I’m the Dot

I’m the most immature 28 year old female ever. Tonight while hanging out with my usual Thursday crew (ddpp), the topic of farting came up - I don’t really remember how… Maybe the topic of farts was fresh in my mind because of an earlier conversation with my favorite former San Diegan, Jay (that’s not to say the rest of you former San Diegans are not my favorite.. I have lots of favorites, but if my whole blog was about shout-outs to people I’m sure you’d get bored quickly). Apparently, while Jay & I were talking (via Skype, then Facebook) he was sitting in his backyard (stealing wi-fi from the neighbors) and tearing it up at full volume with no shame. I, personally, didn’t hear him farting, but he swears it was loud and I trust that he was telling the truth because of past experiences.

The point is that I realized I had no idea how farts are made. I mean, I know that everyone gets a little gassy now and again, but how does it happen? My friend, Tony, tried to explain it beyond his usual “air moving over fecal matter” model, but I was still curious. Being the nerd that I am, I Googled it. I Googled “how are farts made?” and the most entertaining website popped up.

Some of the questions are very practical, like where does fart gas come from? Or, what is fart gas made of? And some are just ridiculously funny, like why are stinky farts generally warmer and quieter than normal farts? Or, is it possible to leave a brown spot in your pants because of a fart? (And the answer to that one includes the terms “skid mark” and “fart art”. Yes, I nearly peed my pants laughing because I am that immature.) Speaking of immature, the best parts are the answers. The author of the site has a somewhat serious, authoritative tone (does s/he study farts? a degree is Fartology?), but I can’t possibly take anyone seriously that uses phrases like “fart particle”, “fart transmitter”, and “fart receiver”. To the question, “why do farts make noise?” the author answers,

“The sounds are produced by vibrations of the anal opening. Sounds depend on the velocity of expulsion of the gas and the tightness of the sphincter muscles of the anus. Contrary to a popular misconception, fart noise is not generated by the flapping of the butt cheeks. You can see proof of this in the close-up video footage of Carl Plant’s fart on Mate-in-a-State”

The “Mate-in-State” is a link. A link that I reluctantly clicked on because of my deadly curiosity, but thankfully didn’t work.

Just when I thought my night couldn’t get better, I saw a link at the bottom of the fart page for this.

Happy learning!

I’ve never read the book so I could be totally off, but I’m pretty sure The Secret’s secret to getting what you want is simply visualizing you have it. If you want a million dollars, just picture one million dollar bills.. maybe you’re swimming in them. I can’t really picture this since I have no idea what one million dollar bills would look like - is that, like, a bathtub full? Because I can visualize my bathtub filled with dollar bills… and I think I would feel like a stripper with all those ones.

What I want is way more simplistic than a million dollars (though I wouldn’t complain if I woke up to a bathtub full of bucks). I want a damn headband to actually stay on my head. Already I regret that sentence and this whole post because I can just hear my dad cackling and joking about my big head. Yes, I have a big head, but it’s not obnoxiously large (like some people I know, Dad). I don’t think the size of my head is the problem. Up until today, I thought maybe it was the shape of my head (I know what you’re thinking, a chick with a big, abnormally shaped head - why hasn’t Taye Diggs dumped Idina for her? And the answer is, I have yet to meet Mr. Diggs and consequently bare his children, which I would gladly do despite how much pregnancy/birth freaks me out and that Taye has a proven record of giving me double-chinned, Santa children.). I would put elastic, “stay-put” headband on only to have them shoot off the back like a rubber band. I halfway expect to hear someone yell, “OW! My eye!” as the headband goes flying. But today, my friends, I figured out the secret. And it had everything to do with visualizing the possibility of keeping a headband on my big head.

Actually, it probably had more to do with the fact that I didn’t feel like washing my hair before going to get celebratory mani-pedis with my friend, Megan. Sure I hadn’t washed my hair since Thursday morning, but isn’t it good to give your hair a little break? The thought of wearing a hat in 80 degree weather (yeah, I know, it’s NOVEMBER! and it’s 80 freaking degrees. WTF, global warming?) did not sound appealing either. That is when the image of me rocking a headband popped into my head. Actually, the image wasn’t me at all - it was some girl from America’s Next Top Model, but that’s besides the point. It was like an episode of CSI (this is a lot of TV talk from a girl who does not even have basic cable) where the camera zooms in on the defining clue and crime solved; the girl had humongous hair. And that’s when I realized it’s not head shape, it’s hair size! I needed big Texas hair if I wanted to sport a headband without injuring myself or others (and avoid the shame spiral that comes from believing your head is oversized and oddly shaped).

