I’ve met several people who genetically have bad teeth no matter what they do. The dentist will insist on saving the bad teeth rather than get rid of them. These people are better off having all the bad teeth removed and having dentures. It’s cheaper, easier, less painful. Ah, but the dentist will not make as much money, you see. If you return to the dentist over and over again, he or she stands to make thousands.

I cannot get more contact lenses unless I’ve had an eye exam. I think I’m grown up enough to make that decision. My vision is perfectly fine and I’m mature enough to notice if my vision has changed and I need to upgrade my lenses. Of course, I cannot even purchase lenses unless I’ve had a yearly eye exam. The eye doctor makes much more money this way.

This is exactly why most contact lens wearers will stock up before that exam due date. And that eye doctor makes a wee bit less money. Awwww. It’s not like they’ll come take away your eye glasses if you haven’t been in for a year. Eye doctors, you’re not fooling anyone.

I’ve been on birth control for 15 years. It helps with a pile of problems I’ve had since puberty. I don’t get high on BC pills, I’m not addicted. However, I cannot get another prescription until I’ve had my yearly vagina exam.

Really?! I had the flu a couple weeks ago and vomited up some BC bills. Now I do not have enough to make it till my next appointment. I called and explained my situation, asking for just one month’s worth so I can make up the missing pills. Otherwise, my body will turn against me and everyone in my world will suffer for it. I can’t help it, folks, it’s hormones in my body and brain telling me that everyone and everything sucks. And I’ll let you know to your face because the hormones take over. They have complete control if I miss taking my BC pills. We like to call this Evil Misty. It’s not me, guys. It’s Evil Misty.

I was refused.

Really?! It’s not like I’m abusing BC pills. It’s not a controlled substance! I’m not selling them on the street like morphine. Doctors suck. Another problem is that for some reason you have make an appointment like, six months in advance. WHY?! How is it that every woman in the freaking city is seemingly going only to this clinic? Are gynocologists that hard to come by?

Fortunately, there was a cancellation. In Harker Heights. Sigh. At least my body won’t turn against me. I’ve jumped through the hoops so I’ll be able to get a new pack of pills on time. Thank you doctors. You helped me a ton. (Note the sarcastic tone)

When I had the flu it was suggested to me by many that I go get a prescription for Tamiflu.

Allow me to describe to you what this flu is like: It’s the most horrible flu you will ever experience. It invades the very bones of your body, causing pain like you’ve never imagined. The fever runs high for days and that fever makes you exhausted (and cranky). There’s buckets of snot, sneezing and vomiting. So much vomiting!

I was so nauseous that I had taken to Pepto Bismol as my best friend. It’s what we had in the house. I didn’t know what else to take. Several handfuls of Pepto later, I developed a hemorrhoid. Once again, after the initial shock of WHAT IN THE CRAP IS THAT?! I realized that I had literally pooped out a blood vessel.

At least, that’s how I understood it after many Google searches. I had a blood vessel OUTSIDE OF MY BODY! I decided that my body was obviously trying to kill me.

“Don’t bear down,” a friend told me. “You could break the hemorrhoid and it’s gonna be SO MUCH WORSE if you do.”

I took that advice and ate nothing buy Ramen with cheese, hoping I wouldn’t have to poop at all. I’ve already written on this subject so I’ll spare you the rerun.

Also, with that greasy Preparation H stuff, every time you fart it feel likes you may have pooped a little, even though you haven’t because it’s so greasy, every fart is a wet fart, even though there’s nothing there. Eventually, I just stopped checking. I’m not getting up again! It’s not like I was farting on purpose. I wasn’t bearing down on anything! However, when I merely coughed, the farts rolled out on their own like popcorn popping. From my butt.

Anyway, the very idea of going out for a prescription was out of the question. First, I’d have to make an appointment, then drive across town and sit in a germ infested waiting room for an hour, sit in a tiny germ infested room where paper is considered the best germ barrier, then pay a doctor $200 to tell me I had the flu (duh), then drive across town again to pick up a prescription, then drive some more to get home.

