Can You Hear Me Now?

I’ve always heard of bizarre medical stories, not ever thinking that one of them would actually happen to me:

After my night shift, I fell asleep with the intentions of waking up to a Superbowl Sunday football fiesta and NOT to a burning throat and signs of a cold yuck!  I went to the gym for a workout, which only made me feel even more like a pile of poop.  I also noticed this crazy weird “crackling” sound in my right ear.  I chalked it up as sinus drainage and nothing else.

I spent the next two days heavily drugged in a sleep coma to fight off the sickly crud that took over my life on Sunday.  By Wednesday I was back to normal but still hearing this plastic bag noise in my right ear and decided to go to a quick clinic to rid me of this possible sinus drainage and open up my ear canal.

The clinic checked my ears and started asking me a bunch of questions:

Did you have ear tubes as a child?

Have you been involved in any accidents that could have damaged your ear drums?

Have you been using Q-tips in a way that could have damaged your ear drums?

“No, no and no…. why?”

“Well…. You have scar tissue on your ear drum.  AND… there may be a foreign object in your ear behind the ear drum, but we can’t tell”

“Um… what?!”

“So, we are prescribing you this antibiotic to help clear up the ear infection, but if this plastic bag sound doesn’t go away, see your physician or see a specialist”

Well what the shit… Wasn’t expecting that!  So, of course, I took the antibiotics for the next couple of days and still no clear up.

So what do I do?  I get the hair-brained idea to pour peroxide in my ear to help clear out this muffled drainage.  The peroxide fills up in my ear…. and won’t… drain… out…..  I take a shower, my ear fills up with water.  And again, won’t… drain… out…..

Let the mini panic attack commence.  How in the world am I going to explain this to the doc as to why I’ve permanently lost hearing in my ear and they now have to suck all the peroxide and water out as well… geez. The only way to get most of the fluids out was to stick a Q-tip in there and let it soak up most of the liquids that way.

Friday morning I started calling my occupational physician, knowing they could get me in quickly.  My ear needed help fast.  The earliest appointment was for Monday afternoon.

All weekend, I had to deal with the sound of a plastic bag coupled with the continuous sound of bubbling peroxided with swishy water AND the coming and going hearing loss.

Meanwhile, my mind played mad tricks on the me the entire weekend.  I was constantly thinking some kind of bug made its way inside my ear and burrowed itself a home and decided to have little gross bug babies.  Maybe started working on a whole bug community to fill up my entire ear canal.  Or!  Somehow, my terrible cold claimed my hearing and refused to give it back when the sickness passed.

Monday finally arrived and I was more than ready to visit the doc to figure out my ear dilemma.  I explained my entire story to the nurse.  Her, very simple, response to me was “Yeah, that’s not normal.”  Really?  No crap.  She brings the doc in and I repeat the entire story to him as well.  He finally stops me mid sentence and says “Ok wait.  Let me just take a look in your ear.  This sounds too weird.”

He pulls out the infamous “ear probing” device and starts looking in my ear.

“Oh yeah… you DEFINITELY have something in your ear”

My body instantly began to sweat from head to toe with the dreadful thought of some creature living inside my ear and/or the possibility of this thing causing permanent damage.  My second thoughts were dreadful emergency surgery to get the sucker out.

The suspense was killing me.  I HAD to know!  And what would happen after I found out?  Was I gonna pass out and land face-first on the floor or, even worse, in this guy’s lap?!  “Oh God, just tell me!”  I didn’t believe him when he did tell me.  He had to repeat it to me just so it would sink in to my peroxide and water-filled brain.

“Ma’am, you have a piece of toilet paper stuck in your ear….”

“Wait… what?”

“A piece of toilet paper… it’s stuck in your ear.”

My body sweats instantly dried up and conserved all energy into my now extremely red face.  I. Was. Mortified…  I had no clue how in the hell a piece of toilet paper got stuck in my ear.  And then, right there in front of the doc, it hit me.

Two months prior, I left work and headed to my sister’s house to pick her up for a family gathering.  I forgot to grab my ear plugs for my much needed few hours of shut-eye before seeing family.  My sister suggested I use toilet paper or cotton ball to drown out the noise.  The only source available was toilet paper.  Unbeknownst to me, a big chunk of toilet paper had lodged itself in my ear/throat canal and now floating at the surface with a vengeance.