I spent the next 30 minutes ratting and hair-spraying my hair until it was good and big. I smoothed out the top so I didn’t look too much like Amy Winehouse (seriously though, what is in that chick’s hair?), put on my “stay-put” headband, pulled the rat’s nest into a little ponytail and tahdah! the thing actually stayed put. It was like a miracle.

Now that I’ve discovered this I’m thinking I will wash my hair a whole lot less. Maybe I’ll be like those girls (that I envy daily) who look very put together with a messy look. I’ll sweat my brains out at the gym one evening and just rat it up the next day, throw in a headband and go. I mean, I’ll still shower and stuff, just not wash my hair. Who cares if my hair smells like the dump? I’ll still be somewhat cute and as close to trendy as I could get.

Is this something the everyone else knows and I’m just now figuring out? Why didn’t anyone tell me that all I needed was to have big hair? What other secrets am I missing out on? Tell me, interweb! I must know.

Every time I visit the South (specifically, New Orleans), I fall in love a little more. Granted, I do not care to endure their summers, but I can live with the breezy fall, yummy food, and friendly people. I love that Southern people call me “Baby” or “Sugah” and it’s not in a degrading manner; it’s sweet and endearing.

This trip to NOLA was to take part in the marriage of my lovely cousin, Lola, and her now-hubby, Rodsquad (who I would link, but Homeslice never updates his blog). Of course the wedding was fabulous because Melanie is Wedding Planner/Task Master Extraordinaire. And the festivities were filled with memorable moments like seeing my Aunt Anna dance with Barack Obama

And seeing Burt (pictured here as his alter ego Burt Bunny) morph into a dance machine at the wedding

And getting to hang out with my precious niece, Bebe!, and cousin, Madison

And there were the usual shenanigans by nameless people who will not appear in pictures via the Dot, but will remain in our memories - e.g., attempts to ride a bike after having a big too much to drink, puking in bed after having too much to drink, an amazing game of Slamwhich (I won, as always), someone spitting in someone else’s eye (even though their mouth was closed), the list goes on. I am happy to report that no one woke up with a mysterious black eye, nor did anyone pee on the dance floor (that I know of, anyway).

There are many fun moments, but there are two I think you will enjoy. The first involved my dear, sweet Grandma. At dinner Thursday night, she came over to say hello to the bride who happened to be sitting across from Michelle, the maid of honor, and me. Michelle said something to Grandma, who looked at her startled and said (a bit gruffly), “Who are you?!”

I tried to recover the moment by introducing Michelle to Grandma, but then Grandma looked at me and said (even more gruffly), “Well who are you?!” After I told her who I was, she said, “oh yeah, I recognize you because of your earrings.” Whaaaa????

My second favorite/oh-shit moment was during the cake pull. All the bridesmaids gather around the cake and pull a ribbon out of the cake. At the end of the ribbon is a charm that is kind of like a fortune - you can get a four-leaf clover that signifies luck, an anchor that signifies hope, etc., etc.

I pull my ribbon and, like all the other girls, put the charm in my mouth because it’s covered in frosting (how else am I going to see what my future holds). Charm in mouth, I can’t tell what I could have possibly gotten. It wasn’t flat like the heart, anchor, or four-leaf clover. It was quite bulky and awkward. I take the charm out of my mouth and realize my charm is a high-chair… as in, the thing you put BABIES in. Couldn’t I at least I gotten the ring that signifies getting married? Or the heart for love?? WTF, cake pull?! Unhappy with that future, I traded with my sister (who already has the darling Bebe!) and got an anchor. At least I didn’t get the thimble, which apparently means you’re going to be a spinster. But do you think it mean something that the anchor, which was tied to my wrist, some how came untied and was never to be seen again?

I may or may not have left my office multiple times to take of of needless tasks like washing my hands or refilling my half-full water bottle. Why, you ask? Because today was Facility Inspection by Hot Firefighters Day.

Mmm.. Firefighters, you made my day 100% better.

Awhile back I said I would write a little something about causes I care about and (hopefully) if you feel so compelled you will do something.

Last night I saw Call + Response. At the least you should check out their website, but if the movie is playing in your city, then I vote for you to go. All the proceeds from the movie go towards projects that fight human trafficking. So even if you go and sleep through the darn thing, you’ll still be doing something of worth.

I’ll let their website do all the talking, but you MUST see Call + Response.

