Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Before I get started, I have some news that I will tell you with a heavy heart. This is the last week that Lilu will be hosting TMI Thursday. Don’t worry, there will still be plenty of overshare here on the ole’ bloggity-blog, it’s just not going to be on a certain day of the week.

I want to give a huge huge HUMONGO thanks to Lilu, because without her and her TMI Thursdays, I wouldn’t have “met” many of you.  Seriously. I never thought reading about poop and pee and periods and jizz and sex could be so fun. Well I knew the sex part would be fun, but not the rest.

I had thought of a few different things that I wanted to do for today. One was to do a sum of all my past TMIs… perhaps in a song or a poem, but I really didn’t have time. Then there was something completely disgusting that happened to me earlier this week, but it’s just too soon. I haven’t even gotten a chance to do laundry yet.

So instead I give you this.

____

I know most of you are probably going to think I’m a major prude when I tell you this but- despite the fact that I’m 27 years old…  until last weekend I’d never baited my hook. I mean…  I’d touched worms before. I’d even held one in my hand a few times, but I didn’t like it. They just feel so awkward, you know?

So I decided that the time had come for me to grab that bait by the balls and stick it, stick it hard. You know, show him who was boss. Turns out, it wasn’t even a worm but a minnow- so you know, I figured it would be an easy catch.

I had heard that the first time wouldn’t be a pleasurable experience, that it may even hurt a little, but I had no idea it was going to be this bad. Even the lead up was awful. I couldn’t even get a hold of it to stick it in, it just kept slipping away.

Well, I guess you can see the end result yourself….

[There is a video that cannot be displayed in this feed. Visit the blog entry to see the video.]

This video was shot with no intention doubling your entendre, but when I heard the audio, I was like… Dude! If I wasn’t watching this, I would think it was a really bad porn. Then I heard my dad’s voice.

Ewwwwwww

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

First off, I want to start by saying that while this definitely goes into the TMI category, the following post is by no means written with the intent of solely being gross or disgusting. This is a topic that I have been thinking about for a while, and it is something I truly feel needs to be discussed.

Queef is one of my least favorite words in the dictionary, though I’m not even sure it is in the dictionary.

Hold on. I’ll check Dictionary.com…

Queef: No Dictionary results

Well damn, dictionary.com- get with the times.

Thank goodness we have Urban Dictionary to rely on.

The top entry:

1. Queef: an expulsion of wind from the vulva during coitus; a vaginal fart.

You see people, I have a slight problem with this. While technically, yes, a queef is an expulsion of wind from the vulva- it #1. doesn’t only happen during “coitus,” (who uses that word besides teachers?) and #2 I wouldn’t necessarily call it a fart.

While queefs are similar to farts in that they both are air escaping a cavity in our nether-regions, I think a queef is more of a distant cousin to a fart, if anything. Basically what I’m saying is that I think that for centuries now, queefs have been highly misunderstood.

Farts are the result of the food that you put into your body. The odor and air comes from a place deep down in your bowels where undigested food festers and rots. (I have no idea if this is correct, but it’s the way I imagine it, shut up.) Farts are capable of causing an odor, not unlike the scent that comes from a dumpster or food rotting in your desk drawer. Essentially, it seems to me that is precisely what they are. Your ass is the dumpster or disgusting desk drawer in this scenario, if that wasn’t clear.

I’m getting tired of using the word queef, so from this point on I shall call it by it’s homonym, a Ppfffsshhhhhh.

Ppfffsshhhhhs on the other hand, they are simply the result of extra air being released from a woman’s special parts. There is no odor unless you have a nasty wanana, or have been storing food items up there for reasons that I don’t want to hear about. They aren’t the result of a diet. They don’t mean someone is disgusting. And most importantly, they cannot be foreseen and they most certainly cannot be controlled.

I’m not bitching about this because I’ve had a terrible experience with ppfffsshhhhhhing or anything. Oh sure, I’ve experienced them, plenty of times, but it wasn’t really anything too drastic or embarrassing, and that’s kind of my point. I feel like most adults are to the point where they know there isn’t anything mortifying about ppfffsshhhhhing, yet there is still this stigma that comes along with the real word for ppfffsshhh. I feel like as we get older, it becomes not so much a big deal, but I remember hearing high school boys talk about it and I thought it would be the end of the world if it happened to me during sex.

