Better Blogging #4 - My Tapeworm and Me

If you're just now joining the show, this is installment four in my Blogging for by a Dummies series. I have been consulting the internet for advice on improving this blog.

Suggestion #4: Get a Life!

This was an actual suggestion on how to make your blog better. The idea is to get out and live a life interesting enough to write about. Don’t even. For real. Don’t. You know who has an interesting life? People on erectile dysfunction commercials. Seriously, watch them. They are taking baths outside, dancing in gardens… You want to read their blog, you have my blessing. Then forward me the link.

By the way, how much more manly can they make those guys? They are fixing cars, using heavy machinery, they’re all but dragging a woman by the hair back to their cave and shooting testosterone like lighting from their eyes -which are all nestled in a head that’s full of sophisticatedly graying hair. 

We get it, ok? You are manly despite your “situation.” Nobody said you weren’t. By the way, from the commercials, I would assume only super attractive 50 something year old men struggle with this and they are all married to supremely beautiful women! So, if you’re a completely normal looking human that doesn’t dance around while putting away groceries, you are in the clear. (Phew!) 

 I'm ok not having an interesting life. I'd rather lead a quiet one, mind my own business and work with my hands. (1 Thess 4:11-12) If in that peaceful existence I happen to make it up on stage at the Price is Right and win both final showcases, so be it. (For the record, I would be so happy that I’d roll around on the floor and flail like a fish out of water.) 

That is not to say I haven’t had interesting episodes in my life. I made the mistake of telling two of those to my former high school students. They became something of legend that I was asked often to repeat. One had to do with me having a tapeworm. (The other with me eating an entire tube of cookie dough. I will address that at another time. If ya know that story, don’t spoil it!)

Yes, I, a healthy, college aged woman in a 1st world country, had a tapeworm. I nicknamed him Gus. (Gusano means worm in Spanish. Thus, Gus.) I don’t know exactly how we met, Gus and I. To get the particulars I would have had to present a segment of him to the CDC. However, when I learned of Gus’ residency in my gut, I didn’t make conversation and I certainly didn’t get a sample of him. I just flushed. I will leave it at that.

Leading up to the discovery of said squatter, I hadn’t been doing well. I was young, 18, very active. I played year round inter murals and was a cheerleader at the university. But, I looked bad. I had circles under my eyes, my color was off and I was losing weight. The later was a real tell-tale because I ate like a horse. One day during lunch in the cafeteria, my friend Jason commented on the fact that I ate more than him. This guy was lifting weights, active in sports like me and ate as only a 19 year old guy can. But, I could match him bite for bite plus one. And, I was hovering at around 100 pounds.

Anywho, I got myself to the doctor. My friend Clancy, who to this day laughs about it all, drove me. (I sent her a text while writing this and asked her if she was the one who drove me when I had the tapeworm. She said I won for weirdest question of the day.) I told the doctor about my tenant and she got the giggles too. Mind you, I wasn’t laughing. I had a parasite in my stomach! Don’t get me wrong, it was nice that somebody was enjoying the fact, but I was not. At all! 

Growing up, I remember my great aunt talking about somebody having a tape worm. To get rid of it, she starved herself for days, then sniffed a bowl of fried chicken. The thing reportedly came out her nose in search of something finger lickin’ good. Her nose, people. HER NOSE! Now, I have made clear how I feel about bats. (See post from June 2014 - My Red Roots)I f a bat ever gets caught in my hair just kill me ‘cause I won’t come back from it. My mind will be unsalvageable. Same goes for a worm coming out my nose! Just. Kill. Me.

The doctor finally got it together enough to get out a Physician’s Desk Reference and look up what concoction to prescribe. It was in fact a poison that had to be ordered from the CDC in Atlanta. It took 5 days to be mailed in. (There was no Amazon Prime in the early 90s.) When I picked it up, the pharmacy tech gave it a double take, recoiled, then handed it to me as if it were a live grenade. Later, I would find that to be a completely appropriate reaction.

