The Randomizer

Time for another one of those posts full of the random. Join me, won’t you?

  • I’ve been desperately searching for a place to ride my bike that’s close enough to my house that I can jump on my ride and risk my life to get to it. And by that I mean that where I live is surrounded by roads that are traveled by people in a hurry. And people on bikes aren’t really viewed with love. But two days ago I found a magical place. Nirvana. I expect to spot a unicorn on one of my forays. It’s a neighborhood that reminds me of my childhood one (only better!) full of untouched spaces (creeks, you guys!), and is accessible by traveling only one short stretch of road where I don the “target with bulls-eye” attire and pedal as fast as my legs will take me while stealing panicked glances behind me to check and see if I’m going to make it to safety. But when I make that turn into the neighborhood, I can’t keep the grin off of my face. I breathe in deep to enjoy the smells: pine tags! leaves! dirt! I’m a kid again and I’m riding my bike enjoying my freedom, snacking on bugs because they have unimpeded entry into my laughing mouth. I’m certain the one or two people that have seen me have seriously considered a call to the police because I just look far happier than the occasion dictates. But it’s all good. Arrest me, officers. Just get me released in time for my next ride.
  • The youngest and I were talking about how much fun it would be to have a conversation with someone and just drop a random word in from time to time. To keep the other person on their toes? Word choice would greatly depend upon how long you’d want the other person to think they’d misheard you before really knowing you were working them over. For example, you could use something like lair and they’d be internally scratching their head for a bit before finally calling you out on the bullshit. Use sandwich and it’s not going to take them long before they’re giving you the “Cut that shit out” look. And use smorgasbord and you’re getting an instantaneous reaction. So, yeah, don’t use smorgasbord. Use something like rinse. Or swill. Actually, come up with your own. You know you can do better. Report back.
  • I was talking to my friend, and she said that her hands are always sweaty and people pull theirs away in disgust. I told her my hands are always cold, and I get the same reaction. I usually try to give them a warning before the hand shake, just so they aren’t as alarmed as they would be without that alert. Even still, their faces make me aware that the warning was not nearly enough to prepare them for the icy embrace of my hand. “Are you awake? You are now. You’re welcome.” I guess people are dying to ask me if I’m a corpse. Which, you know, no. [Ed. Note: Heh. Dying. Nice.] Not yet. And hopefully, not for a while. Because life will be far less fun when I become one of those guys.
  • Anna said it’s a saying that you can’t say bubbles angrily and immediately I was bizarrely angry. And proved her wrong by saying bubbles angrily a billion times. Because I was so oddly put off by it. Then, I argued that it totally wasn’t a saying. And I’m still trying to figure out what fool is trying to make it a thing. Is this like fetch from Mean Girls? Now, chicken baby? You can’t say that angrily. Let’s make that a thing if there needs to be such a saying. Hey, why in the world does there need to be such a saying? People?! Get a hobby. Yes. I should also work on getting a hobby. Touché. 
  • I’m going to dump a band recommendation in here, because, why not? You know how you find a band that fits your taste so well that you love every (ok, nearly every) song they release? The Kills were and still are that band for me. They have always fit right in my sweet spot. Give them a try.

Ok, everyone. Have a great week.

    The Day the Music Died. Alternate Title: Karaoke Is Hard, You Guys.

    I had to do it. I did wait an acceptable amount of time, so I could blame any inaccuracies, missing moments, or outright falsifications on my spotty memory. I got to hang with these three awesome women, and we tried to put a reasonable amount of hurt on a Tuesday night in RVA. I wouldn’t call it a beatdown, but I’m proud of what we accomplished. And now I have to tell you guys about it, so the gelatinous monster will leave me alone for one tiny second. She’s seriously upset that I screwed up the karaoke experience, and made my friends share in my humiliation. I sing ALL THE TIME. Why was I so inept?! She will not let it go.

    IMG_4664brightWe look harmless, right? But we closed down each of the 3 bars we visited.

    [Ed. Note: Names have been altered to protect the innocent.]