Though it isn’t the end of the world or a deal breaker (I don’t think) I do still get a little embarrassed when it happens during sexy time. It’s either completely verbally ignored but dwelled upon, thus ruining the remainder of the tromp; or it is followed by an awkward giggle and the comment “ummm… that wasn’t a fart.”

To be honest, most of my experiences with ppffsshhhhhing haven’t even happened during sex. I was a dancer. There were times when we would have to lay on the floor with our legs above our head and one would inevitably escape. Even now when I do yoga, I’m quite sure that there is at least one ppffsshhhhh that occurs in every session by some woman in the class.

That is why I believe that ppffsshhhhhs shouldn’t even have a place in the TMI world. They need a new name that doesn’t sound so gross, and then they need to be de-stigmatized.

My motto? Shit happens, and so do ppffsshhhhhs.

So let’s all come together for the cause. Help me think of a new name for ppffsshhhhhs. We can enter it into Urban dictionary and do our part to change the world and make it a better place, for you and for me and the entire vaginal race.

A sample entry:

V:_____________ (syn) queef, pussy fart (homonym) ppffsshhhhh

1. An expulsion of wind from the vulva that can happen during coitus, stretching, Dr.’s visits, baths, or basically during any activity where any amount of air is pushed up into the vaginal cavity. Although______s do come out of a woman’s woohoo, there is absolutely nothing gross about them. They are usually the result of a pleasurable activity, and even Oprah Winfry, Michelle Obama, and Megan Fox have ______ed on many occasions.

***Feel free to add to that definition as well.

And also?

What has two thumbs and can ppffsshhhhh on command?

Oh yeah, this girl.

ALSO! It’s not too late to enter my Brentalfloss CD Giveaway. Contest closes Midnight on April 4th I will announce the winners next Monday, so get on it. If you are unfamiliar, familiarize yourself with this dude here.

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Remember how a few weeks ago I told you that my friend Moops has been wanting to start a blog? Well he’s been working on it. He’s even written a few posts, but nothing is live yet- and he’s not sure he wants me to reveal him to the world just yet. However, I did convince him to write a guest TMI post for me since my life has just gotten absolutely crazy the last few weeks. Maybe after reading his awesomeness you can help me convince him that he needs to go public!!!

And without further adieu, I present to you: Moops…

I am about to share a most pathetic tale of over indulgence; this story goes down as one of the worst nights of drinking I have ever had!  Wait a minute, who am I kidding?  I have a resume full of bad nights…with references.

Let me preface the detail of this story with the fact that I am not a delinquent, I have a good job, I contribute to society every now and then, and all in all I’m a pretty decent individual; I just get really drunk from time to time.  I’m about to be 30; I feel that I am fast approaching (or have long past) that threshold where getting boozed up and stripping down to my boxers can be considered acceptable if not slightly amusing behavior (not that that sort of conduct is ever acceptable). In my opinion, drunken behavior is on sort of a sliding scale. For example, when you’re in college, you can get naked and jump on a pogo stick in the front yard and it’s cool; but as age increases, even the slightest drunken mishap can be highly inappropriate and or embarrassing, and for me- this seems to happen at an exponential rate.

And so the story goes.  Halloween 2009.  At the time I was dating a girl who’s birthday was at the end of October. It so happened that her roommate’s birthday fell right around the same time, so they decided to throw a sort of joint birthday/Halloween party.

The night went like this- keg beer, lots of keg beer, my consumption could probably have been measured in gallons; this was supplemented with a cornucopia of shots, you name it I drank it; and then there were the few games of flip cup I participated in. PERFECT, I was ready to go, nothing could stop me, time to hit the bars.

Bar # 1 – I was now at the level of intoxication where I think I am inherently wealthy and feel the need to buy a round of shots for everyone within a 10′ radius of me. I remember the first shot, rupplemintz – GREAT IDEA!

I don’t remember much of the bar scene after that initial round; but from some forensic investigating I conducted in the days that followed, mainly examining my three separate tabs (all different cards,) subsequent bars were visited and many shots consumed.

Fast Forward – A couple of hours later we were back at the house for the after party – yeah, this thing doesn’t stop.  I start emerging from my self induced anesthesia, good, I made it back in one piece, I even somehow managed to make it to the couch and lie down, WAY TO GO!  But wait a minute, it seems that the copious amounts of alcohol I had consumed over the last 12 hours combined with my horizontal position on the couch was making me a little nauseous, make that a lot nauseous, yep I was about to puke.  My body seemed to be paralyzed, so there I was, on this girls nice white couch vomiting a vile substance while a host of characters looked on. Some watched in amusement but most watched in horror (when I say characters I literally mean characters…it was Halloween).  29 years old, and I just puked on myself, just wait it gets better.  I was then thoroughly scolded and clumsily escorted upstairs and thrown into my girlfriend’s bed.