It wasn’t just a single pill. There was a whole protocol. I took a pill, then an hour later, two pills, then an hour later two more. Something like that. It was crazy. The doctor told me that I needed to have somebody check on me and to “be ready.” I wish I had asked her elaborate. 

So, I got a trash bag and got in bed. (I’m not a toilet pucker - see post Nov 2014 Call Me Ick Fish - and I assumed that would happen. It did not. Oh, that it had.) Now, this was college. I shared my restroom with other folks and the quarters were small. This was not going to be something I could keep a secret and I wasn’t even going to try. I imagined it would be as futile as using potpourri to combat tear gas. 

My suite mates were aware of what was taking place. I fessed up to them pretty quick about it all. And, like everybody else, they got a good guffaw. They even planned on leaving tapeworm-esque items around so I would wonder if perhaps I was the mothership for a homecoming. Thankfully, after my hysterical crying, they chose against it.

Took the first pill, turned on the TV, (black and white) got in bed and waited for the bomb to drop. Nothing. Big relief. Took next dosage. Much the same. Took third … and yea verily the battle did ensue! My body literally doubled over with the contraction of my stomach muscles. It wasn’t pain doubling me, my body was bending me on its own in defense of the strike. I am not joking.

I was going to attach a pic from "the alien in the gut scene"
but all of them were just too ... they were too too! If you've
seen "the scene" you know what I mean. This however
is illustrative of how I was feeling at that point!

My stomach whirled like a smoothie machine and I think the pain hit around then. I was waiting for Ripley, Bishop and the rest of the crew to run in and catch the critter when it burst from my gut because it seemed like it would. (Alien. Look it up.) This went on for what seemed an eternity until my insides were evacuated with extreme prejudice.

When it was all said and done, I was exhausted and many pounds lighter. My stomach muscles ached for days and I walked with a hunch to assuage them. Also, I was just plain too weak to stand. But, slowly, bit by bit, I got better. No fried chicken needed.

The End.

(I’ll tell the cookie dough one soon. Promise.)

Better Blogging #3 / We are all Hossenfeffer

If you are just joining the show, I have been scouring the internet looking for advice on how to make my blog better. Here is another gem.

Invite Comments!

Consider your comments invited. I have the little comment thingy after the blog. What else do I need to do? Send all my readers an Evite? How weird would that be? Plus, I’m not sure how to make an Evite. I’m pretty computer Amish. If you ever wonder how an ape would react to being given a lap top, just check my webcam and watch me write. Also, how do I turn on my webcam?

Actual picture of me writing. That's my favorite
writing shirt.

The real irony of requesting comments - the opinion sort -  is that we live in a time when, more than ever, opinions are less meaningful yet more consequential. Folks peck in words without considering that readers won't hear their tone, see their expression or ever have a clue of their impetus for writing it in the first place.  For that reason, what is posted can be misunderstood, the meaning lost. However, if there is damage that can be done, it's done did.

I also think the whole thing, the ease in which we can chunk opinions out here, can give some folks an over-inflated sense of self. You are important, make no mistake. God created you. Christ died for you. Starbuck’s will make your coffee to order no matter how bizarre the recipe and call out whatever name you give them. (I’m Hossenfeffer) But, no one is more important than anyone else (We're all Hossenfeffer) and for some reason that darn little comment entreating rectangle with the blinking cursor can delude folks into thinking they are. Don't believe me? Check out reactions when two people disagree. Those two people will go at it Thunderdome style. 

"I love marshmallows." "Marshmallows are awful." "You're a racist!" "No, I'm not. I hate all flavors of marshmallows!" "Everyone buy marshmallows today and silence the hate!" "Burn down the village! Who's with me???"

Seriously, some of the threads on my neighborhood's Facebook page make Mussolini's speeches seem like lines from Mother Goose. I got choked in one of those threads once. It was my own doing and I regret it. (But I was right I tell you! Right!)

