Sunday Favorites: The Bad, Bad Massage

New to A Lady Reveals Nothing? You've missed SO MUCH. Not to worry. Every Sunday, I dig through the archives to repost an old favorite. Mostly because I'm too lazy to come up with new content every single day. Enjoy! This story originally appeared  when I was in India on December 28, 2012:

I decided to finally splurge and get a massage in Palolem, the beach town Summer and I stayed in for ten days in Goa, India. And by splurge I mean pay $24. A virtual fortune here, but a price I would be over-the-moon-excited to pay in the US.

Taking very seriously a warning for women to hire only a female therapist in India, I reminded the man who scheduled my appointment. Twice. And then he followed me into the room and told me to take off my clothes. Three times. While he stood there, staring at me. 'Are you my therapist?' I asked him. He said 'Yes!' and I said again, 'No. I want a woman.'

Dejected, he left and a woman came in. She stood there watching while I stripped down to just my underwear. Oh well. Then she had me sit in a chair. This was uncomfortable for me, but I went with it: boobs hanging out, thighs looking squashed and fat sitting in a chair while she karate chopped my shoulders, neck and head for three minutes. Then she poured three handfuls of oil into my hair and rubbed it around. Not into my scalp, mind you. Just into my hair.

Poke! Poke! She jabbed my eyebrows. She made two small circles at my temples for an inordinate amount of time. Abruptly, I was instructed to lay on the table, face down.

And then she proceeded to give me the worst massage I have ever received. And I've had hundreds of massages. This woman karate chopped, pinched and applied oil to my entire body and especially my underwear for an hour in rapid, erratic sweeping motions. Foot-leg-underwear-back-shoulder-back-down-to-foot-never-missing-getting-hung-up-by-pesky-underwear-in-lightning-speed. Only once did she slow down to focus on any particular part of my body, and thankfully it was my calves, which were screaming from running barefoot on the beach all week.

I didn't miss the fact that she did not even rub my back when it was time for me to flip over to have oil applied speedily to my front side. And by front side I mean boobs. She rubbed my boobs for twenty minutes. And not in a good way. Swoosh-swoosh-quick-quick-make-an-awkward-circle-on-stomach-pour-oil-into-belly-button-more-more-more-oil-rubbed-into-underwear-boobs-boobs-boobs-and-don't-forget-snap!-every-finger-and-toe-twice-or-three-times-back-to-boobs-more-boobs.

The massage ended with her hands on my face and a whole new kind of oil applied, more of a cream actually. She did it this way: one hand on forehead and one hand on chin. Switch hands. Switch switch switch switch for ten minutes. With six pounds of cream in my mouth I couldn't breathe, much less ask her to please stop.

When it was all over, she handed me a towel that was not washed between customers and watched as I tried to swab the oil from my skin unsuccessfully. I put my clothes back on and paid without looking her in the eye or tipping. I went back to my hotel and showered for twenty minutes, soaping up multiple times and never seeing even the slightest bit of lather. The water sat on top of my skin and beaded up as I shampooed, rinsed and repeated over and over. Even after a second day shampoo, I'm still Grease McGoo carrying a backpack seven pounds too heavy from my poor underwear, sodden with oil.

Don't believe me? Here's the evidence: my laundry bag, with the underwear inside.

Paul Pilfer and the Pad

Back in 1989, in seventh grade and changing classes every hour and having lockers:

And having braces and discovering vintage Star Trek and finally getting that Esprit item...

I got my first period.

Even though I had three older sisters and a mom, I wasn't asking any questions, because as "they" so clearly explained to me, your period is a terrifying gushing blast of red blood that will attract dogs and bears and have you holed up inside your house with the curtains drawn for 5-7 days, sitting on a giant pad, beating yourself in lamentation. In other words, when you get it you'll know. 