I did attempt one more trip downstairs for an alcohol fueled spirited conversation with my girlfriend, not sure what prompted this one.  There was one eyewitness account that I actually fell up the stairs (vs. down the stairs), pretty impressive.

My first lucid moments the next morning were a bit of a sensory overload; my head was pounding, my mouth was completely dry, my contacts were shriveled up like little raisins in my eyes, my body was totally void of any hydration and my pants were wet, OH SHIT!  MY PANTS…I PISSED THE BED!!!!!!!  At this point I quickly gathered my things, walk downstairs past all of the girls sleeping on a pallet and left, didn’t say a word to anyone.  AWESOME night!  Not only did I puke in front of everyone, but I pissed the bed too, definite high point!  It’s on my way home, with quite possibly the worst moral hangover ever, that I pulled my phone out and tried to make a call; it wouldn’t turn on, great.  You see, my phone was in my pocket when I passed out, it was around the pocket region of my pants that there was the highest concentration of urine; hence my phone not working.  I think I am the only person who has ever pissed on their own phone rendering it useless.

A side note:  Two days prior to the incident I had moved into a new apartment by myself, literally all I had was a bed (I do have furniture now – FYI), so not only did I not have any furniture or cable- but now I didn’t have a functioning phone either. Hungover- this is particularly  lonely and depressing state to be in.  I was forced to go to the Fiesta grocery store down the street to use the pay phone.

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

I’m gonna try to keep this short today, mostly due to the fact that I’m busy packing for my move next weekend. Just kidding. I haven’t started packing yet silly face. I’m just extremely ADD and have been sitting here in front of my computer for the last 4 hours, checking facebook, twitter, and watching stupid tv shows… and now that it’s 11:15 and I’m already ambiened up,  I don’t think I have many coherent minutes left in me.

My senior year of college I took an extensive Spanish class, which basically meant 3 hours of non-stop Spanish, 3 days a week. It was miserable.

What could possibly make 3 hours of abburido espanol even more excruciating?

I’ll tell you.

It was one of the first weeks of class, before I had spent a million hours with my fellow classmates and didn’t know anyone very well yet. I sat down, and as usual- attempted to quickly copy the answers from the back of the workbook. Which is something that I don’t understand, but I won’t get into that today.

So I’m sitting there when I notice a peculiar scent. A very pungent scent. To be more exact, it was of the “came from the ass region” variety.

I looked around, not sure whether I should bring it up, as I didn’t know who, or what, it had come from. It was pretty clear from the fact that it wasn’t waning, that someone hadn’t just broke wind.

I examined all of my neighbors, trying to figure out which one of them would be most likely not to wipe very well.

As I looked around the room, I could tell that I wasn’t the only person who was offended by the poo smell. A few people around me were snickering and looking around for the culprit.

I finally decided to speak up, and I asked the boys next to me, jokingly, if they had shit their pants. After a few minutes, pretty much the entire class was talking about the awful smell.

The teacher eventually asked what all the chatter was about. Everyone started laughing, and leave it to my big mouth to speak up.

“Ummmm… something smells REALLY bad in here.”

It was about that time that the quiet boy sitting behind me finally decided to speak up.

“Uh.. well it’s probably because you have a whole load of poop on the bottom of your shoe…”

I looked down at the foot that I had crossed around my knee, and sure enough… that sumofabiznitch was correct. There was a big load of dog shit on the bottom of my shoe.

Awesome.

Which leads me to last night.

I’m sitting here, at my computer, one leg up on the seat with my knee hugged against my chest like I always do… typing up a post- just as I am now… when I smell something rancid. My two boy roommates were both in the room, so I go ahead and assume it was one of them.

After a few more minutes the smell did not dissipate. I came to the conclusion that it seemed to be coming from me!

I hadn’t passed gas that I was aware of, but I decided to sit for a few more moments just to make sure.

I keep my shit clean people. I mean that as much as one can mean that. I may not shower EVERY day, but I’m clean.