My current state of mind? Just leave me in the bed and let me die peacefully as I listen to Parks and Recreation on the TV. Out of the question.

Eventually, the fever broke. The vomiting stopped and the nausea went away. I didn’t feel like a new person, ready to take on the world. In fact, I was a walking bucket of snot for a week and then I got a cold. Ha ha!

So, I’m over doctors. I’ll let them invade my most private area so I can remain stable and I’ll allow them to show me two slides that LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME as they ask, “Better or worse?” so I can continue to obtain my contact lenses.

It’s just a business like every other. You must have repeat customers to remain in business.

I should have been a doctor. That’s just job security.

PS, I noticed as I type this, there’s a red squiggly line under Pepto. Really? You recognize Google as a word, but not Pepto?
Also, there’s no line under “squiggly”. I guess that’s a word. Learn something every day!

NOTE: With much laughter, my mom said to me, “I can’t believe you wrote that on Facebook!” Well, who else is gonna do it? My dad on the other hand, said he can’t wait for the day when someone comes up to him and asks, “Did your daughter really write that?” He grinned. “Yes! MY DAUGHTER wrote that!”

I recently had an experience with my very first hemorrhoid. Oh, I just love adulthood, don’t you?
(there’s actually another story pair with this one, forthcoming. I got the hemorrhoid as a result of the flu, which was a couple weeks ago)

Once I overcame the initial shock of WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT?! I realized I had a whole other problem: I was TERRIFIED of pooping. I remembered a friend of mine showed me a video of people who’d eaten a camera capsule, followed by packaged Ramen noodles and homemade Ramen noodles, respectively. The packaged Ramen took FOREVER to digest. It all just kind of sat in the gut contracting and moving around like gross worms.

So, even though I was afraid to poop, I was very hungry. I ate lots and lots of Ramen noodles with cheese, thinking that should do the trick.

LIES! ALL LIES!! I pooped anyway (carefully) and debunked that strange video because the Ramen did not sit in my gut for forever, but merely digested and broke down in a matter of a few hours. And I truly tested this because I ate nothing but Ramen and cheese for a few days.

Also, hemorrhoids are the worst thing in the world. There’s nothing like pooping out a blood vessel to ruin the entire week. Booooooo!

This is a story I’ve only told to select people outside of my family and a few friends. I used to consider it quite embarrassing but I’m well into my thirties now and I’ve decided that I just don’t care anymore. At this age, I’ve learned that whatever embarrassing thing I’ve been through, someone else has had the same experience. Plus, I really don’t care what people think of me anymore. I have no one to impress here. (Obviously, based on what you’ve read so far, I have a very thin filter on what’s acceptable to talk about)

When I was fourteen, I started to slowly develop ingrown hairs. I didn’t know what it was at the time. When I was 17, I developed a huge knot right smack dab on my tail bone. It was painful and hard to see. Then it started to get bigger and more painful. Eventually I panicked. I wasn’t sure what this was and I needed to do something about it. I showed it my mom.

That evening we went to the emergency room. It hurt to sit, although I have no memory of the drive or sitting in the waiting room. I was led to a small private room with real walls and its own ceiling and instructed to lie on the table, belly down and ass up. Someone rolled in a stainless steel table with a stainless steel tray on top if it. The first thing that caught my attention was a needle with a barrel on it the size of my arm.

My eyes were about to pop out of my head and shoot across the triage desk. I whipped my head around at my mom. “Are they gonna stick that in me?” I panicked.

“Don’t look at it!” my mom urged.

Clearly, the “doctor” had no idea what he was doing. He wasn’t even a real doctor yet, but I was too young and in too much pain to know that. He began by inserting a small needle into the mass. I felt every second of it. He proceeded to slice the mass with a tiny X-acto knife. It was probably a scalpel, but it looked like any hobby knife I’d ever seen. I was an avid modeler and painter. I knew a hobby knife when I saw one.

I didn’t feel the knife. It was very strange. Then this would-be doctor squeezed the mass with enough pressure to squash an elephant and I screamed. I cried and screamed some more. I said, “SHIT!” the first time I’d ever cursed in front of my mother and I didn’t even feel bad about it. Mom squeezed my hand and I dug into hers like a woman in labor.