And so when I had a week of what appeared in my underwear to be the remnants of a bunch of juicy farts because of their hint of a faint brownness I didn't think anything of it. But then eventually of course the brown turned into red. I was pretty humiliated, and then finally confessed to my older sister Kelly, explaining to her that "I thought it was just juicy farts!" At her behest, I put on this gigantic wingless maxi and got about the business of being a woman. 

At school the next day, I felt sure that everybody was going to "know". The pads in those days were so huge and I didn't have any pad-hiding pants. But I put on my longest shirt and didn't tuck it in and hoped for the best. I was especially worried about Paul Pilfer. That's not his real name, (I don't want the poor guy to Google himself and find this story out here on the Internet! He's a military dentist now for Gosh sakes!) but it's pretty close to his real name. Change the P in the last name to an H and you've got it! Anyway, he and I grew up with our lockers next to each other what with our last names being so close alphabetically. And this was at that age where he and I would friendly-but-flirtily goof on each other. For example, when I was on one knee getting my books or a backpack out of the bottom of my locker, and Paul was standing at his locker, I would elbow him in the butt, and vice versa. 

You can probably see where I'm going here.

My first day being a woman at school, I got to my locker and there was Paul Pilfer (except his last name begins with an 'H'), down on one knee. I prayed he wouldn't do it. I begged. 

Of course he did it. And got me right square in the pad. And to this very day, some 25 years later I can still hear in my mind the very audible *scwintch* sound it made.

Oh My Gynecologist, You Hardly Knew Me

Coming out of anesthesia after my appendectomy reminded me of another time that I had surgery about eleven years ago for a lady-issue. 

The surgery was a last-ditch effort to try and fix something my Gynecologist and I had been working on for several years. We tried a lot of things and as a result I felt like I was in his office every four months. He was 163 years old but I liked him because he saw my tennis shoes in an early visit and we ended up bonding because he was a long-time runner and we used to chat about training and stuff. You know I think I even referred to him in casual conversation as "My Gynecologist", indicating our close relationship like somebody might refer to someone as their "Attorney" while going through a divorce.

When he realized that none of the medications or treatments were working ("you're an anomaly", he said) he suggested surgery and I guess I was willing to try anything. So I went and I had it and it wasn't any big deal, it was outpatient but they did have to put me under a little bit of anesthesia. As I was waking up and being moved from surgery to recovery, a nurse noticed that my paper underwear had slipped down, revealing my butt-crack. She tried to pull them up and I slapped her hand away. "No! That's my J.Lo look!" I said groggily, in a typical bid to make hospital employees laugh. I said some other hilarious things, obviously, and then went to recovery, which was a big room with curtains separating a bunch of beds.

I was awake enough to hear the conversation going on in the bed next to me, where my best friend the Gynecologist, a man with whom I had been INTIMATELY acquainted for a very long time, was saying, "I heard you were quite the comedian after surgery."

I don't know, maybe he didn't recognize me by my face?

Sunday Favorites: Going Out With a Pffffffffft

New to A Lady Reveals Nothing? You've missed SO MUCH. Not to worry. Every Sunday, I dig through the archives to repost an old favorite. Mostly because I'm too lazy to come up with new content every single day. Enjoy! This story originally appeared on June 10, 2013:

Last year about this time, I participated in the MS150: a 150-mile bicycle trip from Duluth to Minneapolis, Minnesota.

As part of the gig, my team (Clockwork Active Media Systems) had to ride north to Duluth on a bus. One of the owners of Clockwork asked me to "emcee" the bus ride. I was incredibly flattered, until I realized that basically meant "read the rules of the ride to the people on the bus" because "nobody else wants to do it".

Give them what they want, I say. If you're going to do something do it well, I also say. I went to the front of the bus and took the mic (a CB piped throughout the bus speakers). The bus driver ruined all of the fun and told me I couldn't stand while he was driving. So I sat down.