Even so, the scent was coming from somewhere so close to my, well my nether-region, that I was sure of. Eventually, I decided to suck it up and bend my head down to get a closer smell.

EWWWWWWW

Something wasn’t right. I went to the bathroom to check things out, as anyone would in my situation, and came out even more confused. I smelled just fine.

I came back to my desk and assumed my position and the smell was back. Suddenly, I remembered the Spanish class incident and checked my shoe.

All was right in the world once again.

My ass didn’t smell.

There was poo on my shoe.

WIN!!!

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!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Last week I gave you a video blog of all the things in the world that make me want to vomit.

This past weekend I was reminded of one that I left out… a very important one.

A  little back story.

Sometimes I can’t believe my friend A, is my friend. While she is one of the most fun and awesome people that I know, she is definitely more of a lady than some of my other friends. I could probably think of a ton of TMI stories about most of my friends, but not many about her.

Of course there was that time on her wedding day that I literally had to perform my Maid of Honor doodies and wipe her ass because her dress was too poofy to do it herself.

But that’s a different story for another day.

So last Saturday, my friend A and went out and got a little crazy. We met up with a bunch of our friends for a Birthday shenanigan… eventually I passed out, she woke me up and peeled my head off of the coffee table that I had passed out on (like she always does,) and we went back to her house where I slept on a little couch (while there was a big bed 40 feet away) with my legs propped up.

The next morning I woke up feeling surprisingly chipper. I was ready for a bloody mary and to start the whole adventure again.

She didn’t feel so great.

I could tell from the queezy look on her face, and because I kept finding her sprawled out on the cold tile floor, that she really wasn’t feeling it.

But like I said, she’s a trooper, and decided to join me for day two of drinktivities.

I think I’ve told you this before, but I rarely drive. I’m not very good at it, my car is a disaster… and frankly I get even 10 times more nervous when other people are in my car. Sunday morning, I had no choice in the matter. A’s car was at the bar that we were returning to, and we had no other way of getting there besides my car.

Before A got in my car, I tried my best to brush all the wrappers, empty McDonalds coffee cups, and loose change out of the passenger seat. I turned the ipod onto the calmest music I could find, and I told myself over and over “don’t be jerky, drive smooth,” as I could see that the girl was capable of tossing her cookies at any moment.

After a few seconds of being on the road- she switlyy put her foot up on the dashboard. She said it was because Dashboard Jesus was vibrating all over the place and it was making her nauseous.

Understandable.

After a few more seconds I could see that A was taking very deep breaths. She unrolled the window to get some fresh, freezing air.

I stiffened my shoulders and didn’t say a word.

The rest of the drive continued in this matter.

Just as our destination was in site, the mood shifted. A’s breaths grew quicker and more desperate. As I was pulling up, I could see A digging around through all the empty water bottles and papers and she came up with a plastic bag. At first I thought it was for her to breathe into, but then I remembered you’re supposed to do that with paper bags.

And then it started.

“Blerrrrrrghgggjgjjggjgj”

Oh no. She vommed.

I turned my head out the drivers side window and tried to imagine John Cusack riding toward me on a white horse. Wasn’t working.

With every lurch I could feel my body tighten. My senses were working on overload. The “blaerrethhrrrsaasrrsschhh” sound of wretched vomiting hit my ears like a tornado siren. The sound of the vom hitting the plastic baggy reminded me of a really fat person jumping slow-mo on a jumbo-tron. And in the split second that I looked over to make sure it was landing in the bag, the chunks that flew out of her mouth reminded me of the time that I ran into a glass door while carrying 2 gallons of curdled milk/old beer mixture) and it exploded all over my face. (Also another story)

I could feel my mouth starting to water and my arms start to shake. I tried to put it all out of my brain but the sounds, the smell…. it just wasn’t working!!

Queue in the dry heaves. “Blerrrrrrccchhhh”

I giggled thinking it was just a sympathy heave.

“blerrrrrrcccchhh” Ok maybe not so much.

I opened my door, and for the next ten minutes, A barfed into that plastic bag, while I heaved out the drivers side door. When I was finally able to compose myself, I looked at A and we both had tears in our eyes. Not a word was said. She wiped her hands on her pants, gathered that walmart bag that luckily didn’t have any holes in it, and took it to the dumpster. I wiped my lips and took a couple more deep breaths.