It saddens me that I cannot read aloud to you how the words came out of Mom’s mouth. It was very slow, very dramatic and very drawn out.

“Oh. My. God. Misteeeeeeeey…” her voice trailed and I felt something warm spread across my lower body. I smelled the horrible stench of infection instantly but I was too busy screaming to be bothered by the smell of death coming from my own body.

I have since learned, that by squeezing a cyst in this manner will cause some pus to go back down. You don’t want it to go down. You want everything to go up and out.  I have also learned by watching Dr. Pimple Popper that people don’t feel every single second of the pain that I felt.

The warm sensation was dark green pus coming out of my body. Mom’s dramatic audio did not help me at all. I later told her so. I told her very sarcastically, “That was great Mom. Way to be a cheerleader!” She did her best. She was shocked, and I do mean SHOCKED, by the amount of green shit coming out of that mass.

The doctor did something next that I will never, ever forget. To this day, I don’t know why he did it. I regret not hitting him in the face. He totally deserved it. The man took those little curved things that look like scissors, dug into the new huge opening, and opened and closed them while pressing down on the bone. Open, close, open close, right against the tail bone where there was no meat, no fat, nothing but a thin layer of skin that was now missing. I thought the worst was over before all that but boy, was I wrong. I screamed and cried and screamed some more. I’d never had anything scraping on the bones that make up my body. I do not recommend it.

I was packed with bandages and told to sit in a very warm bath once we got home. I was exhausted. I was so exhausted, I was half hoping someone would carry me to Mom’s truck. I stepped out of the room and into triage. Normally the triage desk is a chaotic mess to the untrained eye. Its phones are always noisily ringing and pagers beeping and people calling out to one another. It was hustle and bustle and noisy.

The door opened and I took a single step outside of my private room. I imagine my eyes were swollen and my entire face was red. I was still crying a little. Every nurse, every doctor, every person responsible for something at that very second in time had stopped. They all looked at me as if to say with their eyes, “You poor child!”

I was slightly embarrassed. I wanted to get out there as quickly as possible. All this was over. I would go home, sit in a warm bath, removed the bandages as instructed and go to bed. I had already decided I was ditching school the next day. I just wanted to rest!

After a thirty minuet drive home, I ran hot water and sat in the tub. After a few minuets, I attempted to removed the ultra, heavy duty tape that hospitals use. I swear, you could hold buildings together with that tape. Toss the nails! We have hospital tape!

I had soon discovered the bandage was inside me. What I mean to say, IT WAS INSIDE OF ME. The giant hole in my body had started to close on the way home. The bandage was actually a long strip of gauze, about a quarter mile long, folded accordion style. I cried, pulled on the bandage, cried and rested, pulled some more out, cried and rested. Occasionally, Mom would gently tap on the bathroom door, asking if I was OK and if I’d like some help.

“NO, I’M FINE PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE I’M FINE!” was my reaction. The process was tedious, quite painful, and I could not even see what was going on back there. It took at least an hour to remove all the gauze. Once again, I was exhausted and felt as though I could sleep for ten years.

Ironically, this cyst remained with me for about ten years. It would come and go, I’d drain it, it would come back. At some point, I began to pull tiny chunks of meat from the cyst. I was never really sure what it was, but I was pretty sure it ought to be removed. I got really good at ignoring pain and using makeup mirrors to see what was going on. I could twist my waist, look straight down and see everything coming out as it happened.

I had been to a couple other doctors. No one could explain why this happened multiple times, why I’d get new cysts, why they never fully went away, ever. I gave up on doctors. With all our medical technology, I was baffled that no one could fix this.

Once, while I drained the cyst, more chunks of meat came up. Usually with the meaty substance, huge amounts of blood would follow and I’d wrap it up and go rest. I’d decided I’d had enough of this. I dug deep, I dug in against the bone and pulled out a piece of meat that was still attached on the inside. It was super slippery with fluids and blood so I used a paper towel to grip it and slowly, very slowly, I pulled it out with all the patience I could muster.

