Requiem for a tampon.

OK, this is gross, but it must be written. Because I am sure this has happened to at least one other person out there. Anyone? Anyone?

My dog, a smelly old weiner dog with rancid breath and wretched farts, snatched a used tampon from my bathroom garbage can (yes, it has a lid), ATE it, and then POOPED IT OUT in our backyard. If that doesn’t blow out the disgust-o-meter, I don’t know what does.

As the action went down, I watched on curiously through the kitchen sliders. All said, it was better than HBO on Sunday night. He spent the better half of an hour trying to pinch it off, tail spastically jacking it out like a old-fashioned water pump. A more compassionate dog owner might have gone out there to help expunge it. But imagine what THAT would’ve looked like. I love my dog, but not enough to dig a dirty tampon out of his blowhole. Even if I were inclined to perform said sphincter surgery, what would I use? Two sticks? A pair of tongs? I think not. Instead, I let nature take its course. If he didn’t make it through this ordeal, then he wasn’t meant to. I’d just have to chalk it up to doggy Darwinism.

Well, he eventually passed the putrid little plugger. Smack dab in the middle of our backyard, which is smack dab in the middle of suburbia. Before I could get out there and scoop it up with the pooper scooper, my husband ran over it with the lawn mower and POOF! A feather-dusting of white fluffy tampon particles fluttered down from the sky. I imagine few tampons experience such a dramatic exit. For most, it’s a simple burial at sea.

If I had been inclined to recite an obit, it wouldn’ve gone something like this. “Farewell old friend. You did your job — passing not through one orifice, but two. And for that, you get the grandest send-off of all. Asses to asses. Dust to dust. Be off, you nasty thing, you. Return to the earth, the cotton fields from whence you came. For your work here is done.”

Come to Jesus.

You may have noticed that there was no entry yesterday. I was home sick with the screaming mimi’s. I am still weak, still recovering, but happy to not be curled up around the toilet like a long-haired cat on a 90-degree day. My body was a war zone, and my innards took it upon themselves to evacuate my body, taking with them my good humor and creativity.

Being sick like that (peeing out of your backside, hurling up days-old bile) is a true come-to-Jesus experience. “Jesus, if you make it stop, I promise I will never blog during workhours or eat another M&M off the floor of my car.” Thankfully, my symptoms subsided by late afternoon. But no less than 24 hours later, here I sit, writing this at 10 a.m. on a Wednesday morning. Oh, how the healthy take their wellness for granted. I fully expect toads or locusts to rain down upon me any minute now.

The good thing about being sick is that I’m no longer frustrated by my dirty house. I’m not worried about my workload (which needs to be completed in the next 2.5 days, as this Friday is my last day here). I am just happy that I can walk and drink water.

I must’ve given my throwupimus maximus muscles a good old burner of a workout. My entire thoracic region is being squeezed like a lemon. Breathing hurts.

When I got back to work this morning, I had to do the awkward “Yes, I know it’s my last week, but I really was sick” dance for my boss. Even half way out the door, my timing is impeccable. The entire time, I could see the “you’re full of shit” look in his eyes. But if there is one thing I am not, it is full of shit.

Ummm, I think I just messed myself.

As part of the hiring rigamaroll for the Evil Empire, I had to take a drug test. So I get to the hospital lab, and they send me into this sterile little turlet room to do the deed. Strangely enough, there was this funny contraption on the toilet, which looked like scaffolding to help the light-headed stand up after they’ve taken a massive crap.

Anyways… the way this thing was set up, it made it virtually impossible to spread your legs wide enough to place the cup in the pee stream. Using all the ingenooity I could muster, I decided it would be best if I hoisted one foot atop the toilet seat, placing the cup underneath me to catch the liquid gold. For a split second, I thought, “Girl, you really should remove the pants from your ankles for this one.” But I threw caution to the wind and let ‘er rip.

First the pee came from the front, then it snaked its way to the back. Imagine, if you will, an oscillating yard sprinkler with a few plugged nozzles. Before all was said and done, I had a full-on pee-a-palooza going on. Keeping up with it was like playing a shell game. I could’ve stopped mid-stream and removed my pants, but I had committed myself to this pants-on strategy, and I’d be damned to give it up now.

Eventually, I filled my cup and looked down. Good lord. There were pee spots the size of dinner plates on my pants (one near the crotch, one near the knee, and one near the waist). How in hell was I going to get out of THIS one?