The fact is, comments are often opinions and opinions are like heiny… (I keep getting a misspelled squiggle there. The possible replacements are Heinz and heinz. Ok…) Opinions are like heinz holes: everyone’s got one and thinks everyone’s else’s stinks. 

Perhaps there should be more restrictions on comment boxes. Ones that would still allow you put in your opinion but only after asking: 
1. Is this what you meant to say? yes/no 
2. Are you sure? yes/no 
3. You know people can read this right? yes/no 
4. Have you read it to yourself out loud? yes/no 
5. Read it to yourself in an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent. Does the thought still bear the same weight? yes/no 
6. If yes to 5, please type in your comment. (insert comment) 
Well done. Your opinion will be posted in 24 hours.

Am I totally opposed to comment boxes? No. Of course not. This is the land of the free, home of the brave. We can say what we want. But I think the ability to do something is often confused with the necessity to do it. Just 'cause ya can, don't mean you should. 

If you can't disagree without getting all riled up, then maybe you shouldn't put your opinion out there. If your opinion has no other purpose than to hurt some one, then your keyboard should shock you and make you lose it in your pants.

That said (aaaaall of that...) I will go by the suggestion and ask for a comment. I don't want to. It makes me nervous. If no one comments, I will feel weird and awkward. Kinda like the time I was dancing like no one was watching then opened my eyes to see that in fact everyone was watching and had cleared the floor because of it!

Here is the question: (ehem) If you were to have a dating site, what would it be called? I will put mine in as the first comment so I will actually have a comment. (I really don't want to do this...)

Blogging Better #2 / Valley of the Dormed

This is the second installment in my Blogging by a Dummi series wherein I document my quest to become a better blogger. I looked for guidance from the greatest of sources: Ye Olde Internet. The first suggestion I found was that I should blog more. Today, I tackle the second.

        Suggestion 2:
Develop a Voice!

What that means for non-writer types is that my writing needs to be recognizable as mine even if my name isn’t attached to it. I think I’ve done that. Right? Granted, my for reals writing sounds much different from my “bloggering.” (Professionally, I only use Pig Latin.) Not sure how I would describe my blog voice except the rambling you might hear from a person at a party who’s holding a red Dixie cup with their name on it, misspelled, and sitting uncomfortably close to you on a leather couch. They just go on and on and you smile thinking, “Bless her heart, she’s so drunk.” Except, I’m not drunk. Never been drunk. Can you imagine? I can’t! I'm absolutely ridiculous in sobriety!

A snapshot of the unfortunate incarceration.