What came out was something I’d expect to see in a medical journal. I really don’t know how to describe it other than as a piece of meat. It was about the size of a ballpoint pen, in length and girth. It was light pink and almost translucent. I was both horrified and fascinated. I believe my exact words were, “Whoa.”

Immediately blood poured out of me and onto the floor like water from a tap. It’s not a big deal anymore. This is part of my life. It sucks, but to be honest, I got used to it. I learned that if I took a Benadryl, it would numb me up a little. I learned not to cry because I couldn’t see what I was doing when I cried. I learned not to let the infection sit for too long because it would cause fever and vomiting. Mom said the infection is getting into my blood stream when that happens. I’m not sure if she’s right, but I’d rather avoid fever and vomiting when possible.

I’ve gotten other cysts in other places, some worse, but mostly not. Sometimes it didn’t hurt as much and I would simply wait until it was ready to drain. Once I made an emergency trip to Wal-Mart for tampons. As I got out of the car and felt something wet on the back of my shirt. I pulled my shirt around to see a large greenish wet spot of pus mixed with blood, so much that it had soaked through my underwear and jeans and then to my shirt on the outside. The cyst on my tail bone had opened up on the drive to Wal-Mart. I had no choice. I was out of tampons. I groaned and went inside.

Sometimes the ingrown hairs are not painful, but downright fascinating! I once had a small hair growing out of my body and it made a U-turn. It was literally attached to my skin on both ends. I was thoroughly fascinated by this but I plucked it anyway.

I once had a teeny black head. I squeezed some junk out of it, but there was obviously more. A teeny, tiny black thing easily popped out. I examined it. The black thing was six of the finest hairs I’d every seen, wrapped in a tight spiral. I thought it was so neat, that I had to show it to my husband. I’d never seen such small, thin hairs. And why were they in a spiral?

My mom, desperate to help me as my confused hair did confusing things over the years, asked many questions and bought many tubes of various ointments and creams. She met a woman who was prone to large and painful cysts on her armpits. I don’t know where Mom found these people or how this topic makes its way into conversation with strangers. It’s weird. Eventually, this process led to a drawer of expired and dried out ointments that didn’t deliver nor work. The pain was inside and couldn’t be nullified by a topical cream.

It seems that as I get older, it’s as if I’ve begun to grow out of it, so to speak. I don’t know what causes the ingrown hairs to randomly attack me. I’ve always been very clean and meticulous regarding hygiene, so that wasn’t the problem. I’ve spoken to a few people who have the same recurring cysts for years and years and I laugh with them over how a draining can send pus and/or blood flying across the room like a tiny wet rocket. These stories are hilarious because it always ends the same: “Eeeeeew! It’s on the wall somewhere! Where did it go? Where is it?”

I’ve come to realize many other people go through this but we don’t talk about it as openly. I used to be very embarrassed, as if it suggested I was dirty or something. I’m nearing my forties as I write this and quite frankly, I don’t care what you think of me anymore. That’s what makes this period of life so great. I care less and less what you think with each passing year.

If I’ve learned one thing by reading other books, it’s that you’ve got to grab the reader’s attention straight away. By telling your most hilarious or shocking story, you’ve left the reader wanting more. This not my most hilarious nor the most shocking. I don’t know yet how far I’ll go. I do intend to grab your attention and slap it around a little.

Yes, girls wear dirty underwear. ALL THE TIME! When we go to the doctor and are instructed to undress (everything) and wear a thin gown apparently made from wind, we immediately stuff our underwear under our neatly folding clothes. Never mind that this doctor is going in knuckle deep in a place beyond the underwear. We’re embarrassed about our underwear because they always appear to be dirty.

We also hide them in the Laundromat, from our boyfriends and from our husbands, at least for the first year of marriage. Why is this?

Men, I will let you in on a secret kept for thousands of years: Because our underpants are always dirty. We can’t help it! We have fluids and liquids, and all kinds of things coming out randomly at all hours of the day, every day. We also have Vagina Juices. I had to put that there because my mom hates that term. I mean, she HATES IT. She says it sounds disgusting. We can say chicken juices, even though it’s water added to drive up the price per pound but we can’t say Vagina Juices? Come on. Also, chickens don’t have juices. Apples have juices. Not chickens.