Well, I sopped up what I could with paper hand towels and sheepishly left the bathroom, hoping no one would notice. After all, this was a hospital. For all people knew, I was an unfortunate young woman with no bladder, dependent on my catheter, which just so happened to come unplugged and leak a bit today, thank you very much.

I turned in my pee cup to the urine gestapo, and high-tailed it through the hospital, my wet khaki’s making that whirring sound you only hear when ample-thighed people wear cordoroy pants (I can say this because I AM one of those ample-thighed people).

I managed to make it to my car without anyone stopping me to say, “Miss, I think you done MESSED yourself.” I was kind of hoping someone would, so I could reply, “Oh, not again. Here, hold my purse while I remove my pants.”

Ode to Spearmint Ice Breakers.

Whatever happened to spearmint Ice Breakers? Once a staple on the candy shelf, they now seem to be gone. Undoubtedly kidnapped by a band of unscrupulous bad-breathed thieves in the night (or some marketing wonks hell-bent on getting me to buy the spearmint Ice Breakers container that also has the ass-y Ice Breakers gum in it) . Blech.

Judging by the store shelves, spearmint has been replaced by its lesser cousins — wintergreen and peppermint. Spearmint, as we all know, is the king of mints. Pure old school refreshment. Wintergreen is grandpa’s mint (the stale ones he passed out to you whenever you came to visit), and peppermint is, well, plain old poopy pepppermint. If there is room on the candy shelf for ginger-flavored Ass-toids, for God’s sake, there is a place for my spearmint Ice Breakers.

Just to twist the dagger even more, Hershey’s (the maker of Ice Breakers) has put the wintergreen mints in the same green-colored hockey puck container that used to house the spearmint Ice Breakers. C’mon people. We all know that green is reserved for spearmint. Wintergreen has more of an aqua hue.

Perhaps spearmint Ice Breakers still exist somewhere. Maybe Wal-Mart has simply put a ban on them, just like it did with with that subversive Sheryl Crow CD and Jon Stewart’s book. Maybe my beloved green tins of minty goodness are in hiding, alongside Salman Rushdie and Jimmy Hoffa. All I know is they’re not on my desk right now, and that is a damn shame.

So if you happen to have a tin of Ice Breakers in your possession, grab it now. Raise it above your head and SHAKE IT. Perhaps our lost spearmint comrades will hear it and find their way home.

A bitter pill.

The things we do for money.

Today I went back to my previous employer (which I affectionately will call the Evil Empire) and asked for my old job back. What would prompt me to commit such a heinous act? After all, I quit two years ago, in a pissed off huff over meaningless weekly meetings, mindless Excel spreadsheets, having to use a security badge to go to the bathroom, and just corporate bullshit in general. I JUST COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. And here I am, two years later, bending over once again.

What could possibly bring me back, tail placed squarely between my legs, to the Evil Empire? Money. Benefits. And the fact that the place is so big, I can leave mid-afternoon for an hour or two, and nobody will notice. You don’t read about THAT perk in the benefits booklet, now do you?

Well, the interview went fine. It was a bit awkward, though. As I saw all the familiar faces, I could see the question scrolling by on their foreheads, much like a Wall Street stock ticker: “Soooo. What brings YOU back HERE?” I wanted to say, “OK, this place sucks dong. You know it. And I know it. And my current job — it too sucks dong. But I’d much rather be at a dong-sucking organization that pays well and gives me good bennies.”

You see, I’ve finally reached that critical point in my life (and it took me almost 10 years to reach this place) where I’ve realized that I will hate all jobs, except for the one that lets me stay at home, eating bon bons and watching the Doodlebops with my son. But, to maintain our current lifestyle (i.e. paying our mortgage, eating, etc.), I must work. And if I am going to do so, I expect to be paid well for doing so. For all this, I will take it up the rear.

Am I the only person making this trade-off? Or does everyone just not talk about it?

As part of my application, I inflated my current salary by about, oh, $10,000. That’s because I expect at least a $12-15,000 increase to go back to Dilbertville. Right now, they’re either filling their pants or tossing my application in the circular file.

One good thing is the fact that the Evil Empire will provide much blogging fodder. Countless tales of corporate woe and humiliation, which I will gladly document.

Someone pass the soap.