Obeying Bus Drivers, Since 1977

The ride rules were stodgy and boring, but I "livened them up" by ad-libbing here and there. I had the bus in stitches if I do say so myself. I killed it, and they loved me! The more they laughed, the more I joked. I was just a little bit offensive, but not overly so. I used my typical schtick:

• old
• lonely
• would anybody be interested in spooning?
• dead grandmas
• etcetera

I was in my element. The problem was, I had not planned out the conclusion to my set. (I didn't even know there would be a "set".) On the fly, I decided the best way to end would be to "tell a joke". Everyone was already laughing...So I set up the following:

"What did the cannibal do after he dumped his girlfriend?"

Silence. (Perfect!)

"He wiped."

Crickets.

Nothing.

I silently returned to my seat.

And sat down.

That Kady. She always goes out with a...pffffffft.

Seriously, Hal?

I've shared with all of you the events surrounding my birth, including how my mom went and bought 50 pounds of Purina dog food on the day that I was born...and how my dad was hired by the US GOVERNMENT and probably more excited about that than about having another baby?

Well I just came across this DOOZY.

Readers, when I was ONE DAY OLD, fragile and tiny, deserving of undivided attention by both of my parents, my dad went and bought a 3 1/2 x 13 Taylor Made Hull-Gard Boat Fender at Marks Marine. He must have been excited about his new job and decided to treat himself. Also, we had a boat? That would have been fun. 

What the heck is a Taylor Made Hull-Gard Boat Fender, you ask?


I don't know. It's this. And it hurts my feelings.

Fanny

A good friend of mine was recently photographed and subsequently mocked for his choice in hands-free gear-carrying:

According to my source:

The Oscar winner, 44, laughed off his style choice with a big grin during an interview with CSN Houston's Julia Morales. He attended the game with his 6-year-old son Levi, and topped off his retro bag with a white T-shirt, khaki pants, a baseball cap and sunglasses.

"I'm not afraid of the fanny pack. You gotta kinda put it on the side to make it look a little not as nerdy, but still, practicality wins out," the Dallas Buyers Club actor said. "I got so much gear in here that I don't want in my pockets."

You know what, how many times have you been around someone and they're like, 'Aw, man, I forgot so and so and I gotta go back to my car.'" Pretending to take something out of his hip pouch, he added: "I got mine right here."

I couldn't agree more, Pal. That is SO TRUE.

And I do want to go on record and state that it was me who very probably single-free-handedly started this trend:

As snapped by the paparazzi, April 2011

And again, January 2014

Mensa Moment

A couple of my goodest friends Matt & Laurissa happen to live across the street from me. I've watched their cats (Salvadore and Gala) when they go out of town for a few years now, and I think it was about two years ago that they installed a coded back door lock. So instead of giving me a key these days, they just have me use the code, which is 9976. Just kidding. 

Anyway, ever since this code thing started, I've had just a slight sense of inconvenience because it's really hard to get in their backyard. (...And I mean really the sense of inconvenience is only VERY slight because I totally watch their TV and do all my laundry and basically just clean out the litter, freshen water and food once a day and let the cats sleep in their bed with me and cuddle them and take pictures and put them on Instagram so Laurissa won't miss them so much when she's gone. Also, I should probably clarify that I only slept there when I was homeless.) 

Anyway, it's so hard to get in their backyard!

Allow me to demonstrate, and thank you to L for taking video. This is the first option: 

Re-enactment.

I have yet to get in that way. I'm too short and the latch is too nice and new and even if I could reach it, it doesn't come open for me. Fortunately there's another option nearer to their garage which has a much more broken-in latch. It's pretty rusted out and comes undone easily:

Re-enactment.

My problem is getting it locked again. It's very difficult to get the doors to marry up properly, and once I finally do, the latch is so broken and rusty that it doesn't always stay locked. Also it hurts my back and also I'm putting 150 pounds of pressure on it several times a year and I feel terrified that I'm breaking their fence!

Re-enactment.