The doc inserts a torture device to expose my ear canal.  It felt like my ear was getting a pap smear.  Anyway, as he’s pulling out the paper culprit, I keep laughing hysterically, partly for my embarrassment and also because the toilet paper was tickling the inside of my ear pretty damn bad.

He pulls out the toilet paper and has me take a look at it.  “Wow! that was in my ear?! I have to get a picture of this!”  This sucker was as big as my index fingernail…. Not even kidding… I was still very red in the face and continuing to laugh at myself due to the entire week of ear pain and panic attacks of what could have been living inside my ear.  The doc even have a giggle at my stupidity.

Moral of the story?  Don’t ever stick toilet paper in your ear.  Even when your sister tells you to.  Oh don’t judge me.  We’ve all done it before.  😛

Just kidding, sis…

Nutty Professor

It never fails that bizarre shit happens to me quite frequently.  READ ABOUT my recent so-called “ear infection” that landed me BACK at the Doctor’s office for yet a new medical dilemma.

Needless to say, right after my ear infection cleared up, I ended up getting plagued with a dreadful female problem (It starts with a Y and ends with an EAST).  Ugh! WTF?!  So I go to my special lady Doc for her to have a look-see to find out why I’m feeling so uncomfortable.

She checks and confirms the dreadful Y (yuck) and then we begin the series of questions to narrow down how in the world this new medical dilemma came upon me.  I didn’t even have to tell her, she already had the question on the list:

“Have you taken any antibiotics lately?”

“Actually yes! Yes I have!”  And so of course I tell her the story about my ear (she didn’t think it was very funny) which explained the recent antibiotic usage.  According to the doc, the antibiotic I was on for my ear infection is well known for creating quite a stir “downstairs” for women.

She begins writing me my prescription and mentions a one-time oral remedy to rid me of my woes.

“I can’t take that!  I CANNOT take that!”

My brain immediately snaps into a flashback and retrieves a horrid memory of my experience with this devil-of-a-pill that happened to me several years ago:

So there I was…. Just moved to a new state, sitting at a much higher altitude with much dryer, thinner air.  Unbeknownst to me, but moving to a dryer climate with thinner air is a recipe for a private parts disaster.  All of a sudden, I get a visit from the “Y” Fairy.  And she was angry… and she hated me…

Luckily, with me being brand spanking new to the area, I was enrolled at the college and was able to use my health benefits right away.  I made my little visit to the local doc to shoo away the Y Fairy.

“Take this one-time little oral pill and it will have you back to normal in three days”

“Oh gee!  It’s that simple!” I said… Not knowing the rapid growing repercussions of taking this magic little pill.  Hours later, my lady parts began to swell and throw me into excruciating pain.  I went into the bathroom, dropped my pants and didnt’ even recognize my own V!  I nearly passed out from looking at it!

Have you ever seen the movie The Nutty Professor with Eddie Murphy?  Do you remember the scene when skinny Eddie Murphy is at the dinner table and his character starts to transform back into the heavy professor?  Do you remember when his lips bubbled out on his face and made his lips like a cartoon character?  THAT’S what it looked like DOWNSTAIRS!

“HOLY FUCK!”  “Where is the hospital?!”

I called the doc immediately and explained what had happened to my labia.

“Get in the bath tub, fill up the tub with water about waist deep, and pee…”

“You want me to do what?”

“I want you to get in the tub and pee.  It will give you temporary relief of the pain you are experiencing until you can make it to ER or Urgent Care.  I suggest you go to Urgent Care.  It’s much faster service.”

“Um… Where the FUCK is Urgent Care?!  I just moved here!”

Thank GOODNESS it was a small town and everything was easy to find.  Don’t judge me, okay?  At the time, I had a dinosaur cell phone for calling and texting only.  No fancy little map to help me get around town.  Anyways… judger….

I make it to Urgent Care, got right in (thank goodness) while holding an ice bag between my legs to help with the continued rapid swelling and pain.

“OK hon, drop your pants and get on the table”… “Oh my God!  That looks like it hurts!”

Yeah no kidding… by that point, my eyes were swollen and red as well from all the pain I had been enduring in my crotch for the past couple of hours.

“Please just fix it…. Please.”

