Category Archives: Embarrassing Moments

Endocolonoscopy Part II

You all know I had a colonoscopy a couple weeks ago. If you didn’t know, read this.

Everyone from the Pope to the girl at work said the worst part was the prep.

Don’t believe everything you hear. That advice right there is something we were given at a very young age, yet I went against it.

There are maybe two benefits to a colonoscopy:

1) Rapid weight loss within a 24 hour period. I don’t recommend it though because having your insides empty into a toilet bowl at the velocity of a 747 doing a nose dive is probably not so good for you; and 2) A colonoscopy can save your life.

There is something very awkward about meeting the man who will be shoving a 6′ hose where the sun really does not ever shine,\

for the first time on the actual day of said shoving.

Besides the fact that he said he had a hangover, I think it went well. He was joking by the way.

I think.

Not only will he be doing an unmentionable to you, he will be giving you a mind blowing and vomit inducing drug.

I’m pretty sure if this were a blind date, there would not be a second. This guy is everything your mother warned you about. Plus some.

The Pope and the girl at work were right about how you feel like you took a thirty second nap because before I knew it I was lying on a gurney in the recovery room with about a dozen other victims. I mean, people. Also recovering from whatever their procedure of the day was.

They sat me almost immediately in a chair, of which I did not feel ready for. Because I didn’t feel well. I didn’t feel well at all. The room was spinning and before I knew it I was yelling, “I’M GONNA THROW UP!!!”

It sure is amazing how quickly the nursing staff moves when they hear that because within 1.2 seconds I had one of those kidney shaped plastic bowl things shoved under my chin. With a nurse on one side of me and my husband on the other, I vomited who knows what exactly because there literally was nothing in my stomach.

But before that moment I have to tell you, I had a rather large bit of flatulence escape from my underside.

Did I saw large? Yes I did, and I meant it. I looked at DH in surprise and disgust. “Did that just come out of ME??? Please tell me it was the guy next door.”

So, not only did I pass gas in front of a dozen strangers but I vomited as well.

This day is not going as planned. All I had to do was burp and I would have covered all of the unpleasant bodily functions in record  time. In front of strangers. Just so you know, this was NOT on my bucket list.

So, with my head spinning and my breath smelling of vomit, my doctor came in to tell me what he claims he already told me which is weird because I don’t remember at all.

Here’s a question for you — why, if you know there is a pretty high chance that your patient is going to be, well, high, would you try to talk to them so soon?

Anyway, I had a little inflammation in my esophagus, as well as the removal of a Z-Formation. I don’t really know what that is, but he didn’t seem concerned.

During my colonoscopy, he found three polyps. They were benign but polyps can turn into cancer if left to their own devices.

Would I do it again? Of course I would. And I will. In three years. Because they found those polyps, and I not only care about my colon health, but my life.

So, the moral of the story? Go get a colonoscopy. It’s really important, and at the end of the day it wasn’t so bad. Just pretend you didn’t hear that part about the vomit.

 

The Getaway Part II – The Upgrade

If you missed Part I, click here and come back. I’ll wait…

Are you caught up? Now where was I? Oh right (ants on the sill in case you forgot).

So, surprisingly we weren’t upset. Typically this would be something that would set one or the other off. But we were here to have fun and enjoy each other’s company, so basically we would have laughed off a natural disaster. Well, maybe not a tsunami. Those things scare the hell out of me.

The 1950s girl looked at us in disbelief when we walked through the lobby door. I almost felt sorry for her sitting there in her poodle skirt. I just really wish she was wearing saddle shoes. I love saddle shoes. I actually had a pair in 1979. Let’s just say, they didn’t make me a lot of friends.

I let DH talk to her because I am not a fan of confrontation. So I went outside to take pictures of the parking lot. When I came back in I heard her say she was giving us the best room in the house. The one that typically costs $320 a night but we were getting at no additional cost. You know, for our troubles.

Mind you, there was not a room to be found on the Island of Long and so far, in the last fifteen minutes we were able to move to three separate rooms in one hotel with no problem. Just an observation.

Moving along.

