To say I was accident prone when I was younger is selling things a bit short. Accident inevitable is more like it. Who am I kidding…I’m still the most clumsy person I know. Poor decisions made on the fly and always tending to leap before I look was/is often the cause of my many disasters. But some were completely and hilariously out of my control.
As I have mentioned before- I was a swimmer when I was younger. The gangly limbs and 5’10” frame that plagued me in my everyday life seemed to coalesce and find its rhythm in the pool. Whilst I could easily trip over an ant on dry land, swimming for me was like a well rehearsed symphony. My body just got it. It still gets it, just a bit older and slower these days.
This particular incident took place when I was about 16 and readying myself for the first swim meet of the season. I had spent the weekend before at my best friend’s house and we did the typical things teenaged girls do when you’re hopped up on sugar, hormones and not enough sleep with no parental supervision. I can’t remember whose genius idea it was, but sometime during our weekend long haze my best friend and I thought it would be just the best thing in the whole world to write all over our hands and legs with indelible marker. I’m not talking Sharpies here either. I’m talking about the industrial, big as a baby’s arm, jet-fuel-scented behemoth markers used for…what, exactly? I still don’t know.
Completely ignoring the warning on the side of the marker that clearly stated DO NOT APPLY TO SKIN, we went to town. Giggling and laughing at every stroke of the pen. Writing ridiculous inside jokes up and down our bodies like women possessed. The Pièce de résistance was a massive cock & balls my friend drew down my left thigh that grew and looked as though it was jizzing on my knee when I would bend my leg. We were particularly proud of that one. High brow? Not so much.
You’d think after that weekend, and the fact that I spent a majority of my life in a swimsuit, that someone would have made mention of the inane scribblings all over me. But you’d think wrong. I went through the whole week with not one word mentioned by anyone about the writing on my hands or the giant wang on my leg, until that Friday; the day of the meet.
All the sports teams at my school had this silly tradition of dressing up they day you had a game/match. Something about taking pride in your sport and looking the part, blahblahblah. Here I am, dressed in a skirt and heels (how was this going to help me again?) kinda thinking I’m hot shit- still with black marks showing through my panty hose, when one of my teammates sees me between class in the hallway and calls me over to talk. She tells me about some new rule about athletes and visible tattoos whilst competing. Yeah, and? She thinks you can get in trouble or disqualified for having writing on your body too.
I panic. No one had said anything to me the whole fucking week and suddenly halfway through school the day of the meet, someone springs this on me. I try and fail to find my friend to tell her, she’s nowhere.
Shit, shit shit.
Cut to the pool. One hour before the start of the meet. Having already warmed up, I’m in the locker room frantically scrubbing my hands and legs with soap and a loofah. It’s coming off my hands, but not my legs. Nothing is working. I try shampoo, lotion and everything else within reach to try and get it off me. I scrub harder, I scratch and tear at my skin. I even try shaving. But there it still is…the now slightly disfigured but still very plain as day, expertly drawn, veiny knob. My skin is so red and raw now it almost appears to be throbbing and glowing. Mocking me and my stupidity. My best friend suddenly appears at my side, her skin as fresh and clean as a baby’s ass. How the hell did that happen? It just came off, she says. IT JUST CAME OFF! Help me then! Get something, anything- so I can compete today! Ask Coach, maybe there’s something in the office.
She leaves and returns to my side in less than a minute, with a spray bottle full of flourescent green liquid. What is it? She doesn’t know. Coach said just to spray it on, leave it for a second and it should come off easily.
This friends is, in hindsight, where I should have asked a few more questions, or at the very least read the side of the goddamn bottle. But no. My hysteric brain wouldn’t have been able to process anything more at the time. So I just start squirting. And kept squirting. I probably used a quarter of the bottle before it started…
The blinding, searing, vagina-shriveling pain. Yes, being that I was wet and not very careful about where I was applying this death-juice, I not only sprayed it copiously over my legs, I got some of it all up in my hoo-hah. I produce a blood curdling scream and collapse on the floor quivering. My friend tries to help and turns the shower head towards my shuddering body. I cry out again, though the pain and burning is so severe now my voice is just barely above a whisper this time. Suddenly, I realize my Coach is at my side asking my friend what happened. My friend shrugs and says she doesn’t know what happened, I just used the stuff he had given her. Coach’s eyes widen and he says he didn’t know it was for me, he thought it was for a wall or something, I never should have sprayed it on myself because-
IT’S A FUCKING TURPENTINE SOLUTION! Yay! Chemical burns! What fun.