“Well, it looks like the pill worked too rapidly and an over production of bacteria has formed and caused a major reaction to the pill.  You need to take all these new pills to stop the reaction and bring your labia back down to a normal size.”

Thank goodness… What makes this even worse is this was not the last time this happened to me.  I had another episode soon after that just to finally be diagnosed as highly allergic to the common oral medication that makes the Y Fairy magically disappear.

And more interesting, the same nurse that worked at the local Urgent Care ALSO worked at the campus clinic as well… meaning, the same lady who got to view my cartoon-like labia also got to see my face regularly on campus.  She also made it a point to ask me how my lady parts were feeling every time she saw me….

Moral of the story?  If, at any point, your labia starts to look like Eddie Murphy’s cartoon lips from the movie The Nutty Professor, get in the bath tub, fill it with water and then pee in it for temporary relief…  Don’t forget to know where your local ER or Urgent Care is located… that helps too…


I don’t eat fast food. Period. Okay, I’ll take that back. Every once in a blue moon the planets will align and you will see me eat fast food. This only happens maybe once a year or every other year.

WITH THAT IN MIND… My stomach doesn’t handle this food processing very well and anything is bound to happen to me. ESPECIALLY, if I’m on a date (read Truth or Date).

So there I was… On a date with a dude that involved me being in public and eating public food. My date invited me to accompany him to the mall while he looked for a new pair of shoes. Why not. I had nothing else going on.

We get to the mall and both of our stomachs had hit rock-bottom and needed some shopping fuel before facing the masses. He suggested we eat at Chick-Fil-A for those oh-so-amazing waffle fries. In my effort of being polite and “blending in” with his customs, I agree.

“Sure, why not? I haven’t had fast food since the last stone age so I’m down!”

Famous last words…

I went with a supposed light cheat meal for myself, the Chicken Nuggets and Waffle Fries with a nice Dr. Pepper. It was delicious and super filling.

After fueling our bellies to the max, we made our way to the far end secluded part of the mall to a shoe store that he wanted to go look in.  We walk in and I go ahead and plop down on a bench so he could shop. I’m sitting on this bench and my stomach starts to churn in ways I’ve never felt before.  I grabbed my stomach and doubled over in pain while everyone was looking at me. My body starts breaking out in a cold sweat and I get this sudden panic look on my face.

“I need to go to the bathroom! I’ll be right back!”

I made a mad dash across the hall of the shoe department and go busting into the door in the women’s restroom. THANK GOODNESS there wasn’t a damn line at the bathroom or I would have been in major trouble. I busted open the first stall I came into contact with, lifted my dress and pulled my panties down in the nick of time.

I’m sitting on this toilet, in a public restroom, which I absolutely HATE doing, and my stomach is giving me the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I kept pulling toilet paper off the roller and wiping my face and forehead from all the sweat. And then, suddenly, I start to develop a damn migraine and I start to lose my vision. The migraine was so intense, it was like a black cloud started covering both my eyes.

I’m in this bathroom so damn long, and very embarrassed over the whole thing, I begin to text my date requesting him to go buy some peptobismol and hand it to some random female who could then pass the bottle to me.  Anything to get me off the damn toilet.

After this horrid pain had passed through my stomach and made its way to the potty, my migraine suddenly disappeared and the sweating had stopped. FINALLY!

After being flushed and collecting myself at the sink and washing my face and hands, I made my way back to the shoe store entrance to see my date waiting for me.

“What the hell happened to you?!”

I’m sure I had the look of terror on my face with my hair and makeup completely melted off from giving birth to a demon baby in the women’s restroom.

“… I don’t know… I don’t know what the hell happened to me. Whatever it was, it was in the chicken nuggets and waffle fries and I NEVER want to experience that again.”

Moral of the story?  The phrase “When in Rome” is a crock of shit!

Mr. C

Date with Mr. C

OK. I pulled the ultimate move, I took the first step and gave MY number to a dude without even knowing his name or introducing myself.  And here’s how the story goes:

The first few months of living in Colorado, I made some close friends, all originally from New York.  One morning, we all decided to go to a local restaurant for some hangover grub.  The bartender (yes, we were already sitting next to the bar) was a pretty good looking guy.  I kept glancing over at him during breakfast and finally told my friends, “I’m gonna go give my phone number to the bartender” and of course there was no way to back out of this situation because my friends sure weren’t going to let me…

For some more great examples, scroll to the bottom of Truth or Date….

