Have you ever found yourself peeing blood in the grocery store bathroom while your napless toddler tries to throw your phone in the neighboring toilet?
No? Just me?
Last night I spent two hours writing a post about this experience, but when I woke up this morning–I just couldn’t hit publish. There is a fine line between UTI and TMI, and I crossed it. It was funny though, but not funny ha-ha. More like funny I almost died in the soap aisle because the student health receptionist was eating her lunch.
Fortunately I am feeling better now, though I would like to send out a public service announcement to all medical receptionists in charge of calling in medicine. Do not take your lunch break if someone’s vagina is on fire. Sorry I said vagina, but I’m being serious. You should never take your lunch break when you know someone is crouched over, moaning in pain, waiting for your call in the middle of the grocery store pharmacy with a tired toddler. It isn’t nice. It isn’t human. It isn’t right.
Austin casually mentioned I would do the same thing if I were a student health receptionist since I really like lunch and hate being a receptionist, but I disagree. If you call me and your vagina is on fire, I promise I will not take my lunch break. The turkey sandwich can wait.
Also, avoid hot tubs.
Just curious, does anyone actually use LinkedIn? I have marked them as spam seven times and I still get their daily emails wanting me to connect with the kid who pushed me off the swing-set in 3rd grade. Get away from me, e-mail monster. You are an interwebs curse.
Every night before I fall asleep, I choose something to think about. I know it’s weird, just go with it. Sometimes it’s pretty standard; the lottery, a book published, a singing career. But sometimes it’s a little nuts. Like if I had a cat the size of a dime, or how every Seinfeld plot could have been solved with a cell phone, or what would happen if I won a free, solar powered RV (we’re not selling it).
Lately I’m stuck on the fugitive scenario. I don’t know why it fascinates me, but I just can’t get over how completely awesome and terrifying it would be to go undercover. Some people in this house claim I would make a terrible fugitive, but they underestimate my stealth, my speed, my style. I picture myself in cornfields, camouflaged. In New York City, just a common prostitute! Here I am pretending to be the duchess of Mecklenburg. Or am I?
Think of the wigs, because that’s all I really do anyways. I could get some crazy wigs.