Well. Last month, M & L went to Chicago for the weekend and asked me to check in on the cats. I almost asked them to leave me a key because I wasn't looking forward to the whole cat burglar (pun intended) fence operation at all. But I forgot. So, I popped the latch, used the code (8460. Just Kidding), made sure the cats were happy and paid attention to, and also I did my laundry. Then I once again almost broke the poor fence, but I got it locked again.

In between loads, on one particular trip up the basement stairs it dawned on me. There was a third option!

Re-enactment.

What makes the fact that there was a third option at all so upsetting and hilarious at the same time is that I totally knew about it! I have used it ONE MILLION TIMES over the years.

WHAT THE HECK?

I don't know. It was never in the context of watching the cats. It was only if I was walking over to a fire in their backyard and wanted to skip the walking-through-the-house part. Or if I was going between their house and the neighbors on the other side and didn't want to jump that chain-link fence in the meantime.

But for watching the cats? I just always went to the back. For TWO. YEARS.

"I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member."

Sunday Favorites: The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Fat Belly

New to A Lady Reveals Nothing? You've missed SO MUCH. Not to worry. Every Sunday, I dig through the archives to repost an old favorite. Mostly because I'm too lazy to come up with new content every single day. Enjoy! This story originally appeared on June 28, 2011:

My dad and I were driving home from a trip and he was lamenting about how he saw a photo of himself and he was embarrassed of his belly looking big. 

Farmer-sized.

I said, "and thanks a lot -- it's obviously hereditary cuz I got that gol' dang thing too."  He said, "well yours is fat."

I wonder what the heck he thinks his is.

A Conversation With Hal

"Kady are we estranged?"

"No Dad. We're not estranged."

"But I never see you!"

"Sure you do. In fact I'm thinkin' about comin' up there."

"Well I'm thinkin' about gettin' cremated, but I ain't about to rush it. Thinkin' and doin' are two different things. I been watching Raomi and Isles and they said, 'she's estranged from her daughter -- they haven't talked in 36 years.' And I thought, that sounds like Kady and I...and you know...I started getting humid in my eyes...so that's...whats...foaming my beer I guess. Did I already tell you I love you?"

"Yah, Dad, you did, but I never get tired of hearing it."

"Isn't it funny? Three words, so easy to say, so hard to mean, and so nice to hear? It's like that time Kelly told me I was a good shooter. Did I ever tell you that story? She was like 3 years old and we were out driving, she was standing on the hump, you know, on the floor in between the seats. She couldn't even see over the dashboard and there in the road was a partridge. Two car lengths away. So I blasted it you know, and when I got back in the car and in her tiny little voice she said, 'oh Dad! You're such a good shooter!'. It was the most precious thing I'd ever heard."

"That's because it was about you, Dad."

"Yah, I guess you're right....if they talk about ol' Bill so-and-so from Texas, 'A Good Shooter', it wouldn't mean much to me."

Too Cool for School

In High School, I was very conscious of the fact that riding the school bus with my little sister Kasey was not cool. But we didn't always get the use of my mom's 1986 Chrysler LeBaron either:

The epitome of 'cool'.

And let's just be clear about one thing: in High School, KASEY AND I WERE COOL:

Naturally we wanted to maintain that image. At all costs.

The "Senior Benches" were located by the front entrance and all the hot Senior guys would usually sit there for a while right after school waiting for their respective sports to start. Kasey and I, naturally, could be found flirting with them until it was "time to go".

Anyway, most days when we had to ride the bus, we would flirt and then make an excuse followed by a hasty yet calculated exit out the side door of the school, in the direction of the parking lot to make like we had a car. (As I have explained, I was quite the liar.) Fortunately, our bus driver Delbert always parked Bus # 3 in the front of the waiting bus line and that was near the side door as well. 

Allow me to illustrate:

Flawless plan.