I wrote my phone number down on a piece of paper, walked over to the bartender, placed the paper on the bar, looked him in the eye and slid the paper over to him.  I then turned around and walked back over to my friends, who were all getting up to leave the restaurant.  And, of course, they all gave me hell for pulling such a “dude move” on a, well, dude.

About a week or so went by and he finally called me and asked me out to dinner with him that upcoming Sunday.  Mr. C said he would call day-of on a pick-up time.  OK…..

The day came.  And I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more. FINALLY, he calls.  He told me that he had “connections” at a local restaurant and was able to get us a reservation for dinner (sure you do buddy).  Here’s a twist to the story. He then asks me if I could pick him up for our date and use my car.”Sure, no problem” I say…

Now, for the town I was living in at the time, it was quite normal for a lot of the locals to not own vehicles as most rode their bicycles or walked around the town.  I honestly didn’t think anything of it.

I dressed nice, because to me it was a flipping date.  This guy… It looked like he just woke up and threw on some clothes he found on his bedroom floor that he wore the night before.  Again, I tried not to judge because I was thinking maybe this is all he owns for dress attire.

We go to the restaurant, which truly was THE fanciest place in town with the “Full Monty” of award winning chefs (the food was absolutely amazing).  He ordered wine and suggested different foods for me to try, etc.  We started talking about random things. He would ask me questions and I would respond, typical dating stuff.

Here’s the funny part. Everytime I would go to answer this guy, he would interrupt me.  At first, I didn’t think anything of it.  But then he kept doing it, repeatedly.  I started thinking, maybe he’s not aware that he’s doing this.  But then I noticed his sentences started slurring together. This mother fucker is drunk!  THAT’S why he wanted me to go pick his ass up for the damn date.  And then, before dinner plates were licked clean, he reveals to me that he had been watching football and drinking beer all day long with his roommates.

I don’t know.  Call me a “Lame Duck” but that is NOT how you go out on a date with someone.  I wasn’t impressed… At all

We left the restaurant and went to the local pool hall and played a couple of games of pool.  He continued to get more and more drunk as the night went on.  I’m finally ready to take this guy back to his house.  He stumbled his way back to my car and plopped himself down in the passenger seat.  After we arrived at the drop off point, he asked if I wanted to come in for a drink…. “Nope!”

After that night, another week went by when I heard from him again and I kindly never answered the phone and never returned the phone call.  I bumped into him a few times and he didn’t dare say a word.  Call me mean, but some already drunk guy that shows up for a date wearing probably the same clothes that he wore to the bar the night before, asks to be picked up because he’s too drunk to drive, has a full drunken conversation with himself at dinner, and then tries to invite me in for a drink… probably doesn’t deserve a second date.

But then again, maybe that’s just me….

Mr. H

Blind Date with Mr. H

It never fails.  As soon as a friend finds out of my single status, they immediately try to hook me up with people.  I’m not exactly sure why.  I’m starting to wonder if I have a stamp that screams “send me anyone single that you can possible find” smacked straight across my forehead.

For some more great examples, scroll to the bottom of Truth or Date….

Low and behold, about 10 or so years ago, a very good friend of mine heard it through the grape vine that I was newly single and so desperately saw a need to try and hook me up with a male friend of hers… geez.

Friend: I can’t believe you are single. Let me set you up on a blind date with my, Mr. H!

Me: Hhmm. I don’t know.  I don’t know this guy at all and what if it turns out to be a disaster?

Friend: Oh it’ll be fine!  He’s a good friend of my husband’s.  He’s over at the house all the time. Good guy!  We will make it a double date so that you’ll have us with you just in case you feel weird about it.

Me: I already do, but sure let’s do it.  Where are we going to go out at?

Friend: Let’s go to a downtown dance club and then just go from there.

Me: Ok

The meet up spot was my friend’s place so we could all ride together.  I was sitting on the couch when Mr H entered the house.  All I can remember of this guy is that he was of small build, he had on a White button-up long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark skin tone with curly hair down to his shoulders.  Other than that, I don’t remember a flipping thing else about this guy and sure as hell couldn’t pick him out of a line-up.