We walked up the rusty, I mean rustic stairs for the second time and made a hard left to a locked gate at the end of the walkway that looked more like Leavenworth and less like our own private terrace.

Of course, we couldn’t make the key work so I stood there and watched over our bags while DH traipsed back to the lobby.

I tried desperately to avoid eye contact with our new neighbors who were sitting on the other side of their large plate glass window by keeping my gaze out over the parking lot. I was getting to know that parking lot pretty intimately. Just so you know, there were exactly 78 parking spots.

The broken key was just operator error, but I can only imagine the look of terror on 1950s girl’s face when DH walked in that lobby again. Maybe I should have gone with him. That could have been the entertainment for the night.

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Ignore the smoke stacks. What smoke stacks? I don’t see any smoke stacks.

When we got through the gate and turned the corner of the balcony, what to our wondering eyes should appear?

Water.

No, not the kind that gets stuck in a sink. But the kind where boats live. And docks. And seagulls. We had a view of the bay, and it was lovely.

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The Vanity/VCR/Alarm Clock All-In-One Station. Where else can you get one of these gems?

We turned to unlock the door to the “best room in the house.” And stepped into, umm, I’m not sure what we expected, but that room was not $320 a night for the decor.

It seemed all the lampshades had the same disease. And the carpet had seen more dirt than, well, earth. But we had water. A view of the water trumps all else. Pretty much most of the time.

Believe it or not, it was clean (except the carpet — just so you know, I didn’t take my shoes off). It actually smelled nice, and the hubs liked it. He is not a fan of hotels, so I’m still getting over the shock. Seriously. I needed a little bit of smelling salts to make me come to.

You can just barely make out the rain showerhead. I always wanted one of those.

It had a rain shower showerhead. I always wanted one of those. Too bad the next day was not “wash my hair” day.

It had an amazing updated bathroom. The shower was big enough for a foursome and the tile was new (observation #27 – only renovation in probably thirty years).

It looked nice even with the old coffee pot half filled with sludge water, that sat on top of a mini fridge that had probably been there since the Nixon administration (observation #28 – a fridge in the bathroom is weird, and so is a coffee pot especially since poo can splash out from the toilet into your coffee but I digress).

After we looked out over the water for a bit, we realized we had some time to kill before dinner. We thought we would go into town, grab a cocktail and mosey on to the restaurant.

What were our dinner plans, you ask? We had reservations on Fire Island. All I wanted was to have dinner looking out over the waves since I didn’t get to the ocean this past summer and I really needed my fix. The only place I found on the Internet was in a little section on Fire Island called “Cherry Grove.”

Which was a gay community unbeknownst to us (we found out quite accidentally). Not that it mattered, but DH, when we realized, quickly figured out why the nice lady who answered the phone hesitated when he said, “my WIFE and I are celebrating an anniversary…”

“So, how do you think we’ll get there,” asked DH, the sensible one who plans everything from vacation to which foot gets dressed in a sock first.

After doing a bit of research, I found that there aren’t any paved roads on Fire Island. No paved roads means no cars pretty much.

If left to my own devices, I would have thrown caution to the wind. But a little voice (DH’s) inside my head said we should probably check things out further.

So, I called a water taxi company. After the lady who answered the phone very exuberantly exclaimed, “OH MY GOD, WHERE DO YOU WANT TO GO?” she told me that we would have to walk from the parking lot (Robert Moses parking lot — surely you’ve heard of it — it is right up the street from Jones Beach according to Google Maps) to the lighthouse.

See that lighthouse way bottom left corner? Robert Moses is to the left of that. WAY to the left.

See that lighthouse way bottom left corner? Robert Moses is to the left of that. WAY to the left.

“How long is that walk?” I ask. Her reply was “a half an hour.” Then we’d have to catch a water taxi from there that would take an hour, plus pay approximately $44 round trip.

Phew. This story is getting long. Maybe I should stop here and write Part III – Dinner and Beyond. Besides, I’m tired and I have to work tomorrow. Darn work, always gets in the way of a good story.

Stay tuned once more. Just once more, I promise.

 

Where’s the CPU?

There really needs to be a refresher course, or should I say — some seriously intense classes — offered for women (or men) reentering the workplace, whether it be after raising children, or just taking a long break for whatever reason. Technology change is enough to make me feel like I’m on a ship during a tsunami. It makes my head spin. Yesterday there was the rotary phone. Today there aren’t any phones at all. I’m not lying.

I started a new job less than a month ago. This company has a “Workplace of the Future” environment. The first day, it took me about an hour to lift my jaw off the ground when I found out there are no phones. And another hour to wrap my head around the fact that there is no voicemail.

Well, hell. I remember when voicemail first showed its face, now they are doing away with it? How can that be? I also walked to school barefoot in the snow. Uphill. Both ways. Then they invented shoes. Oh sorry. That’s my mother’s story.

There are no offices either. Just a large space with about a million cubicles. There are “white noise” speakers in the ceiling so you can’t hear each other’s conversations. Everything is done online. It’s all very futuristic. Although very different from the type of corporations I used to work in when I was a young woman, I have to say I like it.

But all this new technology put me in a little bit of a situation a couple of weeks ago…

CPURemember the CPU? I believe it stands for “Central Processing Unit” and it is, or was, the size of one of those mini-fridges you keep in a dorm room. In my day, they sat under the desk practically at your knees. Where you would slam your legs into it and your stockings would get snagged on the metal edge causing your stockings to run.

If you were lucky enough to find someone who had clear nail polish on them, you could stop the damage before half your leg skin was exposed. Possibly the worst thing that could ever happen. Showing skin in the office? Now it’s all you see. But I digress.

I had to upload (download? who knows the difference?) some software to my computer for a task I needed to complete. I took the CD (I could have said floppy disk but I’m not THAT old…okay I lie, I am) out of the sleeve it was stored in and proceeded to insert it into the computer.

I looked under my desk for the CPU. It wasn’t there. I looked on my desk, behind my desk. I got on my hands and knees and followed the cables into the wall. Can you just picture my forty-eight year old black-slacked ass sticking up in the air? I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.

With all this new-fangled technology, perhaps they keep the CPU INSIDE the walls? Or in a nearby closet? Don’t tell anyone, but I even looked on the ceiling. I was desperate. Not to mention perplexed. I was thisclose to hauling out a ladder and climbing on the roof.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally established there are no CPUs. They went down the river with the voicemail. I started to feel around the computer screen. They have televisions that you can put a DVD directly into. Why not a monitor? After about twenty seconds, I realized, no. Not in the monitor. Not this one, anyway.

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These are dinosaurs…

...these are not.

…these are not.

I sat there with my head in my hands repeating to myself, “think, think think,” when I noticed the laptop that is “docked” on my desk. “But I don’t use the laptop,” I thought to myself. I use the keyboard and a large flatscreen monitor when I do computer work.

The laptop is so I can take it home with me to do work if I need to stay home for the day or whatever. I thought it was just sitting here staying charged in that thing the people around here refer to as a “docking station.” But I took a shot and felt the side of it. What did I have to lose? Nothing. Because I hit pay dirt. BAM! There it was.

With a red face and the push of a button, I was in business. And I didn’t even have to ask anyone. I do have to admit that I felt like my grandmother at the time.

After three weeks, I still work there so I guess I’m doing something right. What I’m trying to say is, if I can do it, so can you. So, good luck to all you people who are going back to the grind. I have hard core respect for you.

Oh and I still wear stockings. Old habits die hard, my friends. Except now I keep a bottle of Maybelline Clear Coat in my bag at all times. But I don’t think I’ll be needing it. After all, there is no CPU.

It’s All About the Boob and Being a Boob – Part II

Yesterday I told you about my new friend, Wendy and her cancer diagnosis. Today, I am going to talk about how we react to bad news.

While at work last week, I received a Facebook private message from Wendy. “Bad news…I have breast cancer…”

After I let the message sit there for a couple of minutes, gathering my wits about me, I replied with this: “I’m so sorry” and “you will be okay” and “let me know if there is anything I can do.” Not very original and kinda stupid. Probably not the best words to say to someone who is suffering a traumatic event. And that was AFTER I gathered my wits.

Then a couple of days later she PM’ed me with this, among other things, “…take samples from my lymph nodes to make sure it has not spread…”

“I’ll keep you in my prayers, hoping it didn’t spread,” was my response. Really? How stupid. Keeping someone in their prayers is totally acceptable and comforting. But hoping it didn’t spread? That goes without saying. It just wasn’t necessary.

Whatever. I’m awkward in these kinds of situations. Some people have the gift. I do not. When God was handing out Common Sense, I thought he said “Be All Dense,” and I didn’t get in line.

But, I have to ask. Is there really a “right” thing to say? I think we are so concerned about what to say, how to react, that we wind up saying the wrong thing anyway. Basically, you can’t win.

A long time ago, a friend of a family member had a miscarriage. She was very far along in her pregnancy. When I heard the news, my heart broke for her. I was already a mother at the time and I couldn’t even begin to fathom it. But I knew when I saw her, I would be awkward. And I was.

“Oooh yeah, umm, sorry about the baby.” Followed by a literal cringe on my face. A cringe, as if I was trying to hold in a fart. I walked away feeling like the biggest asshole. I froze. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to NOT acknowledge it. I was afraid she would think I was cold.

Instead, I made myself look more like an ice princess, like I didn’t care, when in actuality I did. Very much so. Although it has been many years, I feel like every time I see this woman, that is what she remembers.

And when I go to a wake? Fuhgettaboutit. I’m a bumbling idiot. I’ve decided to just say the generic speech that goes like this, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Done. Over. No room for error. Then go sit in a chair at the back of the room and be there. Because that’s really all anyone ever wants. For you to just be there.

When The Kid was hit by a car, there were many people who expressed their concern. They were all wonderful, with a little awkwardness thrown in here and there, but I knew they meant well.

One woman actually said something like this, “geez, that would have been awful if she died because you don’t have any other children.” This is not verbatim, but close.

That one made me laugh out loud in disbelief. Then I remembered that people are just weird and awkward in these situations. I can’t even blame her. I’m sure, like the fart-face I made at the lady who lost her baby, she didn’t mean for it to sound so callous. I’m sure she was coming from a good place. Besides, if I really judged her, it would be like me living in a glass house and throwing stones. Or being a pot and calling a kettle black. Get it? I don’t have the right.

So, what have I decided to do in these situations? Pray to the good Lord above that I don’t throw up crap. That’s all I can do. And if I do sound like a bumbling asshole? I apology in advance for what my mouth does. I swear I have no control. My heart and tongue just aren’t always on the same page.

In the meantime, my friend Wendy is going to get this big, ugly mo-fo of a “C” word out of her and she’s going to fight it. How do I know? Because although I’ve not known her for a long time, I get that she is tough as nails. She can hold her own. If I was walking in a dark alley with her and we were mugged, I get the feeling she’d kick some serious ass and save the day while I lay in a puddle, shriveling up and pooping myself. Yeah. I would definitely poop myself.

So, to continue the theme from yesterday…here is my #MyLeftBoob pic for @WendiPopRock. Let’s get it trending for her y’all.

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And next time you say something stupid when someone gives you bad news, brush it off and go buy a card. Because card companies actually PAY people to be appropriate and smart. Then go sit by your friend’s side. She will appreciate it.

 

Inner Thoughts of a Gassy Woman

The below post is based on a story I heard during Christmas break. The words may not be verbatim, but the facts are true. This is not me — even though I am telling the story as if it is — but rather it is another very funny person in my life who does not realize how funny she is. She shall remain anonymous as per her request.

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One day, a few years ago (I cannot pinpoint the exact year because I would much rather just put the entire incident somewhere where I cannot reach it. You know, like in a titanium vault that not even the nuclear bomb could open), I had a serious problem that was emitting from the bottom half of my body. Particularly, my ass.

I felt it coming and I knew it wasn’t going to be good. You know that feeling? That almost runny, burning feeling when you eat too much spicy food and fiber? You can feel it collect right at the door. It wasn’t good.

My boss asked me to run to the bank to make a deposit. I used his car. Upon entering the vehicle, I let it loose. It wasn’t a “shart” exactly, but I felt below for clarification. Because it sure the hell felt like one.

Well, let me just tell you, the worse smell known to man came out of me. It curled my toes and singed my hair. Thank God I was alone. Except when I looked up, I saw my boss coming toward me. I totally pretended I didn’t see him. I knew I had to move fast. I started the car and drove out of the parking lot, right past him.

I’m surprised I didn’t run him over. But I just could not, under any circumstance, let him in. He would have died. He didn’t know it, but I was saving his life.

Later that afternoon, I felt it again. It was coming and it was coming hard. I was in the office and I knew I needed to get to a private place, quickly. I opted for the file room up in the attic. I knew I’d be safe there.

I climbed the stairs, looked around and let loose. I pulled down my pants because I didn’t want the gasses to linger in my underwear. The smell was horrific. If there was anything alive up in that space, they were now, umm…dead.

I thought I was out of the woods, but what do you know? As luck would have it, who comes up? My boss. Can you believe it? The same man whose life I was trying to save just hours earlier. I was wondering how I was going to get out of this one when he said this:

“Oh My God. What is that smell? I think something died up here. Jocelyn, call the exterminator. I think we’ve got mice.”

He thought something died up there. Yeah, something died. In my butt. I went to my desk and did what he asked. I dialed the number for Mike’s Pest Control.

They came at once and put out mice traps all over the attic. And do you know that smell lasted for a good 4 hours? I wish I could have told him to save his money, because like I said before, if there was anything alive up there, they were now among the dead. I literally and naturally fumigated the place.

But I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t want to be known as the woman whose farts likened to that of a dead mouse. I certainly didn’t need that to be my legacy.

And that, my friends, is how I almost peed my pants on Christmas. I laughed so hard, I probably added a few years to my life. And for that I am grateful. Lord knows, it’s been a trying year with some of my life taken from me.

I know we all have an embarrassing fart story. But this one takes the cake. Now go on and have a Happy New Year! And please, don’t eat anything that could potentially be deadly while coming from your other end. Or you might get pest control called on you.

I’m Sorry

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I need to come clean with you. I am aware that the stuff I have been writing lately is crap. No more recipe shares with you. No more shit posts. If I write something, and I wouldn’t read it, then I’m hitting the delete key. I’m no longer going to publish a post just to publish a post.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I’m legitimately sorry. I’m embarrassed and I apologize if I wasted your time.

I realize we had a pretty traumatic experience recently and maybe I was off my game. I lost my wit. I lost my humor. I lost my will to even want to write.

But I’m back. I slapped myself in the face, picked myself up and wrote something pretty cool last night. The link is here in case you missed it.

Thank you for your patience and for not totally losing faith in me. I love you all!!

PS – I’m too excited not to share this with you and I wasn’t going to yet, but guess what? A pretty major, mega-huge blogging site is going to publish an essay I wrote where I talk about my raw emotions after The Kid was hit by a car. It’s coming out October 16! So be on the lookout! (of course, I’ll be sharing it here)

Yellow Back Seats

keep-calm-and-pee-your-pants-4I want to apologize for not really being around. Besides my little Jeter post the other day, I’ve been out of commission. I’m not sure most of you know what happened. I talked about it on my Facebook page but I know not all of you follow me there.

The Kid was struck by a car a couple of weeks ago. She’s okay now. We had a scary night in ICU where I lost 20 years off my life, but she is a miracle really and is doing really, really great. So, now it’s back to normal. It’s good to be back.

I was reminded of a story from a very good friend of mine. This friend has been in my life since 1979. Probably the one person, besides my family, who I have known the longest.

As you know, I was supposed to be on the Dr. Oz show. I commented on my Facebook page about how I was going to pee my pants because I was so nervous. This has nothing to do with anything about what I am going to talk about, but since when do I not get off topic at least once during a post?

I never made it to the Dr. Oz show because the accident happened the night before. I know, tough decision. The Kid or Dr. Oz. Hmm. I mean I was in the city anyway. I’m kidding people.

So, getting back to my pee story from my youth. I have several pee stories but this one is particularly funny.

I was about 15 years old. I was hanging out with my oldest friend when her mom offered to take us to the local high school parking lot to let us practice driving. Yes, we were underage and without a permit but I think because of statute of limitations or something, all involved are protected.

My dear, oldest friend was a terrible driver (sorry J, but you did fail your driver’s test, remember? Was it twice? Hmm?). I was in the back seat, J and her mother were in front. Driving with J was like being on one of those bucking bronco guys set on the highest setting. I was being thrown all over the backseat (yes, this was also before seat belts were a big deal. And yes, I’m that old).

I tried so hard to hold it in, but I just couldn’t. I never laughed so hard. Okay, so that’s a lie. I have laughed as hard and peed too. Because I have a problem. And the problem has gotten worse since I bore my child because we all know what children do to our bodies.

Anyway, I let it out. All of it. All over the vinyl seat. But I didn’t worry. I knew it would dry up nice since it was vinyl. No one would notice. Except it was my turn to drive. When I got out and J’s mom climbed into the backseat so me and Jen could be up front, she saw it.

And gave out an, “Oh Mo! Not again!” Yes, again. I had done this before on her dining room chair, in her yard, on the floor. My friend J has this ability to make me laugh hard. Even now I have to strap on a Depends if I’m going to see her. Her laugh alone makes me lose it.

So yes, I have a problem. And I have many, many more stories just like that one. So please. If you are going to plan on being funny and making me laugh, just warn me ahead of time so I’m prepared. I should probably just start carrying around a diaper bag. Should I have it monogramed?

As far as my friend J is concerned? I hope you all have a J in your life. J’s are awesome. Love you girl.

 

You’re So Vein

hem·or·rhoid/hem(ə)ˌroid/
noun a swollen vein or group of veins in the region of the anus.

I'm talking about YOU, Hemmorhoid

I’m talking about YOU, Hemorrhoid

Have you ever had a hem-or-roid?  You know, that itchy, painful, itchy thing in and/or around your bottom? I think, I’m not sure because I’m no doctor, that I may have one. I don’t know how I got it, but it kinda blows. Well, not really. It actually itches.

Anyway, I’m not here to tell you that I have a hemorrhoid even though I just did. It’s this actual little problem of mine that brings to mind a very embarrassing story from my younger days. It involves DH and what he did for love. And because I love to share embarrassing stories. It’s what I live for.

It was fairly early on in our relationship. One day I woke up with this itchy-itch down below. Not in the front down below, in the back down below. It was relentless. While at work during this time, I spent half my day in the bathroom, panty hose around my knees and a wad of toilet paper, well, you know.

I was perplexed.  I didn’t know what it was.  At the time, DH’s brother was a nurse. Yes, we did. We asked him. I must have been drunk or something because I allowed DH to call him. And explain my symptoms. Here was his advice….

“Go into a dark room.  Make sure the lights are all out, I mean completely dark.  Have her get on all fours, bum in the air, take a flashlight and here’s where you have to be quick…flash that light right into her rectum.  If you see something move, then she’s got worms.” Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t use quotation marks here because I’m sure that wasn’t his exact words and it was 27 years ago, but it’s close enough.

WORMS???  What?  Did he think I was a 5 year old who sat in the sandbox for too long?  Sure, maybe I behaved like one sometimes, but really?  No way, no way in hell am I doing tha…Okay, but just this once.  Just don’t tell anybody.

Needless to say, I did not have worms.  I could have saved myself a little bit of humiliation by just skipping the brother nurse and flashlight test and gone directly to my good, old physician instead.  Which is what I wound up doing anyway.  And the cream worked.  Until now.  Well, that was 27 years ago…so, what’s my point?  Hi, my name is Mo and I have a hemorrhoid. If you see me at the pharmacy, I’m getting…umm…lipstick?

Demagnetization Belongs In the Toilet

hotel key

I am not a public pooper.  If I am out and about and it happens to come on me, I’m thrown into a bit of a bind.  This has been a problem with me for forever.

If I were home, it would be no problem.  Of course.  But if I go into a public restroom, my sphincter tightens up as if it were a boa constrictor sucking the life out of its prey.  It’s like my bowels are on center stage.  With bright lights and an audience.  Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit it but my digestive system and I suffer from serious stage freight.