I suppose it could have been worse…

A said she would meet me at the next bar… and she did. The Drinktivities continued on for another 5 hours without another glitch. We didn’t speak of our barf-o-rama at the time… and we probably won’t mention it again until I get married and she pays me back for the vomit story that I told in my maid of honor speech at her wedding.

But it happened. And it was Legend- wait for it- dary.

Love you A!!!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Before I get started, there are a few thoughts I need to get off my chest (as if I didn’t do enough of that yesterday.) I skipped last week’s TMI post, not because I am out of awkward, embarrassing, situations to share with you- but due to the fact that I’ve been thinking a little bit about how much I’ve shared… or rather, over-shared in the past. I’ve said it a thousand times before, but for the most part-I don’t care much if people judge me for what I post here. It’s my life, these things have happened…. similar things have happened to everyone, (right?!?!) just not everyone is willing to share them with you. And maybe they are smarter for it.

I recently got into a conversation with one of my best guy friends about my blog. I rarely talk to my real life friends about what I post,  mostly because while I’m glad they are reading, I sometimes like to pretend that they don’t know all of my deepest thoughts and the crazy things I think about daily.  My friend told me that from a guy’s (his)  point of view-my TMI posts have sometimes gone a little too far… I’m not saying he is right, but seeing as though more than half of my readers come to my site from Facebook, (I don’t know who you are, only where you come from) and 99.5% of my Facebook friends are friends and family that I know in real life, I’m not always so sure I want these people reading about my periods and “accidents” and past hookups. Not that it really matters what I want, if they want to- it’s out there. But still, it’s just something that I’ve been pondering ever since I went public with my blog. On the other hand though, I love reading other people’s stories… and I’m a very open person, so chances are I would tell you these things in person anyway.

Anyway, it’s just something I have been thinking about… but not enough to quit these oh-so-fun posts altogether, because who am I? Yeah, I thought so. But I do apologize if I have offended you in any way, and if that’s the case… then don’t read it!

______

So today’s post IS actually one of the periodo category, but an innocent one. But still quite embarrassing.

Fella’s, feel free to make your exit now  if this makes you uncomfortable. Or anyone else for that matter.  (I wouldn’t like John Cusack reading this after all.)

You may rememeber the traumatic experience that I had when I first started at a very young age. If you don’t feel like clicking and reading (you lazy ass) I’ll give you the short version.

Basically, I started the summer that I turned 10 while I was on vacation visiting family. By myself. I had no idea what a period was, and I basically thought that I was dying from some kind of weird cancer that made me poo out the wrong hole. It was terrifying, really.

So a few years later when I was going into the 8th grade, I was still quite innocent about the  whole “woman-hood” experience. I was really getting into dance and had just made the cheer leading squad.

All of you ladies know that pads are just the devil, especially when it comes to any kind of physical activity. Plus they are just gross. Who wants to sit around on their junk all day? Anyways, I won’t get into that now, but at the time I was still (like most young girls) in the pad-stage.

Because I was having to wear tights and a leotard to my dance classes and bloomers with my cheer leading uniform, my mother decided it was time to grad-ee-ate to ye ole tampon. Another notion that to a 12 year old, was really just too much to take in. I remember sitting there, reading the instructions on the back of the box, not being able to fathom actually conquering the task.

After a few failed attempts at insertion, I finally had to ask my mom for assistance. After some detailed instruction and a few more failed attempts, the task was finally done.

Some may say that you become a woman when you start your period, I think it is really when you put in your first tampon. HURRAHHH!! I was a proud woman.

For a few hours, that is.

After a few uncomfortable hours, it was inevitably time to take it out, and attempt the whole procedure again… this time with hopes that I could actually do it with ease.  So I went into the bathroom with my confidence in store. I found the little stringy thing and gave it a tug.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Wouldn’t come out.

You know that feeling you get when you walk out on the alligator pier at the zoo and you stick your head between the gates to get a better look at the alligators and then your head gets stuck in between the bars, and you are for sure you are going to get eaten as an afternoon snack???

Well I do. And it’s scary. This wasn’t quite as scary, but it was still up there.

To make a long story short, I cried once again to my mother, (my poor mom) who (I will spare you the details) basically had to remove it for me. And it wasn’t an easy task.

We knew something wasn’t right with the situation, so a few days later my 12 year old self had my very first appointment with the gyno. Not. Fun.