We think our period is over and two days later a tiny spot appears, dries, gets washed, dries again and looks like a brown wet fart stain in the wrong place. At a certain point in life, it’s not worth it to pre-treat and scrub these stains. Who’s gonna see them? After all, we only wear these Looks Like Poop Stain underwear when we’re expecting or finishing up a period. It’s embarrassing and gross, so we hide them in a wad under our neatly folded clothes as we sit and shiver on the tall table, wearing a gown made of wind.

We also run straight to the bathroom after sex. Why is this? Well, I’ll tell you, it ain’t like in the movies where the couple has sex and instantly fall asleep in each others’ arms. My first thought to this reoccurring scene: Yuck.

I’m never impressed by these scenes. In Movie Land, everyone has sticky fluids coming out everywhere and then they just fall asleep in the wet spot. I don’t think this happens in real life. I certainly am not, by any means necessary, sleeping in the wet spot! Nor do I wish to change the sheets! Married people don’t do this. Married people have a towel or small blanket or something to soak up the sticky goo so they don’t have to sleep in it or on top of it.

We women run straight to the bathroom because once gravity takes over, all this sticky goo is running straight down and if we don’t clean it up pretty quickly, it will dry and feel super gross. The vagina is like a self cleaning oven. It knows when the pH is off and will therefore clean itself out. We run to the toilet so gravity can do its thing and we make ourselves pee because some of this goo might have entered the urethra and cause an infection. It’s important to us that we take great care and consideration into flushing everything out. Don’t get offended that we do not fall asleep in your arms in a blissful, sleepy hug. You have watched too many movies if you’re expecting this.

Once the woman sits over the toilet, a snot-like wad will fall out of her in slow motion. It may attach itself to the side of the leg, causing a spider web of vagina snot. It’s truly disgusting and time consuming. If we try to push it out, a giant fart into an acoustically perfect porcelain bowl might come out of no where and we don’t want to burst your sex bubble by doing that.

So we wait. And wait some more. Sometimes the vagina snot will fall out more rapidly, connecting one’s vagina to the toilet water. You almost have to go in there and cut it with scissors. I’ve imagined the snot connection from my vagina to the toilet water as a bridge for germs.
And I totally freak out inside my head.

A shower after sex can be most helpful, especially if one is coming off her period. And guys, please don’t be offended if we run to the shower. All that water spraying downward as snot slowly makes it way out, is actually quite helpful. This where I recommend peeing in the shower. It’s just easier! You’ve got all this gelatinous goo stuck to the inner thighs, maybe some period leftovers and peeing can help speed up the process and flush out everything so that your vagina will be spotless and clean like an oven after the self-cleaning cycle.

So there you have it. All the reasons why we have dirty underpants and why we run to the bathroom after sex. You’re welcome.

NOTE: We treat the word “vagina” as if it’s something dirty. It’s no different than elbow or face. Vagina, vagina, vagina. Get over it.

I’m big on reading true, humorous books, such as memoirs and essays by Mary Roach, Anne Lamott, and Dave Barry. I read Mick Foley’s book, Have A Nice Day many years ago and something stuck in my memory. His editor or publisher or someone told him not to take out revenge in his book. Do not call out every person that has ever hurt you. No one cares. People aren’t buying your book to read how people hurt you.

I learned from Portia de Rossi that’s it’s OK to get really raw sometimes. I’m very guarded, most times. I put myself out there, yet I protect my privacy as if it’s a lost treasure. It’s the only thing that’s truly mine and people may use some information to harm me. Too many times I’ve opened up, only to get hurt later on. Portia de Rossi taught me in her book, Unbearable Lightness, that’s OK to share some of these things. Let’s see if I have the balls to actually do that. More on that later. It’s still early yet and I’d like to keep this light and funny if I can.

