I’ve been tagged again to reveal 7 things about myself. And because I love Rebekah too, I am glad to oblige (although I doubt anyone is sitting on the edge of their seat for these!), but with a twist. Because everyone needs a reason to feel better about their own…oddities. Ladies and Gents (do I have any gents that read?), I present: SEVEN FANTASTICALLY GROSS THINGS ABOUT ME:
- During my teensy-tiny years, I used to carry around a bright orange fuzzy blanket (circa 1977). It was my lovie. But the best part? All day long I’d pick off bits of fuzz and twist them around IN MY NOSTRILS! Then, I’d drop the piece to the floor and continue on with a new, fresh bit; the tail of my lovie dragging behind. This is absolutely one of my most vivid memories – seeing fuzzy orange nasal droppings all over our brown carpet. Kinda like a mass sprinkling of paprika on pumpkin pie. I must have had one hell of a clean nose.
- Here’s one for ya: When I’m mega nauseous, I prefer to gag myself to throw up. I do this easily and without much thought and then voila! I feel better. No, I was never smart enough to use this talent to lose weight. My mom taught each of us how to perform this magic trick when we were little by gagging ourselves with spoons. Don’t bag on her mothering skills; she was one bad-ass smart mama, because this little tactic not only probably saved her hours of hearing us whine about our hurt bellies, but also made for easy, contained clean up: a flush.
- I’m one of those people. The kind that like to pick scabs and peel dead skin. And there’s definitely a division here: there only exist people who really find this to be a (seriously closeted) hobby and those who have an immense aversion toward the mere idea of such fun. When I recently revealed this causally to my friend Jeanette, she scrunched up her face and turned her head to the side in disgust. All while slinking away slowly. I’ve met a few “others” in my lifetime and thank goodness my husband is one of them. Our dream date would probably be one in which we got sunburned and then skid into gravel so that a week later we could sit around picking each other scabs and peeling off patches of sunburned skin. And we’d most definitely compare the size of the prize. Isn’t that a picture of true love for ya?
- I have a scar that kicks the crap out of my Caesarean scar. So, I’m 15 and taking a family stroll through the forests of Missouri. Typial for my family, we were role-playing and having a grand time. On our way back, we come to a rusty barbed wire fence (you can see where this is going). Like always, one by one I watch my siblings and Father contort their bodies to slide through one of the wires and continue on their journey. I am the last to go. But I get the grand idea to instead climb the fence like a ladder and wouldn’t ya know it, the top wire of the decades old fence snaps beneath my feet and down I fall, head first. Now, that wouldn’t be so bad except that my nerdy eggplant colored cotton pants snagged on one of the barbs mid fall and I am left dangling upside down. By the barbs embedded in my upper thigh. I call out to my Dad who has to carefully extract me from the flesh-tearing device. With assistance from my Dad, I hobble home through the leaves and gravel roads in shock, unable to feel too much of the pain and catch myself noticing the blood oozing through my pants. Back at the homestead, I prop my leg up as my Dad assesses the damage: 5-inch long double gash, pretty damn deep. Ya know, where you can see all the, um, layers in between your skin and muscle? Like lasagna. Mmmmm. My farm-raised Dad dabs it with peroxide, declares it alright. “We’ll see how it looks tomorrow, honey”. All night long it literally bubbles and oozes (kinda like that lasagna I mentioned!) and, um, hurts. In the morning, Dad decides to take me into the hometown doc, where I proceed to receive about 10 shots of local anesthetic and 48 stitches. I know this because he scar healed to show ever single hole where the needle and thread held my skin together. My Dad, ever the realist, joked that “…now you’ll never be able to be a Rockette!” The scars look like two raised fossils of caterpillars on my thigh. A few years later I wrote a little poem about the experience, which you can read here.
- I’m prone to ingrown toenails. When I was 18, I let one get so infected that I developed a limp for weeks. Finally, I convinced my mom to take me to the doc to have it “taken care of”. Which means they lay you on a table and use some kind of medieval torture device (and brute strength) to pry and yank it from your swollen and tender nail bed. Without anesthetic. I remember the Doc saying “Well, we can do a shot to numb it but that usually hurts more than the procedure”. Dumb me. I took her word for it. And it wasn’t an instant kind of yank. It was about a one solid minute of yanking and pulling and maneuvering; the sharp end of my inner nail bludgeoning the gaping infection all the while. I remember biting on something to “ease” the pain. I also recall thinking that if I survive this ordeal, childbirth would be a cakewalk (I was right to some degree). And, I also remember my poor mom sitting by my side for support: as the Doc began the yanking (and I commenced the groaning) she had to excuse herself from the agony. Yeah, it hurt that bad.
- I have multiple memories of licking my mom’s roll on deodorant when I was probably six or so. I used to think that the fact that I did this made me the biggest freak until I realized I could totally see Kaia doing it. That would make us equal freaks. Don’t shun us.
- Recently, I had a craving for sweets (hahahaha, um, everyday) and thought I absolutely SCORED by finding a can of Redi-Whip in my fridge. I brought it to my lips and did a little gluttonous song and dance around Jason as I sprayed the foam into my mouth. I did it a few more times. Then, as I was preparing to lick the residues of the tasty treat from the jagged spout, I saw MOLD! Lots of GREEN MOLD! covering the spout. This would have been a good time to take advantage of “gross thing about me #2” but instead I faked a few gagging noises and pointed the can towards Jason to see. I sulked and gagged a few more times before shoving the offensive REDI-TO-F*CK-WITH-ME-WHIP down into the trash can. It sucked. I couldn’t find my can of Whoop-Ass or I would’ve had a smack down right then and there.