I still remember that appointment as being one of the most uncomfortable hours of my life, and I partially blame that day on my fear of doctors. Sooooo… he (yes, he) checked out the lady bits, and afterward called my mother and I into his office for a meeting. I was as nervous as a fat girl waiting to be picked for the kickball team, and I unfortunately  know this feeling from experience too.

“Well, it seems that since she started her period so early, the um, hole, was not completely developed.”

What????

“Yes, when it is time for a girl to start her menstrual cycle, the skin over the hole falls off, hers only partially fell off- which has made it impossible to wear tampons.”

(I’m sure he said this all in a way more “doctor-ly” manner, but this is how I remember it, sue me.)

WHATTTTTT?

At this point he drew me a little diagram of a circle with a line straight through the middle of it. “This is what yours looks like.” He then drew a circle without a line through it. “This is what it is supposed to look like.

This confirmed what I knew to be true since I was 2 and had to start wearing an eye-patch for my lazy eye.

I was a freak of nature.

“It’s really not that big of a deal, but she won’t be able to… “have babies” unless she undergoes surgery.”

So now, I was not only a freak, but I also wouldn’t be able to have babies??? I may have only been 12, but I thought that babies might, maybe, perhaps-ly be something I might at least want to think about in the future. I went into panic mode as my mom set up the appointment for my surgery. I didn’t say another word until I was safe in the passenger seat of my mother’s car.

I started sobbing. “So… I might not be able to have babies??” This was all too much for my little brain to handle.

My mom, once again, had to set me straight. “It’s not so much that you wouldn’t be able to have babies, but one day you may want to do the act that you do in order to make babies. And yes, you will need to have the surgery in order to do that.

Oh.

I ended up going through with the surgery on my hoo-hoo, which I really don’t remember… Except for the fact that after I came to, many of my family members came to visit me and I was quite embarrassed that they all knew exactly why I was in the hospital. I also made the mistake of telling my best friends at school, who told their friends… so when I returned a few days later walking funny, I’m pretty sure everyone knew why.

Awesome.

So yeah. I have that.

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

As I sit here writing, I am actually extremely close to having a TMI experience. My stomach is churning. I’m not sure if it’s because of the antibiotics I’m currently on, or because of the nearly 2 cups of peanut butter I spread over celery sticks last night in an effort to wain my sweet/carb tooth. Or it could be the gigantic bowl of beans I just ate. It’s most likely a combination of all of the above.

Refraining from eating carbs and drinking wine this week has resulted in my overindulging in protein in a not so healthy way. I’m not sure if this lifestyle is any better.

But that’s not my story. I’m gonna try to keep this short, because I may have an episode of emergencias de frijoles one way or the other in the near future. EEEEEK.

This particular tale occurred once again back in my days o’ college, or back when I was a still drinking. Which if you’re paying attention, was anytime before this Monday.

My friends and I were out in our college town, having our typical college night full of chugging nickle-natties and blasters. (Blaster= Fry St. code for Jager Bomb.)

I started out the night in typical “Hurricane Carissa” fashion- by dinging my best friend LA’s brand new (I mean within the first week brand new) car door against another car. She was a little peeved, but after the first few drinks and a few rants, she let it go.

On this particular night, we (read: I) were particularly boozed up. We made our way around all the bars and shortly before they closed at 2am, we decided it was time to call it a night. LA was playing designated driver for the night, mostly because she wanted a chance to drive us around in her new ride, but also because after the first bar it was apparent that neither I, or our other friend KT would be able to do the job.

Before we had even gotten to the parking lot, I made a loud announcement… “I have to pee.”

KT and I lived only a few blocks away, so they both quickly waved away my announcement and continued towards the parked car. Just as we were arriving at LA’s new car, KT’s ex-boyfriend spotted her in the parking lot. The details are blurry, but I do know that a heated argument started up between my friends and her ex’s group of friends. I stood a little behind the group, trying not to fall over as I looked longingly over my shoulder at the bars across the street, where I knew I could find a toilet street to squat over.

At some point during their argument, a couple of cops approached our group and started asking questions. Knowing I was not in a particularly good state of mind, and also that I didn’t have the best luck with the fuzz, LA sternly told me to go and get in the back seat of the car and to stay put.

“But I really have to go to the bathroom! Can’t I just run into one of the bars real quick,” I slurred. Or something to that effect.

“Absolutely not. Go and get into the car,” LA told me again as she pushed the clicker thing to unlock the door. “And do not get out of the car, no matter what.”