Coach finds a parent to take me to the emergency room as my mum hadn’t yet arrived at the pool, and I am rushed to the hospital. But not before (get this) my ass master Coach says to the parent to try and have me back before the start of the meet! Fucking seriously?! Priorities, anyone?
I’m taken to the ER, but because I am underage and the parent who has brought me doesn’t have consent from my mother to have me treated, I am handed a single Benadryl and sent along my way. Good for you American Medical Establishment! A panicked, soaking wet, swimsuit clad teenaged girl comes into your ER -with what is a very obvious chemical burn- and you give her a cunting Benadryl! Way to go. I bet you feel really good about yourself for that.
In the end, I did make it back to the pool just in time for my first race. I managed to qualify for State Championships, break two longstanding school records and get a personal best time.
All while sporting an angry lobster red chemical burned slightly faded jizzing dick down my left thigh.
Say that five times fast.
My mum didn’t really monitor my reading materials when I was young so much as just let me read whatever the hell I wanted. Age appropriateness wasn’t really in her vernacular. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t snuggling down with Penthouse Forum at bedtime, she would typically read the synopsis on the back of the book and then just let me get on with it. To be fair, a lot of what I was reading at age 10 or 11 were things she knew and had read herself, so she didn’t have a lot to worry about. This changed with Stephen King.
So here I am, at 10, reading IT. Being an only child, it was so, so easy for me to let my imagination run wild. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters to bounce off or torture so it was all left up to me. I was fine to start. Fascinated by the macabre, even that young and getting really into the whole thing.
Then comes the violence, the kids dying, the old houses and that fucking clown! Here’s me, same age as the kids in the book, reading about them, slipping further away from myself every time I crack the binding. Imagination running, running, running. And let’s be honest here, scaring the shit out of myself with every page read.
If you’ve not read it, here’s the low down. Ancient mystical creature (disguised as a jolly circus clown, thank you very much, Mister King) feeds off children and hunts them through the city’s sewer system. The large Victorian pipes making it easy for said creature to move about…fucking ANYWHERE. And there’s a bit where there’s a little girl using the toilet and the creature tries to pull her down through the u-bend and ends up breaking her neck…
(as an aside. adult me thinks ‘who the holy fuck leans closer when they hear voices coming out of the freaking toilet!?’ run, motherfucker, run!)
Where do I live? Old ass house. With ancient piping. How old am I? Same as the kids in the book. This. fucking. creature. is. coming. to. get. me. Why can’t I put this fucking book down? Please mum, why won’t you tell me I’m not allowed to read this shit!? Oh no, another kid’s died….toilet bad. Water bad…Why am I torturing myself? Burn it with fire!
The long and short of all this, is somewhere in my infantile brain I started equating using the toilet with dying a tortuous death. But the sink? The sink was my salvation. The sink provided me a quiet space where I could keep a damn close eye on anything that might come oozing out of the bowl and run like hell if it did. I could prop my little bum right up there and give the finger to the ancient creature and y’know, not pee my pants. So, screw you, mister asshole clown! You won’t get me! I’ve figured you out and I’m smarter than you.
Until my mum caught me doing it.
As was/is her way, my mum was less mad and more amused by the whole situation. Through chuckles she explained that nothing was going to jump up and bite my ass while I was trying to snip some cable. And at the end of the day ALL THE PIPES ARE CONNECTED ANYWAY! Thanks for that. So she says, stop pissing in the sink, I know you’re 10 and scared shitless, but it’s gross and you are old enough to know this stuff isn’t real.
Talked down from my sinky perch, I agreed to start using the toilet like a normal person. (Though it didn’t stop me from taking a sabbatical behind the barn if need be.)