I don’t really have much to say or even any exciting story to tell .. I just started to get a little self-conscious about my poop story, so I thought I’d cover my tracks by rambling.

I’ll divert your attention by sharing my TKB experience from the other night. For those who are unschooled in the ways of 24 hour fitness, TKB is Turbo Kick Boxing. I’m sure it goes without saying that I was the furthest thing from turbo in the class. I felt like a total tard and I almost got turbo kick-boxed in the face a couple times. The saving grace of the whole ordeal was there was at least one other person who was a million times slower than me (I’m pretty sure her workout consisted of standing still). There was also this tall, white dude with a shaved head, all dressed in silver who made it very difficult to keep a straight face. He was all over the place. If the instructor was doing a graceful side kick, he was attempting what looked like a cheerleading toe-touch. So between him and the statue girl, I felt a lot better about my kick boxing abilities and they kept me laughing, so that’s always a good thing.

Speaking of laughing, my inner 12-year old boy came out today in yoga. The dumbest things were funny to me and in the middle of various poses I’d start cracking up. Probably because yoga seems get inner things moving and someone inevitably farts in the middle of class. And I laugh because I’m that mature. While we were doing Dancer pose, I totally lost my balance because I looked up at myself in the mirror and noticed that because of the length of my pants it looked like I was an amputee, and despite the fact that amputation is not a laughing matter I found this to be funny. That was a really long sentence, I apologize.

In other news, I’m trying to compile a list of coffee shops in San Diego. I love going to coffee and checking out new places, so I decided to put together a directory of sorts. Any suggestions?

Lastly, I would just like to share with you that I’ve had an old Salt n’ Pepa song stuck in my head all morning - None of Your Business. And now I feel inspired to dance around my house listening to Very Necessary.. I miss S&P.

Once again, I have failed as a blogger. But this time my failure to write has less to do with my commitment and fear of rejection issues and more to do with the fact that I almost died a couple Wednesdays ago. You probably think I’m being dramatic, but I’m not. I almost died in the worst possible way - severe diarrhea, or what I like to call “soupy poopies” (I made that term up when I was a kid. Brilliant, no?) For those of you who don’t find poop to be funny or start getting all pukey just thinking about it, I strongly suggest you stop reading because I am not scared and I will tell you everything.

Starting with how I woke up in the middle of the night Tuesday/in the wee hours of the morning on Wednesday with a stabbing pain in my abdomen. Said pain caused me to run my ass to bathroom before it exploded.. and kept exploding until I almost passed out. I almost passed out from pooping. Now if that isn’t comedy, I don’t know what is.

I know it’s definitely not comical that I started to crap blood. Wow. That was definitely TMI and I hope you take comfort in knowing that it won’t get too much grosser than that. At first a nurse I talked to said it was probably due to an “irritated anus” and I knew the situation was grave when I didn’t even laugh. I never thought “irritated anus” wouldn’t be funny.

Thankfully, I was able to get in to see a doctor Wednesday morning and they managed to take a ton of blood despite my stingy, dehydrated veins and tested me for way too many things. I started to think the doctor was just really excited thinking that I could possibly have some crazy parasite or rare disease.. maybe he just doesn’t get to order labs much? He offered to give me a rectal exam, but I was like, “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think you want to be looking up there, Homeslice. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m here because my ass is exploding.” It would have been brilliant if I said that, but I was too sick to be funny so I just said, “is that entirely necessary?” And he said no, but taking stool samples was. So after they hydrated me with some magical liquid, I was sent down to the lab to provide some samples of stool. Which made it sound like someone was going to parade around with my poop tooth-picked on a serving platter. But given the physical state of my stool there is no way a toothpick would have been helpful.

Thankfully, the lab lady just gave me a bunch of small tupperware-looking things to poop in when I got home. Yay. Homework.

Did I mention that I was supposed to leave to go on a business trip on this lovely poop-filled morning? I changed my flight to the evening in hopes that my body would magically stop hating me, but it didn’t. In fact, my body was full on raging against me.

My symptoms got worse and upon speaking with a nurse, I was told to go to the ER. Sweet. More tests. And a rectal exam. By a doctor who looked slightly like Anderson Cooper. I didn’t think the fun would end. And it didn’t. They thought maybe I had some crazy infection, so they made me drink a bunch of nasty vanilla milkshakes (barium sulfate nastiness) to prep me for a CT Scan. The nurse was trying to make me feel better by saying that I was lucky I got the vanilla flavor instead of banana (ack!) and then she told me the side effect was diarrhea.

