If you have a problem discussing mucus and poop, don't read this.
All right, people. This is getting ridiculous. The Phlegm is back. I never get sick twice in a summer.
It's barreling through my system all freight-trainey, though, so five days into it, I'm already where I would normally be (tiptoeing through the coughing-fit stage) during Week 2. So that's good. It was pretty much brought on by a fabulous but frantic run through the Pacific Northwest, in which I saw two cities I've always wanted to visit (Portland and Seattle) and saw a dear friend marry a great guy in a seriously picturesque Willamette Valley vineyard, but then there was the scant sleeping and the delayed flying and the two-and-a-half-hour taxi odyssey home in the remnants of the Freak Rainstorm 2007 that shut down nearly all of the city's freeways. And then there were two nights of Crowded House shows that followed (which, please, I'd drag my fangirl self to if I had some gaping head wound or a tail or something), and my body just said, "That's it. I'm going to liquify now." So here we are.
This all leaves me feeling weary but contemplative, mostly because I'm making noises and all-around imploding from the face in public. It makes me think of all the most disgusting things I hate doing in public but can't seem to avoid right now:
1. Blowing my nose
2. Coughing (if it's more than three coughs and there are innards involved)
3. Throwing up (that would be Friday, in the bathroom at work — not at my desk, thank god for large favors)
Fine, this might seem gross to you. You might wonder why I'm talking about this on The Internets. But be honest: You have a method for picking your nose undetected in public. At some moment in time, something more substantial than just spit has shot out of your mouth during a conversation with someone you had a crush on. You move your shopping bags/purse/backpack/other stuff-carrying device around your body so you can pick a wedgie in a crowded department store. You quicken your pace as you walk away from your farts on the sidewalk. You pull a hair out of your head to floss a poppy seed from between your two front teeth before going back to your table in a restaurant. You sniff your pits in the car. I know you do this. Stop hiding. Stop pretending that smell isn't your stank foot odor wafting from under your chair. We all have grossness that we all, at some point or another, have to take outside the safe fart zones of our homes.
At work, there are very few private offices with doors. Most of us sit in cubicles with half-walls that come up just above the waist. I thought I'd hate it, it certainly limits personal phone calls, but perhaps for that reason I secretly love it. My coworkers are very cool and the open format comes in handy during hectic closes, when communication is essential.
But on days like today, everyone can hear me coughing up my lungs. Everyone who walks past looks straight at my nose and makes mental notes that it's crusting off my face. I've stopped ducking under my desk to blow my nose, but the bathroom is SO far away that I'm just out in the open with my snot. Today, I am the Gross Girl In The Office. I know I'm not contagious, and I'm finally at the point where I can hold a thought and be productive so it's not obscene for me to be at work. But it's obscene what's crawling up my esophagus when I cough.
When I hit 30, I turned a corner in many avenues in my life. Family neuroses didn't get to me so much. I accepted my body (not fully, but more than I ever had). I got better at letting things go. I weeded out the unhealthy relationships in my life. And I started pooping in public restrooms. This is something that, until that point, I avoided at all costs, only did under extreme physical duress. And then I turned 30. And I got tired of stomachaches. So maybe that's why I feel my Interoffice Coughing Fits are invasive, but they're human, and I can't feel embarrassed by them, even if the Office Douchebag comes by and says something like, "Sounds like you got yourself quite a problem there, eh?!? Hahahahahahaha!"
OK, confession: My Most Embarrassing Moment
It was at summer camp. I was about eight years old. My bunk went to the nature center to look at the frogs and snakes and turtles, and then we sat in a circle and the nature specialist showed us how to make three-legged stools. The nature specialist was accompanied by a junior counselor who was sooooooo cute. Never having been one of those girls who thought boys had cooties, I was enamored. He sat next to me, so I convinced myself he was in love with me. The circle was silent except for the calm voice of the nature supervisor. I felt the heat off the junior counselor's body. I knew he wanted me. I felt like the most desirable eight-year-old on the planet. I felt he was my future. I felt his longing. I felt his passion. So I farted.