It all seemed a little dramatic, but at that point, I knew that my friend probably had better judgment than I, so I decided to follow her orders.

I got into the back seat of LA’s new car and settled in. I kept myself low in the seat as to not call attention to myself. The last thing I needed was to be interrogated. After about 5 minutes of waiting, I started to get a little restless… and my level of having to pee reallllly started escalating. I remember looking  out the back window and saw that the cops were now making my friends do the standard drunk tests. Walking the line and what not. Or at least that is how I remember it.

I contemplated getting out of the car and running to the nearest bar to relieve myself, but I knew that probably wouldn’t end well, so I ultimately decided to stay put for the time being. At this point I was going between squirming unrelentingly, and literally holding my crotchal area, trying to keep it in.

After about 5 more minutes I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had no choice. It was either pee now, or pee now. There was no longer the option of forever holding my pee.

My options were limited. I couldn’t run for a bar, I would surely be stopped en-route. I couldn’t get out and pop a squat, that would surely end with a public urination ticket, though at this point I hardly cared.

I crawled up into the front seat and started rummaging around.

AHHHH AHHHH AHHHH (heaven sound effect)

There it was, sitting in the cup holder… glowing in the dim light of the parking lot.

A 32oz wide-lip bottle of Lemon-Lime Gatorade.

I could do this.

I carefully unzipped my pants and pulled them off where they settled on the floorboard of LA’s new car. I put both feet up on the back seat, and shuffled then out until I was in frog squat position. I positioned myself so that my face was away from my group of friends, who were still talking to the cops.

And then I positioned the bottle.

Just as I was relaxing into my squat and gearing up to make careful aim, I heard a loud bang from behind me that caused me to lose my footing. Luckily, I hadn’t yet completely relaxed my urinal muscles.

I turned to see a cop shining his light through the window, where only seconds before my bare-behind had been. I quickly pulled my pants back on and hung my head in shame as I opened the back door.

The cop grabbed me by my arm and asked if I had managed to “do anything.” I told him that I hadn’t, and that I still really had to go. I think he must have felt bad for me, because at that point he swiftly drug me over to my friends, looked at LA and said “I’m not even gonna tell you what she almost just did in your car, but yall need to get her to a restroom.”

Everyone was so relieved that they were finally able to leave that no one even mentioned what the cop had said about me. We quickly left, and LA drove us home where I was finally able to pee.

We all lived happily ever after.

Until a few months later when LA was telling the story about the cops in the parking lot to another one of our friends. It was all fun and laughs until she got to the end. She stopped abruptly and looked at me with fire in her eyes.

“What DID you almost do in my brand new car????”

Oopsie. But you know what? It was not as bad as it coulda been.

-John Cusack’s girlfriend.

If you missed my vlog a few weeks ago where a tell a story in which I wasn’t so lucky, check it out here.

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I posted this yesterday, but not many people responded so I’m posting it again.  I’m stubborn like that!!!

I’ve been thinking a little bit about the future of my blog. I’m  close to 200 posts and will hit my 6 month bloggaversary in a few weeks, and I want to try something a little different. I have often been told that I have a story for pretty much every subject (that’s just my life) so I think in order to get me writing about things other than John Cusack, I would like to ask you to do a little blog assignment.  I give you dear readers, the task of asking me any questions you want to know about little ole me (and I will answer with complete honesty unless you’re a dick) , stories you would like to hear extended versions of (My 100 things post might give you some ideas,) or any other subject matter that you would like to know my opinion on (or a poem about)…. and if I don’t have an opinion on the matter, I’ll get one!!! Just send an email to me at carissajade@gmail.com, tweet me, or pop it off my comments. Thanks and I love you guys!

I also plan on doing a giveaway in the next few weeks, so keep your eyes open. I promise I won’t be giving away one of my decoupage art pieces. Unless you want one I could decoupage something of your request.

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Ok guys, so I have been incredibly scared to try out this “Vlog” nonsense, but I finally caved in… partially due to the fact that I was too lazy to actually write anything. So now I present to you myself, in all my glory  (wearing my pajamas and no makeup except for wine lipstick) telling yet another embarrassing story of my life.

I may not ever do this again, so please enjoy.

[There is a video that cannot be displayed in this feed. Visit the blog entry to see the video.]

I accidentally published this before I was ready, I’m an idiot.

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!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site today for her special post secret TMI edition, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

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.

An enema.

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.