Hi. Did you miss the part where I was admitted to the ER because of scary diarrhea. That’s not funny, lady.

They did the CT Scan, gave me more magical hydration liquid, and let me lay in the oh-so-comfortable hospital bed until Dr. Anderson Cooper came to tell me I was going to live. The CT Scan came back normal and I guess the plague inside me was some kind of virus. They gave me some lovely medicine to help me feel better and sent me home, where the barium sulfate could exit my system for the remainder of the night. Thankfully my BFF was there to take care of me and didn’t even make fun of me for having severe soupy poopies.

I’m feeling much better now. All symptoms aside, I know my health is improving because things like “irritated anus” and “soupy poopies” make me laugh. That and my bowels are shooting out of me anymore.

Have you ever taken the Myers-Briggs test? What about the enneagram test?
I find them to be fairly interesting, entertaining at the least. I realized today, however, an unnerving connection.

On the Myers-Briggs I consistently test as an INTJ. I’ve taken this test hundreds of times and every stinkin’ time I’m an INTJ. Today I asked my new intern to take the test and since I was on the website already, I quickly took the test just to be sure my INTJness was still kicking. And it was. (And it is here that I wish I tested as “P” instead of a “J” so I could say my Pness.)

After you take the test, most websites will provide a list of “famous INTJs”. I’m glad to share my type with people like C.S. Lewis or Susan B. Anthony, and today I noticed that another famous INTJ was none other than Hillary Clinton.

Now, my feelings towards Hillary are not the point - this is not a political post. Rather it is a post pointing out the irony that after taking the enneagram test I came out as a “Helper”. And who else would be a famous Helper but Monica Lewinsky. Innnteresting!

Do you think this says something about me?

I spent the last couple days in the mountains of San Diego on a retreat for work. Typically I loathe work retreats for the following reasons:

1. “Work retreat” is an oxymoron. They are rarely true retreats in which the main goal is getting away from work; rather, they typically serve as an excuse to sit around a table having long, circular conversations for multiple hours at a time.
2. Getting to and from work retreats most likely means being stuck in a car with people you have very little in common with beyond work. Read: strange conversations with lots of awkward silences.
3. I love my bed. I’ve never been a big fan of staying the night anywhere (unless it includes a nearby beach and/or luxurious spa treatments).

But this retreat was a little different - we didn’t actually do work. Well, not real work. We did trust work. Thankfully we didn’t do anything that required trust walks or falls, as I typically avoid most activities that require trusting people. I know, I have issues. The next blog will be about contributing to my shrink fund.

For this retreat we talked about trust, which is much easier than actually trusting, and did other sorts of fun things… like eating together. It was actually quasi-enjoyable (my bed was still greatly missed). The closing of the retreat consisted of us munching on cookies, watching a movie, and discussing the movie. I really thought this would be my favorite part of the retreat - I love movies, discussions, and cookies. But all the favoriteness was wiped out with one passing of gas. Oh, let’s be honest - it was multiple passings of gas. And I almost died.

The first couple waves, I thought maybe something was just stinky outside. But as it kept happening, I realized something inside (one of my co-workers) was stinky. It was the kind of gas that steals your breath like that little troll thing from Cat’s Eye. In fact, I’m pretty sure the brewing turd that was producing the gas looked like the little troll.

Each time I smelled the fart, I tried to nonchalantly look around to see if anyone else seemed to smell it or to see if anyone had that uncomfortable I-just-shit-my-pants look on their face. And this, my friends, is why I have a hard time trust people because EVERYONE looked innocent.. so innocent, that I even started to question if I was the one farting. Tell me how do you attempt to trust anyone when gas like that is being let lose and no one is owning it?

After the movie, we had our discussion and headed out to the cars to return to San Diego. At one point, I ran into one of my co-workers who was coming back from the bathroom. This guy is notorious for openly talking about his pooping habits so when I saw him coming back from the bathroom I asked if it was him tearing it up. He was a little confused at first because he somehow thought I (clearly female) was in the men’s restroom and, therefore, overheard his pooping - definitely not the case. But he swore up and down that it wasn’t him and I trusted him because has a proven track record for not just owning, but flaunting his bowel issues.

Mystery still unsolved, we piled into the cars and left. It was about 10 minutes into the drive when I realized the culprit is traveling with me. Have you ever driven with someone who has terrible gas?? It’s worse than sneezing while driving. Especially if you choose not to shame them for their gas because you’re trying to be respectful. So I just tried not to breathe or I took very shallow breaths. Again, I tried to check for guilty faces - I was driving so this was a little easier since i could look in my rear view mirror - but everyone looked normal.