We head out for the night at this downtown night club, and we are there early…. lame… And, of course, I go with the one friend that wants to be the ONLY girls out on the dance floor dancing away while everyone else hangs out at the bar…. yeah… The night goes on. We all proceed to drink while the club continues to fill up with more and more young able bodies.  If I remember correctly, my “date” and I may have danced together once.  He spent the rest of the night either dancing with himself or with other random ladies of the night and proceeded to take shot after shot…. after shot….

By the time we leave the club and head to our next destination, he is hammered.  We then end up at some kind of a billiards hall to play some pool.  Wonderful Mr. H can’t even see straight to play, let alone be able to stand up properly on his own two feet.  He then proceeded to go into the restroom marked “LADIES” and use the bathroom in there…. While there were ladies in it… Good thing his restroom companions were cool with the fact that he was in there and didn’t decide to raise hell.

And THIS!  THIS is the best part of the entire night!  Right here!  This drunken fool…. Ok, we get back in the car and start heading home and he finally decides to start “hitting” on me.  This isn’t what he said to me, word-for-word, but pretty damn close:

Mr H: Ya know, I could really feel the energy between us tonight

Me: Oh really?

Mr H: Yeah. Hey! Come here! Come sit closer to me (we were in the back seat of the car…. together already)

Me: Why?

Mr H: Because. We should just let the magic happen.

Me: What Magic?!

Mr H then extends out his hands, grabs my face, and places both hands on my cheeks and makes me face him

Me: What the hell are you doing?

Mr H: Just let the magic happen.

Me: I don’t… I don’t understand this magic that you speak of.

Mr H: Just let it happen. Stare into my eyes and let the magic happen between us.

Me: There is NO magic happening between us. None. Please let go of my face. Just let go.

And then he proceeded to pass out in the back seat with his head cocked back, mouth open and began to snore….

That was the last flipping time I ever let my friend set me up on a blind date…. ever…

Truth or Date

Don’t try to flipping date me. Plain and simple.  Okay, let me rephrase that.  DO NOT try to date me IF:

  1. You DO NOT have a job
  2. You are mentally and emotionally unstable
  3. You are in a current relationship with someone else
  4. You have a criminal record of ANY KIND
  5. You have immoral rituals, fetishes or daily habits
  6. You don’t know how to treat another human being
  7. You have an excessive alcohol problem or use illegal drugs AT ALL (sorry, but I’m a lame duck in that department)
  8. You are NOT genuinely interested in me as a person, and primarily interested in the “between the sheets” action
  9. There’s some fucked up bizarre story involving you that seeps out that I “so happen” to find out about via third party in-person, facebook, twitter, text message, phone call or any other form of me obtaining this information about you

I’m sure there is more, but that is a good place to start.  I’m really not asking much, honestly.  I did not mention any physical attributes at all.  Am I human and become physically attracted to another?  Of course I do.  But if you are out of line with the above, I’ll eventually find out and in the long run of things the situation will NOT turn out for the better.  Be upfront, be honest and most importantly, be honest with yourself.

With that in mind, let’s begin….

Dating experiences:

Blind Date with MR. H…..

Me and MR. C…..



After not blogging for about a week, I’ve decided that blogging is a lot harder than I had imagined it to actually be.  Every week I try to think of stuff to blog about and, don’t get me wrong, I come up with hundreds of different ideas; NOT A ONE of them actually going along with the “30 Something Cliche”…

So, should I post all the ridiculousness that runs through my mind and just go with it and see what evolves?  Or, should I go along with the blog descriptive and only write about how my “30 Something Cliche” life is not so… well… cliche.

I’m leaning towards the first option.  My Not-So-Cliche lifestyle and daily occurrences will fall into place within blogging story time.

So, my peeps, with that in mind, I’m sure my stories will unfold to more “interesting and obscure” the more I continue blogging my little heart out. For example, my adventures of getting lost downtown and almost driving on the metro railing system.

Or the time I was driving the wrong direction down a one-way street in the middle of traffic.  Or, even better, this recent time that I was in the grocery store in the middle of the night and this random woman starts talking to me about her nightly shopping habits and the whole time I’m trying to figure out who the hell she even is and, of course, my thought processes behind all that.