Enter my nerdy-little-middle-school-chubby-space-toothed-cousin-Tony-Joe, who also rode our bus because in addition to being cousins we were also neighbors. Typically nerdy-little-middle-school-chubby-space-toothed-cousin-Tony-Joe would be picked up at his middle school and then wait patiently on the bus in front of the high school for all of us to file out. Tony Joe is a perfectly cool guy now (ice road trucker and everything) -- but I could have died one day when we were standing there flirting with the hot Senior guys sitting on the Senior benches, ready to make our way out the side door, perfectly aware that we were running out of time...when suddenly the front doors of the school burst open, and there stood nerdy-little-middle-school-chubby-space-toothed-cousin-Tony-Joe, screaming  in a panic, 

"KADY!....BUSSSS!!!!!!"

Hasn't Anybody Even Noticed?

I mean, have we even met? Do you really even know me?

You haven't noticed I thrive am desperate for accolades and validation? At all times? Haven't I explained that I'm a middle child from a big, poor family?

DUH!

YOU GUYS:

I CHANGED MY HEADER AND I DID IT ALL BY MYSELF* AFTER THREE YEARS OF THE SAME BORING HEADER AND NOBODY EVEN NOTICED.

*and I'm not even very good at "the computer".

See? I had to add words and make the "'s a gir" black with the other words white. And I had to slant some of the words up my arm...and please ignore the fact that my nose looks broken in this photo. It was hard, OK?



COME ON.

Summer-isms, Vol. 69 (The Appendectomy)

"Can I eat this? Is this floor really dirty or really clean?

"No backwards somersault butt push-ups for you young lady."

"Oh no! What if you're like Sampson and your power was your extroversion and your appendix was your hair?"

"Oh no! What is that? Oh. Poop."

"And yes, every decision I make is for your sweaty boobs."

South Africa Photo Special

Sunday Favorites: "You Know What I Like to Do?"

New to A Lady Reveals Nothing? You've missed SO MUCH. Not to worry. Every Sunday, I dig through the archives to repost an old favorite. Mostly because I'm too lazy to come up with new content every single day. Enjoy! This story originally appeared on February 27, 2013:

I'm in Puerto Rico with my sister and some friends, one of whom has a funny habit of swapping head for toes on the bed while she sleeps. In other words, she puts her feet by the headboard and her face by the footboard.

Exhibit A

Which reminds me of a story...

When I was about twelve, I had a friend who had HUGE boobs. Of course I had none. (I'm still waiting for them to come in.) Anyway this poor girl was really private about her boobs and I had thus far never been able to sneak a glance — not even like for swimming or sleepovers. She always changed in the closet while the rest of us 'two-backs' changed right in front of each other because what did we have to hide?

Well. One time she spent the night. My bedroom was attached to the bathroom by a tiny doorway that everybody but me banged their head on. And if you looked from the foot of my bed into the bathroom you could see the shower against the far wall. The shower had one of those sliding door situations, with a mirror on one side and a foggy glass door on the other. The way the tracks were set up, you were supposed to put the mirror by the shower head and the foggy glass door further away because the mirror was on the inside track. Correct door placement prevented water from going out the shower between the cracks in the two doors onto the floor outside, which was carpet (ew), but that's not the point of this story. The point of this story is that sometimes guests didn't know how the doors were supposed to go. Now, I didn't mean for this to happen, but it did: My friend with the boobs decided to take a shower and put the doors the wrong way and I accidentally noticed and I was so curious about those boobs that I swapped heads for toes on my bed and sort of watched her take a shower.

Yep. I did.

This is pretty embarrassing to admit. Just remember I was only twelve and still waiting for the boob fairy to pay me a visit. Anyway at some point during her shower, she looked out the foggy glass doors. I felt sure she was looking right at me! Busted! I didn't dare move. What if she saw me scramble to move? Then she would know I was watching her! I had to think quickly!

Instead, I stayed still and pretended to be sleeping when she got out of the shower. Casually and nonchalantly, I remarked, "You know what I like to do? I like to wake up in the morning and flip around in the bed and lay my head at the foot of the bed."