A couple weeks ago you may recall me telling you a story about my, ahem, ” friend “that I shall call “Cari.” It seems that Cari has a way of putting her way into interesting situations with guys. Today I will be sharing another one of Cari’s “hook -up” stories. This one is actually a little lamer than some, but still quite funny.

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Once upon a time, there was a girl named Cari.

There was about a 5 year period when Cari had a humongous, nearly embarrassing obsession with the popular boy band *NSYNC. If you asked her about it these days, she would probably deny it at first, but then she would spend 15 minutes telling you the details of how she got to meet them, and even got a kiss from Joey.

But I digress, that is a whole nother story.

One thing you should know about Cari, is that she, at least at the time, tended to fall for boys hard.  She doesn’t have a single “type,” per se, but she does seem to always fall for boys who are passionate. Whether they have passion for riding horses, Nascar, comedy, politics, sports, or music, it doesn’t really matter… as  long as it is  something. I guess you could say she falls with a passion, for boys who have passion. She falls even harder for those who love the same things she does.

Back in her sophomore year in college, Cari met a boy, who we will call Jack, with whom she shared a very special something. Something that should have sent off crazy alarms in Cari’s brain, but you know- sometimes she choose to ignore those blaring signs for the sake of a little attention.

Like many of the boys that Cari met, she met Jack at a local bar. She knew of Jack and his reputation of a ladies man, but didn’t know him personally, and certainly didn’t think he would give her the time of day.

This particular night was Cari’s lucky night. The bar started playing several *NSYNC songs, to which Cari had taken the time to memorize all of the dance moves to. She wasted no time jumping on the dance floor and showing off her moves, and her ability to perform them in a way that would give her favorite boys the justice they deserved. After only a few short beats, Cari was surprised to see that Jack had joined her on the floor, and he too knew all the moves perfectly.

“SWEEEEEEEETTTTT”

At the time, none of this struck Cari as in the least bit odd.

After they successfully pleased the crowd with several performances, Jack offered to buy Cari a drink and they were quickly engaged in a deep conversation about their favorite boy band. Cari casually mentioned that she had several tapes that she had compiled and edited of every single *NSYNC video and performance that they had ever made. Jack seemed very interested in Cari, and she was all too quick to invite him back to her place after the bar.

When they got to Cari’s bedroom, (where there was a wall size poster of the boys that she had stolen from outside McDonalds)  they quickly began kissing. After a while, Jack asked Cari if he could see the tapes, he said he wanted to see her fantastic editing job. She blushed and quickly jumped to get the tape. Afterall, this guy did seem very interested, and what would set the mood better than a little “God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You?”

She popped the tape in and the kissing and petting commenced. After a few minutes he grabbed her hand and placed it on his buttocks.

Ooohhh Naugh-ty, she thought, and rubbed his cheek awkwardly for a few seconds before she pulled her hand away…

They continued kissing and after a few more minutes he grabbed her hand and put it back  on his butt cheek, this time a little closer to the crevice. This time after a few quick rubs, as she attempted to pull her hand away, he grabbed it and placed it back on his cheek.

Cari was a little confused as to what he wanted her to do, so she tried her best to shut it out and just concentrate on “No Strings Attached” playing in the background, when suddenly he put his mouth to her ear and whispered loudly with his beer scented breath, “PLAYYY WITTHHH MY BUTTTHOLLE…”

Cari was quite taken aback, as no one had ever asked her to compete such a task before. She wasn’t quite sure if she had heard correctly.

“Whhaattt?”

“PLAYYYY WITH MY BUTTHOLE,” he said, unmistakenly this time.

It was at this point that Cari  noticed that during all of this fondling, Jack had shifted so that he could keep a steady eye on the television.

It wasn’t so much the asking to play with his butthole that bothered her, but more so the realization that Jack was way more interested in the boys of *NSYNC, than he would ever be in her.

At that point, Cari  quickly made up an excuse as to why she needed to get up early.. and Jack didn’t seem to be too bothered.

Just as he was about to walk out the door he got a sheepish look on his face.

“Do you think I could borrow that video for a few days?”

Cari obliged to get him to leave, and he promised to return it in a few days, and also that he would be calling her to go out soon.

Cari never saw that tape again.

Cari lived happily after after, and hopefully Jack finally came out of the closet so he could too.

Note: To Cari and all of her friends, Jack is, and will forever be known as simply “play with my butthole.”

The End.