It was silent enough where it wasn't heard around the circle, but it was loud enough where he heard it. He was the only one who heard it. He looked at me, and the only way I could save face was to cover it up. So I did what any quick-witted, sharp-minded young intellectual would do: I started making fart noises with my mouth, psuedo-raspberries, sort of in song, as if this was something logical to do during any three-legged-stool-assembling instruction.
"Pfft. Blrrrrpt. Fffffftttt."
People, I'm going to blow my nose wherever I want to, as loud or as messy as I want to. I have nowhere to go but up.
It's barreling through my system all freight-trainey, though, so five days into it, I'm already where I would normally be (tiptoeing through the coughing-fit stage) during Week 2. So that's good. It was pretty much brought on by a fabulous but frantic run through the Pacific Northwest, in which I saw two cities I've always wanted to visit (Portland and Seattle) and saw a dear friend marry a great guy in a seriously picturesque Willamette Valley vineyard, but then there was the scant sleeping and the delayed flying and the two-and-a-half-hour taxi odyssey home in the remnants of the Freak Rainstorm 2007 that shut down nearly all of the city's freeways. And then there were two nights of Crowded House shows that followed (which, please, I'd drag my fangirl self to if I had some gaping head wound or a tail or something), and my body just said, "That's it. I'm going to liquify now." So here we are.
This all leaves me feeling weary but contemplative, mostly because I'm making noises and all-around imploding from the face in public. It makes me think of all the most disgusting things I hate doing in public but can't seem to avoid right now:
1. Blowing my nose
2. Coughing (if it's more than three coughs and there are innards involved)
3. Throwing up (that would be Friday, in the bathroom at work — not at my desk, thank god for large favors)
Fine, this might seem gross to you. You might wonder why I'm talking about this on The Internets. But be honest: You have a method for picking your nose undetected in public. At some moment in time, something more substantial than just spit has shot out of your mouth during a conversation with someone you had a crush on. You move your shopping bags/purse/backpack/other stuff-carrying device around your body so you can pick a wedgie in a crowded department store. You quicken your pace as you walk away from your farts on the sidewalk. You pull a hair out of your head to floss a poppy seed from between your two front teeth before going back to your table in a restaurant. You sniff your pits in the car. I know you do this. Stop hiding. Stop pretending that smell isn't your stank foot odor wafting from under your chair. We all have grossness that we all, at some point or another, have to take outside the safe fart zones of our homes.
At work, there are very few private offices with doors. Most of us sit in cubicles with half-walls that come up just above the waist. I thought I'd hate it, it certainly limits personal phone calls, but perhaps for that reason I secretly love it. My coworkers are very cool and the open format comes in handy during hectic closes, when communication is essential.
But on days like today, everyone can hear me coughing up my lungs. Everyone who walks past looks straight at my nose and makes mental notes that it's crusting off my face. I've stopped ducking under my desk to blow my nose, but the bathroom is SO far away that I'm just out in the open with my snot. Today, I am the Gross Girl In The Office. I know I'm not contagious, and I'm finally at the point where I can hold a thought and be productive so it's not obscene for me to be at work. But it's obscene what's crawling up my esophagus when I cough.
When I hit 30, I turned a corner in many avenues in my life. Family neuroses didn't get to me so much. I accepted my body (not fully, but more than I ever had). I got better at letting things go. I weeded out the unhealthy relationships in my life. And I started pooping in public restrooms. This is something that, until that point, I avoided at all costs, only did under extreme physical duress. And then I turned 30. And I got tired of stomachaches. So maybe that's why I feel my Interoffice Coughing Fits are invasive, but they're human, and I can't feel embarrassed by them, even if the Office Douchebag comes by and says something like, "Sounds like you got yourself quite a problem there, eh?!? Hahahahahahaha!"