We eventually made it back to San Diego and I (obviously) survived the flatulent tidal waves, but not without some scars. I feel as though I am back to square one with this whole trusting my co-workers business. It would have been helpful, team building even, if the farter had said, “I’m so sorry, but I just farted. I was really hoping it would be non-offensive, but as soon as it left my cheeks I could tell it would be a deadly one. Maybe when I feel the next fart coming on, we can pull over?”

Is honesty and full disclosure too much to ask? Maybe next time I will take the initiative and say, “Wow. It smells like someone is getting sick. Do we need to pull over so you can go to the bathroom?”

But if I am totally honest with myself (and you), I must confess that I would bust up laughing every time the person said “fart” or “poop”. Maybe the problem isn’t trust, but maturity? Either way, donations to my shrink fund are welcomed.

“Oh my. He has very large paws.”

“Yeah. He’s.. uh, kind of a big cat.”

“C’mon little buddy, come on out.. it’s okay,” A woman wearing cat-filled scrubs is standing across from me trying to coax Gatsby out of his cat house that at any other moment he despises. Coaxing turns into the nearly violent shaking of the pee-stinking cat house until Gatsby slowly craws out - true to form, he lets nothing rush him. And like everyone else who sees Gatsby for the first time she blurts, “Oh wow. That’s a big cat.”

I do the usual quasi embarrassed shoulder-shrug, “yeah.. I swear I don’t feed him that much” while Gatsby seems to puff up in a “hell yes, bitches.”

“Well, I’ll take him to get weighed then the doctor will be in to give him his shots.” She scoops Gatsby (who hates to be held) up and carries him off as he attempts to claw his way out of her grasp, letting out a few meows that are more like wails of terror. You’d think he was being squeezed to death.

I’m left standing in the sterile room that is covered in pictures of patients and their owners. There is a picture of a cat that is truly gargantuan. He reminds me of my Aunt Patty’s now deceased cat, Hamlet, who essentially was a butterball on 4 toothpicks. Somewhere in my consciousness is a story I vaguely remember and never had all the details to about Hamlet being shot. Cat drive-by? Was he shot by Patty? Unsolved mystery?

My attention is brought back to Gatsby’s return, as the technician somehow managed to weigh him and was ready to be relieved of meeting her job requirement of having to lift heavy things. “The doctor will be right with you,” she says and turns to leave, shaking out her arms and stretching a bit. It’s not my fault Gatsby is the heaviest thing she’s lifted in awhile.

Scared and always game for a good rubdown, Gatsby sits as close to me as possible purring his little heart out as I rub his head and ears. The doctor eventually comes in and upon seeing Gatsby exclaims, “Well hello! You’re a big fellow aren’t you?!” Hopefully her technique with animals has inhibited her from reading human body language because mine clearly was saying, “if I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be rich (and still annoyed).”

Of course then the questions are all about Gatsby’s diet, “what are you feeding him?” Her emphasis on “are” seems to imply that I have Gatsby on an all-you-can-eat, high-cal diet similar to Michael Phelps (clearly, minus the swimming. Okay, minus physical activity that’s longer than 5 minutes).

“I just feed him half a cup of cat food twice a day and I try to buy diet,” (but it’s so damn expensive and doesn’t seem to make a difference in my cat’s waistline, so when gas prices are as high as they are the choice been quality diet cat food and being able to drive is an easy one to make), “I think he must have an outside source.”

At this she laughs and launches into a story about a cat who was owned by two neighbors and how they really had to work together to make sure the cat wasn’t getting fed too much. The story makes me think of Thomasina and how maybe Gatsby is like her (him? Was Thomasina a girl or boy? Such a confusing name!). I tell the vet that I’ve considered putting a sign on Gatsby that says “please don’t feed me”, but I know he won’t stand for it. She laughs and begins the injecting my not so little cat with various liquids. Gatsby, being the courageous kitty that he is, sits quietly while needles are being jammed into his backside.

“Oh, you’re such a good boy. Aren’t you?” She is rubs his head and Gatsby takes that as his cue to run back into his stinky cat house. “Well. He looks good. He’s a little on the heavy side, but he’s just a big cat. Maybe try some diet food and see how it goes..”

My curiosity gets the best of me so I ask, “How much does he weigh?”

“18.6 pounds.”