Today I’m doing my first guest TMI post ever over at one of my favorite bloggers and new-found friend Tricia’s page, One Step to Recovery; One giant Step to OMG. Please head over there and show both of us some love, and make sure you read some of Tricia’s past posts and follow her blog! You won’t regret it, she is entertaining, honest, and completely made of awesome!
And speaking of guest posts… I have no idea how, but my best friend LA has yet again talked me into letting her post another TMI post ABOUT ME. I thought that she had already shared the most embarrassing “shit” she had in her vault (about the time I shit all in her car) but it turns out- I don’t remember my own embarrassing stories very well. So without further adoodoo, I hand the mic over to LA, and I’m gonna go cry and eat a bag of oreos.
As Lilu always says: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
Hola friends of Carissajaded,
This is now my second attempt at a guest blog for Carissajaded, and let’s hope this one reads a little better than the last. My previous entry may have been written on the eve of my birthday after a bit of celebrating.
I think that it has been said before that CJ and I have a bit of an “unhealthy” relationship. I may even have a broken engagement to show for it… my bad. Regardless, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. That being said, there have been a few instances when that line between being mere friends, and the things that you only tell/do/keep to yourself has been crossed. This is definitely an example of that.
It was long time ago in college when this incident took place. In those days we were busy drinking, eating, smoking, staying up late and doing countless other things to our bodies that don’t exactly bode well for a healthy digestive system. It was one Sunday in particular where it seemed that the deadly combination of the aforementioned vices had finally taken their toll on a certain somebody’s already delicate digestive track. Here’s a snippet of the things anyone could have heard throughout our apartment on that afternoon:
“Uuuuughhh, my stomach”.
“I feel soooo bloated”.
“Why can’t I poop”?
“Stop farting in my room and running away”!
You know, the usual things that you’re thinking in your head when a case of constipation comes your way, but that you choose not to say out loud – because it’s disgusting and generally bad manners. The scene was really that of a bad Pepto Bismol commercial…Or in this instance, Fleet.
After an entire day of the groaning, I couldn’t take it anymore. You see, in our relationship, my role is that of the doctor. CJ complains about an ailment, and I decisively give her my diagnosis (nothing is wrong) and my suggested treatment (drink a glass of wine). Most of the time Half the time I have no idea what I am talking about, but when your bff is a ridiculously paranoid hypochondriac, you learn to fake it. In this case however, I was right. I knew what needed to be done and I said it.
Yes friends, that is a 5 letter word that no one wants to hear, but it had to be said. After a little convincing about how they are actually a very useful tool that doctors recommend for good colon health, she decided it was her only option. Off to CVS we went.
About an hour later – because for some reason neither of us can step foot in a CVS without spending AT LEAST that amount of time looking at all the “As seen on TV” merchandise and fake eyelashes – we were home. We chose my bathroom as the best option for the deed because I had the master which could be closed off to the rest of the apartment, and also I could shut the inner bathroom door between us. My role was, once again, that of the doctor. I stood on the other side of the door yelling out the instructions of how to assume the proper position (looks very similar to another position that is dirty in a completely more pleasurable kind of way) and administer the “medication.”
She was there. She was in the home stretch. All necessary components were, for lack of a better term, in place. But she froze.
I could hear crying from the other side of the door… All I could hear in-between the mostly inaudible sobs was, “I can’t do it”. *sobbbbbbb “Please, help me”.
All I could think was, why God, why? Why hast thou forsaken me?
For those of you who don’t know CJ, she would have stayed in that position in my bathroom all night. It’s a rare combination of stubbornness and fear, but when she gets in that state, she’s liable to stay there… forever.
I knew this. I also knew I had to pee. So what did I do? I took a deep breath and I entered the bathroom.
The least she could have done was shift positions so I didn’t walk right into it, but no. There she was in all her glory – assuming the position that I had, just minutes before described to her from the other side of that door. What I would have given to have been back on the other side of that door. The “applicator” was facing me and I knew what had to be done.
I calmly stepped towards her, all the while soothing her with my voice. I described what I was about to do, and with my head half turned and only one eye open…I squeezed. The worst part about it is that you have to do it slowly, and you have to ensure that the bottle’s entire contents are used. After what seemed like the longest 10 seconds of my life, I ran screaming from the bathroom. I left the applicator right where I’d found it.
And that was it. My job was over. My duty – no pun intended – complete.
I can’t say I am proud of what I did, but I am a friend. However, CJ, if you ever need help with something like that again, please call someone else.