Thereafter though, as was the norm with her, anytime I would have to go to the bathroom my mum would stand outside the bathroom door knock very lightly and whisper, ‘We all float down here. Weeee alllll flooooat!’ Having read just enough of the book to fuck with me.
It’s surprising I’m not completely mad.
A recent article claimed that men were now choosing to wear panty hose for, get this, ‘fashion and comfort reasons’. Uh, okay.
The article further states that ‘sales have rocketed thanks to their practical use and the bold fashion statement they make ‘ and ‘some men want to keep their legs warm during winter, while others enjoy lounging around the house in them and others enjoy wearing patterned tights with shorts’. emphasis mine
While I can give credence to the idea that a certain subsection of men might choose to wear pantyhose (at £17 a pop no less!) and I can totally see the fashion side of the argument, I take particular umbrage at the idea that men would wear them for comfort. Or because they’re practical.
You know, I’ve spent quite a bit of time around drag queens and never once did I ever hear any of them claim to be so comfortable in their pantyhose (or broseiry which is someone’s obviously desperate attempt to shoehorn a new word into the common vernacular) that they would choose to start wearing them in their day to day life for practicalities sake. Usually the comments would extend to either ‘I wish they made these damn things a little bigger’ or ‘Oooh, Mary, these hose are seriously mashing up my mangina’.
The latter issue could be solved if said tights had some sort of junk pocket to house the meat and veg but from what I can see in photos these are your old school style tights with the seam straight up through the crotch. They also seem to be just as sheer as your standard set of tights so I’d reckon most guys ‘lounging around the house’ with them on would also choose to wear underpants with them, unless they enjoy giving their friends a proper eyeful in what could only be described as the weirdest and most confusing type of exhibitionism I’ve seen.
I don’t know…perhaps Saul the Activity Snake can sum it up better than I can…
p.s. Also, matted leg hair too? Totally sexy!
Quote source – http://www.metro.co.uk/lifestyle/893872-mantyhose-fashion-conscious-men-snapping-up-pairs-of-man-tights
I’m gonna hit you with something. Something so unbelievably fucking awesome, you may shit yourself. I don’t want you to actually poo your underoos so I’m going to take a few seconds here and let you get yourself all squared away. You ready?
Got some toilet paper and a bowl by your side?
I’m serious here, don’t be sending me your dry cleaning bills.
Okay, here goes nothing!
The OFFICIAL Rhetorical Platypus!
Yay! You may send your congratulatory comments and emails forthwith!
And I ask you kindly not to steal anything…if you do? I will hunt you down and be that mouthbreather who always stands uncomfortably close, for the REST OF YOUR LIFE. And I will eat garlic, onions and anchovies everyday. EVERY. DAY.
Thank you to Mister SD for Mister RP. Copyright and whatnot. 2011. Funky. Yeah.
Observed a disturbing(?) trend in the typical ‘slutty Halloween costume’ whilst out and about this past weekend.
Apparently the new thing to do this year was to still dress as a slutty nurse/cat/witch but… zombified.
The silliest thing about it is most of these people went whole hog on the slut and held back on the zomb, because god forbid you not be a PRETTY fucking ladybug zombie!
I think next year I’m just going to cut out the middle man dress up as a giant set of tits.
By the way…this is the only acceptable ‘slutty nurse’ outfit. Ever. EVER!
You know you have an incredible mum because when you were younger she let you make your own mistakes , but knew when it was time to step in and give you a hand or help you pick up the pieces.
You know you have an amazing mum when you suddenly realise as an adult that there were many times when she went without, but never saddled you with the burden of knowing that.
You know she’s extraordinary in that she’ll always be there to listen to you bitch and moan, and isn’t just sitting on the other end of the phone waiting to speak.
But you know your mum has officially entered the realm of UNBELIEVABLY BATSHITTINGLY AWESOME when you ask her, ‘Can you draw me a bag of dicks?’ And she doesn’t even question you about it, this just shows up in your inbox two days later.
Thanks mum, you’re so fucking money.