I listened to Sh*t My Dad Says, by Justin Halpern on audio, and I laughed the whole time. Audio books are great on the road. I drive a LOT and the first time I listened to Sh*t My Dad Says while hauling ass down the interstate, I noticed I was much less stressed and had flipped off only one driver! To be fair, he deserved it. He was driving like an asshole.

I am currently finishing Amy Poehler’s Yes Please! and she’s teaching me that she is way too busy to write a book. She admits this early on in her book. I expected to laugh all the way through and I’ll admit there’s some slow spots and some unfunny parts. However, the unfunny parts got me thinking. She spoke about how the way we hate ourselves is created by a demon in our head that whispers things to us like, “You’re not pretty.” In the audio book, Kathleen Turner voices the demon. I loved it.

I’m a HUGE fan of Amy Poehler so if there’s anyone reading this with connections, I’d love to have her read it for the audio recording if this book ever makes it. She’s got a pleasant, fun voice and I think she’d be absolutely perfect for it. Amy, if you’re reading this and would like to record my book for free, that would be super awesome because I have no money but I adore your style and I think you’re perfect for this. Please, please, please.

I learned from Tim Allen in his first book, Don’t Stand Too Close To A Naked Man, that I don’t have to tell one long, drawn out story, linked by similar events. He told short stories from his life because he also, was too busy to write a book. I could do that, I thought. That would be my best approach because I have limited time to write and I seem to get distracted easily. I could stop and start in anyway I felt necessary. Tim Allen also taught me that it’s OK to be honest and tell those embarrassing stories.

One of my favorite jokes to tell is that I have only 12 stories and 6 of them are other people’s stories. It’s true. I tell the same stories over and over, but that’s OK because I hang with a crowd that has a terrible memory so I get see them laugh all over again.

I love to make people laugh. It makes me feel good, as if I’ve done something great, something to be proud of, even if the laugh is at my own expense. I don’t care. There’s something about that feeling, making someone laugh. It’s special. I can say, “I did that,” without feeling arrogant.

I like the books that tell short stories. I can pick them up and set them down as needed. I can pick it up again without feeling lost in case I’ve forgotten the first six chapters. That’s what I plan to do here because surely, as I write this, I will have forgotten what I’ve already written and therefore will be most likely to repeat myself. You’ve already been warned. I’ve got twelve stories to tell.

When I was very young, my mother was convinced I’d be a lawyer one day because I loved to argue and my favorite question was “Why?”  At the time, I wanted to be a ballerina princess but only because no one told me that I couldn’t. I stopped growing at five feet and let’s face it, there are no short dancers. If I wasn’t so pudgy as a kid, I’d have made a great gymnast but we lived in a town of 300 people and there was no such thing around.

Doing flips never interested me as much as art and music. Starting somewhere around the age of 8 or 9, I wanted to be a writer. I made “books” out of notebook paper and staples. I drew and doodled on whatever paper was lying around. In high school, I was accused of tracing, when in fact, I had drawn super heroes from scratch. I practiced the guitar for years until one day I finally accepted that I was not getting any better.

My mom was grateful. She had once loved “House of the Rising Sun” until I played it over and over and over and over. “Can’t you learn another song?” she’d plead. “Not until I get this one right!” I’d answer.

Writing is something that’s been consistent my whole life. Although, off and on, I still come back to it and this is probably my 74th attempt at writing something that I imagine will place a crew from the Today Show in my living room one day. It’s never felt right, never reread right, and just always seemed so awful.

As an adult, my mom has told me many times that I should be a comedian because I can make HER laugh. Here’s the thing: I hate to travel and I love to eat and comedians are always traveling and hungry. Telling a story to my mom where she knows the background and telling stories in front of an audience are two totally different critters. My brand of humor usually goes like this:

On Facebook, someone posted that sniffing rosemary can improve memory. I commented that I had once bought several baby rosemary plants and forgot them in the car. True story. That’s just one of the many gems you have to look forward to here.

I’ve been writing since I was able to.  I have finally found my niche and style.  I’m using this space to share my humor with anyone who might enjoy it.  I hope you enjoy it.  Or don’t.  I don’t care either way.  Also, I’m very cynical.

Enjoy!

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton