Smoke by Egg

“911 what’s your emergency?”

“Actually this isn’t an emergency really. The smoke detector which is also a CO detector went off in the basement a couple of times and I was wondering if you could send someone over to test the air?”

“Yes, I’ll send someone right over. In the meantime, do not open any doors or windows and get everyone out of the house.”

Me running through the house: OMG EVERYONE GET OUT OF THE HOUSE NOOOOOOWWWWWWW!!!

Yes, that’s me. In full-on panic mode because I run on two emotions: “Panic” and “Over-reaction.”

The Kid wasn’t home at the time, so DH, me, and the dog went outside to step to the curb. It was hot and I had to put on a bra so I was a little less than happy. I’m not sure if I brushed my teeth, but I was certain that I hadn’t brushed my hair. The nest that was met by a run through with my fingers told me I hadn’t.

I had taken the day off so my offspring and I could spend some time together gallivanting in the city that never sleeps. I was unshowered and had stuff to do to get ready.

This wasn’t in the schedule and there was no time for it. When my over-reaction emotion kicked in, I was certain our plans would have to change.

You know, because a fire/CO detector went off in the basement. The world was coming to an end as I knew it. We would be forced to vacate our property while the good team of First Responders would traipse through our home to eradicate the carbon monoxide that would surely have killed us had I not called “911” when I did.

I clearly saved our lives.

When I saw a utility pick-up truck-type vehicle pull up to the front of the house, I was relieved to see they didn’t send out the calvary to embarrass us in front of the entire neighborhood.

But I was a little too premature in my relief. Within minutes, there was a large fire truck, several more utility pick-up truck-type vehicles, and a couple of cars lining the street in front of our house. The scene was looking like Firehouse Family Safety Day hosted by Yours Truly.

Donned with full-on Bunker Gear, our wonderful local First Responders entered our home with carbon monoxide detectors ablaze. After about three minutes, the man who seemed to be in charge approached me.

Man In Charge: Ma’am, did you burn anything this morning?

Me: Well, yes, actually, I did. I made an egg and it dripped on the stovetop and caused quite a mess. How did you know?

Man In Charge: Ma’am, that is what caused the smoke detector to go off in the basement. Not carbon monoxide. I could smell it when I walked in the house.

Me: But how can that be? That’s all the way in the basement! Also, this happened a couple weeks ago, too! I swear the culprit can’t be just an egg!

I don’t remember his reply except for a “shake my head” type of response and a hint that perhaps we need to replace the alarms in our home. But yes, I was trying to argue away my embarrassment with a highly qualified member of the local fire department.

As nuts as it sounds, I was hoping for a little more drama so that I could report back to all my friends, family, and co-workers about how we almost died.

Thank you, First Responders. You really are truly amazing.

Also, you’re welcome. Surely, I must have been the laughing stock back at the firehouse.

A Bloody Apocalypse

Did you ever have a nose bleed that was so intense you were sure you were going to bleed to death?

Last week I had nine such nose bleeds. This whole bloody nose thing started around the beginning of the year. It started out slow and steady, but was getting worse. It seemed to be a growing trend in my life. One that was very unwelcome.

Last Wednesday I was taking an exercise class during my lunch break. I felt a little something running down my nose, but I thought it was, you know, snot. Because that happens when I exercise a little too hard sometimes.

It was not snot. And before I knew it I painted my little section of floor with the red stuff. It’s amazing how bright it looks under those fluorescent lights.

It was gross. Not to mention embarrassing. The nurse’s office happens to be in the same area as the gym, so I decided to take a walk over. My thinking was she could give me some tips on how to stop it.

She reached into her drawer, pulled out two tampons, and shoved them up my nostrils. Just like that. I remember making a comment that I hadn’t used a tampon in years, and then I laughed and laughed at the absurdity of it.

It took forty-five minutes for the flow to stop. Apparently, the old-fashioned way of tilting your head back is a no-no. Something about giving you an upset stomach.

The nurse also mentioned something about drowning. That certainly would be an interesting obituary.

I find the old-fashioned way to be much more controllable and less time-consuming. If I were to tilt my head back, that bad boy would have ended in a short few minutes.

Credit goes to The Kid for making this picture a little less disgusting for your viewing pleasure.

But who am I to go against modern medicine? And besides, drowning is one of my biggest fears.

The problem was the dear nurse wanted to call an ambulance. Visions of me laying on a gurney with two bloody tampons sticking out of my nose, being wheeled through the corridors of my place of employment in front of all my colleagues put a fear in me so deep I had to revert to begging.

She must have felt bad for me because she eventually backed off with the ambulance threat. But she did make me call my physician, who was none too happy to be pulled away from a patient so she could tell me to call an ENT.

Duh. Ears, Nose, Throat. “Nose” being the operative word here.

I finally made it back to my desk and called the ENT, but was forced to leave a message. Eh. That’s ok. Maybe it wouldn’t happen again. Dumb thought, seeing that this is a growing trend, not a descending one.

Except it did happen again. The following night. That time it took over an hour for the flow to stop. After I spit out a blood clot the size of a newborn puppy, I decided it was time to do something about it. I mean, I’m pretty sure I lost enough blood that week alone to save a small army of really big men.

I was able to get in to see the Nose doctor from the ENT establishment. One quick look up my left nostril confirmed what I never even thought of — I had a broken blood vessel. I’ll be honest with you, visions of something dark danced through my head. Because that’s just how I roll. Yet another instance of when I started to plan out my funeral prematurely.

Interesting fact: Only 6% of the 60% of people who experience nosebleeds, suffer from a broken blood vessel. I’m not sure if I should play the lotto or lock myself in a padded closet.

I am not ashamed to admit I was a tad nervous about the procedure. I felt my blood pressure start to rise. I told myself that I gave birth naturally, so this would be a walk in the park. But the good doctor put some numbing solution up my nose, and carefully got to work with repairing the broken vessel, making it as painless and comfortable as possible.

Ten minutes and $900 something later, I was good as new. You know, if it took. Because sometimes “it doesn’t always take.” Perfect.

Before I left, he told me not to blow my nose, exercise, or really exert myself in any way for a few days. He also explained what to do in the case of another bloody nose.

You know, in case that $900 procedure didn’t take.

“Pinch the nostrils and lean forward.” Which prompted this conversation:

Me: What about tampons? That’s what I’ve been using.

Doc: Sure. You can put cotton up there. That’ll work.

Me: No, I mean tampons.

Doc:

Me:

Doc: You mean, as in vaginal?

Me: Uhh, yeah.

Doc: Oh, ok. So, you split them in half first. Sure, that does the job.

Me: No, actually. The entire thing. I put the entire thing in my nostril.

Doc: (jaw on floor)

And that is how I taught my doctor a new trick. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’m thinking I should get at least some of my money back. I mean, that was a pretty good tip. Even if it really came from the work nurse. But I won’t tell her, if you don’t.

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.

Foot Mouth Disease

I have a disease.  It’s called Foot In Mouth.  And there doesn’t seem to be a cure.  I’ve tried everything short of sealing my mouth shut with duct tape.  I’ve made New Year’s Resolutions.  I’ve promised the family.  I’ve promised my friends.  The problem is that my mouth starts jabbering before my brain has time to process anything that comes out of that big, fat hole that lies just below my nose.  There must be a connection issue.  Seriously.  Maybe I should go see a brain doctor.

Every time I open my mouth and say something stupid, it hits me like a ton of shit bricks.  When it’s too late.  I waste more time apologizing for the crap that has escaped from these lips than anything else.  I mean, I could accidentally on purpose rob a bank and possibly feel better about that than what comes out of my mouth.  Possibly.

Let me give you an example.  Last week, I was at a party and talking with a friend who recently went through a divorce.  Know what I decided to say to her?  “I never really liked him anyway.”  Did I stop there?  Nooooo.  Why would I?  I was on a roll.  I followed it up with something like, “He never sat with me right.”  Well, that wasn’t cool.  It just wasn’t.  Besides being with him for a good portion of her life because she probably LOVED and LIKED him, he fathered her children.  As soon as it came out, I regretted it.  I like to blame the wine.  Yeah, that’s it.  It’s the wine’s fault.

I was cringing the entire ride home.  The next day I found myself texting a 2-page long apology.  Basically telling her that I am a complete dumbass and I didn’t deserve her friendship.  Did she mind the comment?  She didn’t seem to.  She didn’t even flinch.  Probably because she knows that my mouth is a completely different entity from the rest of my body.  I have Alien mouth.  My mouth is from Jupiter.

Another example of Foot Mouth?  At a wedding I attended recently, I was trying to get a friend to have a drink with me.  A friend who’s children were in the wedding.  Suddenly, one of her kids wanted to sit on her lap.  Because he was tired.  And wanted his mommy.  When you are a mother of a teenager, that world is a complete bygone.  Another life.  A far distant memory.  What did I say to her?  “Gawd, don’t you wish you could have left them home????”  WTF is wrong with me?  The Kid was in a wedding when she was a little girl and I LOVED having her there.  That time I like to say it was the Cosmo talking.  Blame the Cosmo.  Maybe it was plural.  Cosmos.

Again.  Cringe.  I am still cringing over that one.  My face is starting to just look like one big cringe.  You know when you cross your eyes and your mother tells you they will get stuck like that if you do it too much?  Yeah, well.  There you go.

Oh, there are SO many stories that sound very similar to the two above.  But I don’t really have the time to get into it.  And besides, I don’t want to scare away all the friends I still have left.  Just for the record, I don’t mean to sound so callous.  It just comes out that way.  I most definitely don’t have a way with words.

So, the next time you see me around town, and I look like this:

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Don’t worry.  It’s my new look.  Because after all, mother is always right.  Now, if I could only figure out how to do that without looking like I have 3 chins…

Dress Down

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See this dress?  I wore it to death. It was long, almost to my ankles, had a cute little belt and buttons that started half way down my back and went all the way to the bottom.  I adored this dress.

I used to have to commute about 45 minutes one way to work.  I worked for a big corporation in White Plains.  It was fun, but the days were long.  One evening, after I pulled into the driveway, I noticed that Dan from across the street was hanging out with my brother on the front porch.  Oh joy.  He’s such an asshole.  I was not in the mood to deal with him.

After I collected my things from my car and walked up the stairs to the house, Dan says to me “nice ass.”  Gee, thanks Dan.  You’re an asshole.  And yes, I do have a nice ass.  Thank you very much.

I go into the house and continue on to my room to change.  I reach behind me to unbutton my dress and the blood immediately leaves my face.  Holy shit!  I have just died.  They are already undone.  From the top button all the way to the bottom.  The asshole got a nice shot of my butt.  My thonged butt.  Thank God pantyhose were in at the time.  At least they covered up something.

I figured that they must have come loose in the car.  This is what happens when you love something to death.  It doesn’t pay to be loyal.  You just get shit on.  The button holes must have stretched out after about a million wears.  It was time to retire my beloved dress.  I did love you so.  Well, until you did this to me.

So, that was a major wardrobe malfunction to say the least.  I would say second to Janet Jackson’s ordeal.  Except I didn’t do mine on purpose.  I swear.