Case in point: I ran from a security guard in college once, making a mad dash for the dorm through the parking lot way past curfew. (Yes, some colleges - especially private Christian ones -  have curfews.) It was dark out but I had to run under street lights and knew he would see me. So, I disguised myself by stuffing my shirt so that I might appear buxom. My thinking was that he would describe the girl as busty thereby taking me off the short list of short suspects. This made complete sense to me and I was completely sober. 
Here’s something else that made sense to me in college while sober: playing chicken from the university security detail in my car! I drove by the security office door, yelled, “Hey George, ya booger picker!” BTW, the guy’s name wasn’t George. I called all the security guards George.
So, I yelled, George emerged and I tore off Steve McQueen style in my … wait for it… ’85 yellow Cavalier. I wish I could say I was alone in this venture, that I did not drag anyone I loved down the slippery slope of stupidity with me. But, there were three others in the car. We were whooping and hollering like we were fresh off a Dukes of Hazard reunion tour.
George made chase, God bless him. I let him just about catch me in an empty parking lot then spun around and doubled back. (I learned to drive at 10 years old, people. No joke.) Folks heard the racket and walked out of the dorms. From the balconies, students were cheering -  not sure for whom. Then they started telling George that we had gone different ways. “No, George, they went that way.”
Finally, security got close enough to get my tag number and I knew I needed to pull over and face the music. I had seen Cops. Once they get your tag, it’s over. So, I stopped the car and we all got out, walked to the front, leaned over and put our hands on the hood. (Told you I had seen Cops.) About that time I heard somebody on the balcony yelling, “peanuts, popcorn…” I’m not kidding you on any of this. This happened. I’m not proud of it and honestly, I wish I hadn’t even started telling you. But since I did…
George got out of his car, flashlight in hand, shaking. He didn’t have a weapon. Again, this was just campus police. He came up and said, “driver, I want your license, I want your student ID…” Then I turned around and he said, “Oh Lord, it’s the Jamboree Hostess.”
Ok, I need to stop here. Once a year our college had a recruitment weekend wherein different clubs put on musical shows. It was pretty fun. Between shows, hosts would come out and sing to give everyone time to change the sets on stage. The faces of the hosts were front and center a lot and after the show, they spoke with a lot of high school recruitment prospects. You had to try out to be a host. I tried out. I made it. I was kinda known for it. So, for me to be pulling a shenanigan like I had was as scandalous as seeing the Wendy’s girl spray paint a gang tag on a Chick-File drive thru. While wearing booty shorts.
After George got over his initial shock of seeing my fall from grace, he took all our student IDs. We then were sent to the dorm parents’ apartment. That was as close as he could get to a late night sequester I guess. 
He marched us in, told the “dorm dad” what we had done. Papa Stauch (dorm dad) took it gravely. He assured George he would take care of things and shut the door. Then, he commenced to laugh so hard I thought he might wet his pants. If I’m not mistaken, he was the one who took the “mug shot” I have posted. 

I'm not one to name names...but left to right that's
Clancy, Jenny, Me and Emily.

          
     I went to the Dean of Students' office early the next morning. I was kind of a regular there and knew I better fess up before the dean read the report. When I came in he smiled at me. When I sat down, he, Herman, knew something was up and gave me a look over the top of his glasses. (If you are trying to imagine him, think Johnny Cochran but shorter hair and less tolerance for "jack-assert". Former Marine Corps. interrogator...I KID YOU NOT!)
       The Assistant Dean was called in and the two read the official incident report. The assistant, Carl, looked up and said, "It sounds as if some drinking was involved!" Nope. Not a drop. It was all, 200 proof, me.
       As a result of my sober actions, we were all “dormed.”  We could leave to go to class, the cafeteria and church. Otherwise, we had to be in our rooms. I believe I set the record for longest “dorming” ever even surpassing a guy who threw poop in somebody’s heater vent. It would have been a shorter sentence but I had a case of wanderlust and just couldn’t stay put. I might have even gone on a date. Or three. Probably four.

So, there’s my writing “voice.” A drunken rant from a gal who can't even use that as an excuse. I apologize.  
This is why I probably have no business having a blog.  

 

Happy 2015 (Insert Mortal Kombat theme music)

There's a saying in Brazilian Jiujitsu, "If you think, you are late." In other words, learn to react defensively without giving it thought. Well, the other day at 5:30 AM (when I wake up to write but mainly just drink coffee and watch the news) I heard a, weeeeeer. I ran out in the front yard, in the dark mind you, ready to cut down whatever fowl beast dared vocalize on my property. Nothing. Went back inside and heard it again but this time, I knew exactly what it was. A chupacabra! (Or maybe a cat. It’s a toss up.)

For non Texan readers,
here is an actual photo of a
chupacabra! Look at its claws...
oh, wait...my bad...

Here is a chupacabra! (Goat sucker.)