I don’t know how else to get around it.  It’s what the blog is developing into.  And, quite honestly, I’m ok with that.  Yes, there is a “30 Something Cliche”, but there’s also a Cliche about adulthood just in general. Our social surroundings alone develop a layout of how we should act as an adult, what responsibilities we should have or the direction of our lives in general.  Don’t forget the role the media plays in all this.

Anyway, enough of my soapbox. Enjoy the stories and enjoy living vicariously through me 😉

Christmas Card

I Don’t give me a damn a Christmas card. I couldn’t tell you in anymore of a simple way. Here’s my thought process behind that:
You go out, in search of the perfect holiday cards to give to friends and family. You take the time to go inside the store, push and shove your way through the other holiday-crazed shoppers to make your way to the Card section of your favorite local shopping spot.

And then you stand there, eye-surfing through each sparkly red, green, silver, gold and whatever else trendy color of the season in hopes to find a card that conveys the true meaning behind what it is that you’re trying to tell the intended recipient that your own words have failed to do. As you’re reading and sifting for the ultimate holiday cheer, you battle the passerby who is also in desperate need of the perfect words from Hallmark, whether it be laughter, joy, or to spark a memory.

Continue reading “Christmas Card”

VS Nightmare

The moment had arrived…. Finally, the semi-annual sale at the most widely known “Bra and Panty” shop that every woman dreams of shopping at for her unmentionables. The embroidered “V” and “S” across a woman’s booty whispers “sexy is here” in the ears of every man within an eye-shot of the woman who can afford to wear THE symbol of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love….

Twice per year, this pink little hot spot hosts a massive store-wide sale of up to 75% off every product you can put your grubby little hands on. Every woman will beg, bribe and steal to be present at one of the biggest sales that takes place right after the holidays. And how do I know this, being a woman out of the realm of fashion? “Googling” things has done wonders for me….

I arrived early to my local VS store under the impression that I would beat the big crowds and shop for my satin and lace in peace and serenity….. Boy was I wrong!

But everything seemed so right. I arrived at the mall to see perfect front row parking spots readily available. Not a body in sight as I I strolled my way through the mall entrance. The mall crowd itself appeared deserted with a couple of morning stragglers. As I made my approach to the long awaited sale of the season, I could smell the aroma of women’s perfumes, the vibrant colors of silky made-to-fit bras sparkled in my eyes. My rhythmic breathing synchronized with each step I made toward my final destination. This entire moment began to play out in front of me in slow motion.


That’s when the chaos set in. As one foot crossed the threshold of my long awaited journey, my deceiving eyes finally saw the forest full of trees. It was every woman for herself displaying sheer animal instinct. At that point forward, all I could see was bent over heads in every clothing bin with thrashing elbows and the occasional fabric being tossed up in mid-air. I stepped into the war zone, and hell hath no fury like a woman’s rage for a panty and bra sale.

Grandmas. Wives. Children. It didn’t matter. Even husbands and boyfriends were displaying war paint in search for a mad deal. Hell, at one point I was convinced packs of women came in with maps and a game plan to “snatch and grab” every color, size and matching set.  And there I was. A lone wolf pack. Vulnerable. No partner or “Team Estrogen” to pry the thieving claws off a pair of pink little tighties that were calling my name.

I assessed my situation. I knew I was no match for the oversized wolf gangs lurching in every bin. I played it cool. “I’m just looking” is what I told myself at every clothing pile. Before I knew it, I had a VS bag full of bras, panties, some lace-hip thing I’ve never seen before and both of my hands snatching fabric.

I had to pull myself together. I was turning into an animal, a product of my current environment. I don’t have the budget for this. What had come over me? Was my shopping cycle “synchronizing” with the other women around me? “Drop the clothes. Just drop it!” I finally took a deep breath, and slipped off the bag full of very pretty bras…. (Insert tear here) and left with the five panties I came in to buy.

Even though I grew up in this big city, I’ve never been a common consumer concerned with the latest and greatest in fashion nor have I ever been concerned with my possessions taking over me. Even my several years of living far away put me in a town that’s been voted the “Worst Dressed City in the U.S.” for many consecutive years.

But, I will give this sexy symbol some credit. NOTHING reigns true of elegant, sexy softness as catching a little glimpse of the skin of a woman bearing that little V…. and that little S…