OK, confession: My Most Embarrassing Moment
It was at summer camp. I was about eight years old. My bunk went to the nature center to look at the frogs and snakes and turtles, and then we sat in a circle and the nature specialist showed us how to make three-legged stools. The nature specialist was accompanied by a junior counselor who was sooooooo cute. Never having been one of those girls who thought boys had cooties, I was enamored. He sat next to me, so I convinced myself he was in love with me. The circle was silent except for the calm voice of the nature supervisor. I felt the heat off the junior counselor's body. I knew he wanted me. I felt like the most desirable eight-year-old on the planet. I felt he was my future. I felt his longing. I felt his passion. So I farted.
It was silent enough where it wasn't heard around the circle, but it was loud enough where he heard it. He was the only one who heard it. He looked at me, and the only way I could save face was to cover it up. So I did what any quick-witted, sharp-minded young intellectual would do: I started making fart noises with my mouth, psuedo-raspberries, sort of in song, as if this was something logical to do during any three-legged-stool-assembling instruction.
"Pfft. Blrrrrpt. Fffffftttt."
People, I'm going to blow my nose wherever I want to, as loud or as messy as I want to. I have nowhere to go but up.
Labels: childhood, health, philosophical whatnots, pop culture, TMI, travel, work
posted by Marla at 2:40 PM
9 Comments:
i was laughing so hard, i farted at my desk and it came with a surprise. ever been down that happy road?
I don't remember many poop-farts (although, who am I kidding, I must have had quite a few), but usually when I laugh too hard, I pee. This phenomenon has been researched thoroughly since my youth, when, at six years old, my sister Jennifer tickled me just as I got out of the shower and I peed all over my bedroom carpet.
I apologize for being the catalyst for your poop-fart, though.
no worries. i'll just make sure to fully excrete before reading any new posts on your blog. its all good. or good enough.
i heart this blog.
i circle with a red line through karl rove.
I know I've often been in the opposite predicament, where I shift positions and the chair I'm sitting in or the shoes I'm wearing or something else makes a fartlike noise, and I try to reproduce the noise so that the people around me won't think I farted. But it never works.
Oh my gosh, Mollie, I HATE IT when that happens. And it happens all the time! Ugh. It's like, if you're going to be accused of farting, you at least want to have the benefit of the act, you know?
I don't know if you've noticed, but the black Converse All-Stars I wear to work all the time? Yeah, they make farting noises when I walk. And what's more, they're two years old now, so they're starting to smell. I can't walk away from my odors anymore, as I'm taking them with me. If you've ever noticed, I thank you for being so discreet about it. I'm seriously rethinking my footwear, but damn, I do love those shoes.
And Anonymous above Mollie? I celebrate the deRoveing of the White House with you, although the first time I read a headline about it yesterday, I read it too fast and thought it said, "Karl Rove to Leave the White Stripes."
ms garla...speaking of mucus and poop, i spent my weekend re-acquainting myself with the magic that is styx. so my question is show me the way, mr. roboto or come sail away? just cause i was wondering.
Mr. Roboto, no contest. Here's why:
Show Me the Way: can be used at conventions for spiritual groups as well as wackjob cult organizations like the Promise Keepers, thereby compromising its coolness factor; also, sappy
Come Sail Away: quoted in every high school yearbook, played at every graduation party, therefore, overdone; also, makes me cry
Mr. Roboto: makes no sense, chorus sung in Japanese, video is all futuristic and wonky, incomprehensible plot allows Dennis DeYoung to wear more jumpsuits — in a word, everything that was great about the '80s. The clear victor.
What do you think? And was anything they did really better than "Babe"?
your logic re: mr. roboto is completely unassailable. and babe is great, for sure. but how does it really differ from open arms or i've been waiting for a girl like you or hard for me to say i'm sorry or every single air supply song? id doesn't. i, being the contraian that i am, will name rockin' the paradise as my personal styx fave. i know i didn't offer that as an option, but i had no idea how thorough your answer (and general familiarity of styx) would be. so props to you. you get cooler by the nanosecond. can we meet live one day and play name that 80's tune?
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