I went away on a girl’s scrapbook retreat this past weekend.  In the middle of scrapping my 2010 vacation to the Outer Banks, I felt the urge.  It was strong and it was sudden.  And I wasn’t home.  Obviously.  Thank God for hotel rooms.  Because I was gonna be needing my private stage, err, bathroom.  Pronto.

With a sense of relief, I made it to the door of my room and swiped my “key.”  Instead of the welcome light of green, I got red.  I swiped again.  And again.  And a-freaking-gain.  Red. Red. RED.  After a few expletives, I speed walked to the elevator, climbed on and made my way to the front desk.

There is nothing worse than standing there telling the front desk employee that you need a new key while doing everything in your power to not accidentally let out any bit of why you so urgently need to get into your room at 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon.  This is the one time you don’t want them to be so friendly.  No, I don’t give a damn about the wind outside.  I’m more concerned about the wind inside.  Please give me my new key before you need to call the janitor.

I know why my key didn’t work.  I started to put it in my pocket with my cell phone.  Started to.  Which means I had it in my hand, surrounded by my fingers and palm.  When I felt my phone with the back of my pointer, I knew it meant “danger.”  And I immediately retreated.  I took it out before I let it go.  Because I know the damage it can do.  It’s happened to me before.  A lot.  But I was pretty sure I stopped the process of demagnetization.  Apparently, I did not.

metal hotel keyI miss the good old days of a plain, old metal key.  I really do.  Sure, it’s not as easy to carry.  It doesn’t slide into your wallet without a snag.  Or can’t be put into the back pocket of your jeans without you getting poked.  So what?  It also doesn’t run the risk of demagnetizing.  I would hang that friggin’ piece of metal around my neck if it meant I didn’t have to make umpteen trips to the front desk.  Every dang time I stay in a hotel.  Every dang time.  No lie.

Demagnetization.  It’s a bad, bad word.  Please don’t use it around me.  And by the way, I made it.  By the skin of my…never mind.  I wouldn’t want to give you too much information.  You know, some things should be sacred.

Toto, We’re Not In Manhattan Anymore

manhattan ksGuess how many Manhattans there are in the country?  I’m not talking about the drink.  I’m talking about the town, city, borough, hamlet.  I’ll give you a minute.  And no cheating.

I have a cousin who lives in Kansas.  He posted a status on Facebook today that he and his wife were having date night in Manhattan and asked about a Thai restaurant.  To which I replied:

“Hey, it may be something you wind up loving! Go for it! And Mitch, Aunt Terry’s son, is playing a gig at Slattery’s Midtown Pub at 8:30 tonight. I was trying to go, but I’m not able to make it. How long are you in town for?”

His reply?  “I meant Manhattan Kansas.”

Oh.

So, people.  You are about to get a geography lesson here.  What did you guess?  Because there is not just one Manhattan.  Not even two Manhattans.  There are 10. Ten. Diez Manhattans.  If you got that, you should get a prize.  Here they are.  In no particular order.

  1. Manhattan, KS
  2. Manhattan, IL
  3. Manhattan, MT
  4. Manhattan, NV
  5. Manhattan, CO
  6. Manhattan, FL
  7. Manhattan, IN
  8. Manhattan, MS
  9. Manhattan, NY
  10. Manhattan, PA

When it comes to geography, I am no genius.  Actually, that also goes with math, science and anything that I was supposed to pay attention to in school.  But really?  Who would have thunk?

I asked my Facebook friends this morning if they had ever heard of Manhattan, KS.  Because I was feeling a little dumb.  I received 15 replies.  Here’s the breakdown:

8 people said they knew.  7 responded with a resounding “NO.”  Of the 8 who said they knew, 3 claim that they wouldn’t know if they didn’t live there once or had a family member live there.  So, technically 10 didn’t know.  The way I look at it, that is more than half.  Okay, so that is more than half.  Like I said.  Not a genius in math.

Guess what?  I don’t feel so dumb anymore.  Eat that Manhattan, Kansas!  But I think I’d like to visit.  After all, I have a family member there.