light switch on the opposite wall. She choked out the word “fan” and I excitedly flipped the exhaust on. The exam room was so small that the fan quickly took away the odor, but by then it was too late. I could never go back.
Well, at least not to her. In the five years that have passed I make sure to ask for a doctor by name. Any doctor. By any name except the woman’s who was there the day I split, and almost shit, my pants.
NOTE: Yes, the photos in this post are old and I look much younger than I do now. Fuck you. Can you believe that they were taken only maybe 5 years ago? Sheesh, time flies considering that November will bring Lou’s 6th birthday! Ludo now weighs 90 pounds and we aren’t even gonna discuss what I am up to these days.