For the rest of our friendship I had to wake up in the morning and flip around in the bed and lay my head at the foot of the bed, because that's what "I like to do". The next morning, she put her towel over the foggy part of the glass. For privacy.

Soul Glo, (An Appendectomy Aside)

I ended up in Urgent Care sometime after being released from the hospital and that's a whole other long forthcoming story (thanks for your patience).

Basically I had a very bad night of pain and my sister Kasey graciously took me in and sat with me for what turned out to be a five-hour ordeal. Most of that five hours was spent waiting for the lab results on a simple blood draw to confirm that my white blood cell count was no longer elevated. And most of that waiting was spent in the chair that you sit in while a nurse takes your blood pressure inside a room within the Urgent Care. Kasey took the extra chair near the door and we chit-chatted about this and that. Mostly how IRRITATING it is to go to Urgent Care and wait for five hours.

During this chit-chat I rested my head on the wall.

At some point I moved my head. 

But my hair was stuck.

To the wall.

I screamed and she unstuck it and we looked to see what was so sticky. Well, it was the collective greasy-head spot of all the previous patients. Obviously.

Well, would you have believed me if I hadn't taken a photo?

So, here we have two Hexum girls, alone in a Doctor's Office with a grease spot on the wall, right where one of their heads were resting just moments earlier.

Here's what happens next. And you can apply this to basically any uncomfortable situation a Hexum girl might find herself in. It's a pretty standard, no-deviations formula:

1) Freak Out

2) Breathe Lamaze-style

3) Dance quickly, back and forth, from one foot to the other, arms bent at elbows, palms pulsing down toward the floor

4) Continue breathing Lamaze-style. (Never stop breathing Lamaze-style)

5) Take a photo

6) Fix the problem, so that nobody thinks you did it. Do this QUICKLY so nobody catches you doing it

7) Freak Out again

8) Breathe, Lamaze-style

9) Laugh hysterically

10) Start crying from laughing so hard

11) Laugh more because she's crying too

12) Cross legs to prevent pee from coming out

13) Laugh at other Hexum girl doing same

14) Pee a little

15) Grab crotch with one hand to stop the pee and wave opposite hand in front of face

16) Say maniacally, "I PEED A LITTLE!"

17) Laugh at her for saying "ME TOO!"

18) Repeat steps 8-16 until somebody walks in the room

Shash-age Links

..."a Taiwanese flight attendant [...] said there’s no law prohibiting a child from pooping on his seat" Well played, Young One, well played.

Scenes from Purple Rain, (filmed in Minneapolis) then and now.

Well this is just brilliant.

I can always get behind less food waste. 


Celebrities and their from-the-past doppelgängers. 

Speaking of celebrities, this kid is hilarious.

HEY: stupid "President of Turkey", SHUT UP. Fight the Power, Y'all. A new hashtag for women laughing in Turkey. (#kahkaha (laugh) and #direnkahkaha (resist, laugh) 

What Does That Mean?

My little nephew Miles was playing with a toy snowman like a little action figure. He was speaking for it, and my sister overheard him say,

"I'm a whore!"

She was shocked of course, but tried not to let it show when she asked tiny little Miles, "What does THAT mean?"

And in his tiny little voice, he responded, "It's short for horrible."

PHEW! Yes, Miles, Yes it is.

Are you PT?

A great joke when you're a little kid is to ask somebody if they are PT.

They will get confused, but they will always answer either "Yes" or "No", because if they ask what PT is, you just say again, "ARE YOU PT? YES OR NO?" and you force them to answer "Yes" or "No".

If they say "Yes", you say: "You're a Pregnant Turtle?!?!" and then you laugh at them.

If they say "No", you say: "You're NOT Potty Trained??!!?!" and then you laugh at them.

Told ya. Great. Joke.