I ran to the back door and my cat was its window, poofed out to three times her size. I let her in and heard a scratching against the back fence. Maybe it was a possum or raccoon. Perhaps a possucoon. (It was a strange Spring.) But, more likely than not, I thought, it was a chupacabra. Actually, that’s not true. I didn’t think anything. I reacted. I ran out onto the porch, grabbing a bamboo fighting stick up with one hand, (Yes, we have various bamboo fighting sticks lying around. Doesn’t everyone?) and a purple, plastic, kid’s gardening hoe in the other. And it was officially ON. My arms were outstretched, eyes wide, teeth bared and pink, flannel, frog pajamas near to bursting into flames from the friction of my sprint. I could hear the Mortal Kombat theme whirring in my head and, in my mind’s eye, I was that girl in the game that generally lost to Reptile but I felt pretty sure that wasn’t what was in the corner of the yard so, I was good.

The scratching grew louder. The sucker was having a heck of a time climbing the fence and I still couldn't be sure what it was. (Again, pretty certain not Reptile.) It had the advantage of darkness, the cover of tall shrubbery and I, against the instruction of Sun Tzu, had cornered it, not given it an out. As such, it wasn’t just climbing to escape, but to save its life, return to its kin and propagate the earth with its aberrations. Me? I was just there to fight. In pink, frog pajamas.

Panic was thick in the air. Scratching grew louder followed by interspersed thuds as it fell again and again. Yes, thuds. Whatever it was, was heavy enough to thud. A sane woman might have high-tailed it back to the house. But, I was no sane woman. I was that Mortal Kombat girl armed with a Kali stick and purple, plastic, three foot long hoe. Unlike her, however, I was appropriately dressed and my bosom wasn’t a sneeze away from exploding from my shirt. (How did she fight like that! Also, it wouldn’t matter what I had on, my bosom isn’t exactly capable of explosion unless I’m strapped to a bomb. Some women are built for diversion(curves). I’m built for action (efficient, compact, light).)

Finally, after a particularly spirited scratch, there was a final thud. And then, silence. Silence is bad. Ask any trained soldier or mother of small children. If you know your enemy isn’t dead or taking a nap, you want to hear them. Again, if I had thought about it, I would have run. But, that would have made me sensible and no shield maiden is sensible in the heat of war!

General Grievous

I laid into that shrubbery like General Grievous. Whatever the beast was, it had no chance. The same can be said for the lavender my husband planted. That carnage would later be explained as collateral damage in what was a life or death situation for me and maybe some of it blamed on the kids. Regardless, I really hate the entire act wasn’t caught on film. It was magical. The kind of violence ya just want to pour into a cup and sip on. Jean Claude Van Damme would look at it and say, “zees ees reeely gud. I loaf zee pajamas.”  (That’s for my readers is France. You’re a faithful lot.)

Sadly for me, lucky for its coven, the beast did escape. It jumped into a pine tree behind the fence. The weight of it shook the bough. I was left standing, panting, and steeped in disappointment from not having been splashed with blood. I wanted to walk away looking like something from a deleted scene of Braveheart. The crimson spatter across the pacifistic pajamas would have been a literary level of irony and given me major street cred in my house. “Didn’t I say brush your teeth? Look at these pajamas, ese! Don’t you know I’m loca?”

Happy 2015, my dear readers. Take on a monster that’s long been scratching at your fence. Do that thing you think you can’t. Maybe that’t the problem. You’re thinking too much. Sign up for that tournament, that race. Turn in your manuscript, make that call, raise your hand, speak up and stand out. Grab your bamboo fighting stick, your plastic garden hoe and rush unabashedly into the fray to slay the dragon. Or Chupacabra or possacoon… Chances are, you’ll find it’s just your neighbor’s cat and is far more scared of you than you it. (Mine was a chupacabra y’all. For reals) 

When it’s all said and done, and you’re standing in the aftermath, heaving, trembling, no matter what it was you took on, you will have won. Not because you beat the thing (poor lavender bush) but because you didn’t allow it to beat you. You didn’t let your brain think you into inaction. You didn’t let fear rob you of a chance to be brave.

May the God of the brave and those who have yet to realize they are, bless you all.

“If you think, you are late. If you are late, you use strength. If you use strength, you tire. If you tire, you die.”