So I asked my little Cousin Ryan if he was PT.

He looked at me and thought about it for a long time and then replied: "I am and I amn't."

He got me.

Oh? You're a PT?! How embarrassing. 

Sunday Favorites: Solidarity

New to A Lady Reveals Nothing? You've missed SO MUCH. Not to worry. Every Sunday, I dig through the archives to repost an old favorite. Mostly because I'm too lazy to come up with new content every single day. Enjoy! This story originally appeared on June 28, 2012:



I want my mom to tell this story so bad.


 

But my stupid, stupid phone was too full of dumb pictures like this...

Come on. Hilarious.

...and the video cut out. So I'll finish telling the story here.

To review: My mom accidentally passed gas at Menards (to relieve some pressure. There was no sharting.) She sent my dad off to shop in an attempt to scrunch collect herself.

The rest of the story goes something like this:

Once the storm had calmed, they met up again. As they were walking through the aisles near the 'incident', they saw a Menards employee -- on hands and knees -- sniff testing underneath all of the gas grills, presumably to look for a noxious chemical leak because something stunk THAT bad and someone had obviously reported it.

Ol' Hal grabbed my Mom's hand in a valiant act of solidarity and escorted her out of the store, heads held high.

The Evolution of an Appendectomy, Vol. 9

So I lay in the hospital, in and out of sleep for a day-and-a-half while nurses took care of my every need. Summer brought movies and I slept through them and there was a TV but I could barely hear it plus I was so SLEEPY.

I got to have broth (and fell asleep while eating it) and then they gave me a menu and I could pick whatever I wanted! I wanted macaroni and cheese. I mean there were so many options, it felt very luxurious. In retrospect I'm sure that macaroni and cheese was probably $475 but it was free at the time and that was pretty cool.

They kept telling me to WALK WALK WALK because you gotta get your poop churning so you can leave the hospital. I mentioned earlier that they pumped me up with CO2 and that's really uncomfortable plus my guts had just been all cut up and so I was working really hard on farting-slash-pooping. The more gas I could get out of there, the less pain and more relief I would feel. It became my "job" to fart. So they taught me how to roll to my side and then get out of bed without using any stomach muscles and a nice MA called Pemba or Phema was assigned to take me for a walk but I was scared and so I held his hand and we chooched* all around the corridors of the hospital and it was SO romantic to be holding hands with a man, even though he was quite elderly. It's so rare for me to get to hold hands and I loved it! I was highly embarrassed though when Pemba or Phema put me back into bed and I think he saw my naked butt.

I saw this one jerk and he was choochin' so fast all by himself and I was like, "you think you're SO COOL without your helper and your IV stand" and he was like, "don't worry, you'll get there" (which was a pretty nice thing for him to say, I gotta admit) and he was right! Eventually, I didn't need my helper and then I didn't need my IV stand and then it was me choochin' so fast all by myself.

So. Farting.

One time, the nurse was in my room and I farted really loudly for like 17 seconds. We held eye contact the entire time, me embarrassed but excited, and she a cheerleader looking at me like "keep going! you're amazing!" and I did keep going and then I felt like I had to go number 2 RIGHT NOW and so I scooched to the the edge of the bed and rolled onto one side and slowly got up. I started to walk to the bathroom and looked back to make sure my tubes were all in order and I saw that I had pooped a streak from the center to the edge of the bed.

I wanted to DIE. 

The nurse was still in my room! "I pooped the bed", I told her from behind the bathroom door, humiliated.

"IT'S ALREADY GONE. DON'T BE EMBARRASSED."

"OK. thanks. I'm also going to need a new gown."

And that is why nurses are just the nicest people in the entire world. 

Miyo, who REFUSED to get in bed with me even though I begged and begged. She preferred to sleep on the RADIATOR than cuddle with me. Little turd.

These two, I did not beg.

*chooch is a Shash-term, which means walk, basically. Go for a chooch. Just choochin', etc.