    Recently, Lissa, Marta and I decided that we should get together on the semi-regular and try to destroy local bars as an unscheduled and, if I’m honest, unrequested disaster testing exercise to make sure they’ve done their disaster planning adequately. This is a strategic and helpful service that we’re happy to provide for our local biz owners, and we’re not even charging for it. We’re pretty awesome that way. We heard that Emcee’s in da house was coming to town and insisted that she join us for one of our Tuesday Teardown Events, and she agreed. The four of us had a blast. We talked about old times. We talked about our families, and we talked about things that are above your clearance level, unless one of you in the picture is reading this, and you know what we talked about. (Relax, Emcee’s in da house, Lissa, and Marta — alpha order so nobody gets aggro on me — I’m not going to spill the deets on anything except the events of the night in question. So, don’t spill any dirt on me. Remember we took that oath? I know, I know, we didn’t. We should have, but we didn’t.)

    Anyway, I want to talk about the karaoke, because I just didn’t know. All my life. In the dark. And my life has been a nearly constant training session for a karaoke extravaganza that people would talk about in reverent and glowing terms for weeks afterward. In my head. Where reality has no business holding court.

    [Ed. Note: Speaking of reality and such: Emcee, Lissa, and Marta, hit me up with any corrections and additions, right? I’m not exaggerating intentionally. This time.]

    Things I didn’t know about karaoke:

    • People take it really seriously. Like really fucking seriously. I’m exaggerating, you say? I am not. I have proof. For our first song, Emcee’s in da house selected ‘We Are Family’ and, while I was not sure about it at first, I calmed myself down as I remembered that the lyrics are supplied for you. I’m chuckling and shaking my head even now as I remember that this was my only concern then. We all got up to sing. I may have strutted up to the front. I’m extremely shy, but I assumed the ridiculous number of years I’ve spent on this fine planet engaged in exuberant singing meant I would rock at karaoke. Emcee grabbed one microphone for the two of us. I think Lissa grabbed the other. I’m not convinced that Marta EVER planned on singing as she was sober. SOBER, PEOPLE. Yes. Give her a hand. That woman accompanied us to karaoke night with no alcohol on board. I’m reasonably certain the constant refrain in her head was, “Fuck this noise. Fuck this noise. Fuck this noise.” But I could be projecting. I stood next to Emcee preparing for my debut. The lyrics began to scroll. And…….we missed our cue. Somehow. I think it was at this point that Emcee and I exchanged the look of “Whuh? This doesn’t work exactly as expected. Wait, we might be drunk. This is probably best attempted buzzed and not drunk. Nah. We’ve got this.” Then, she looked away and began to give it a go. But my look changed back to something of the nature of “No. I don’t have this. I don’t really know this song at all. Is this a different version of this song? I’ve certainly never practiced this song. I may have only really sung this song once over the entire course of my lifetime. That’s insufficient. Abort. Abort. Abort. No. Better plan. Giggle. Giggle loudly and with abandon because this is really fucking funny. Wait. Look at those faces. People are fierce mad, yo. Wait. Are you laughing harder? Yes. You’re laughing harder. Now, you’re doubled over and clutching your stomach. Stop that. Don’t laugh harder. That’s making them angrier.” I’m certain that Lissa abandoned us long before we got 3 lines deep into the lyrics and just looked at us like, “WTF, women?” But with a humorous and patient kind of look. She’s a seasoned pro. There was nothing for her to do but watch the trainwreck and help with the carnage when the smoke cleared. Emcee really did us proud. She might have faltered at the beginning with me, but she finished strong. Then, she and Lissa danced like it was no big thing while we waited to see if we would be booted from the bar for being a bane to the existence of karaoke fans across the land.
    • If you catch someone late to the party who hasn’t witnessed your epic failure, you will get a second chance to party. Marta and I sat and talked and tried to make sense of the crazy that is a karaoke bar on a Tuesday night. Some dude decided to sit on my lap. I’m still unsure what makes me look like a chair, but I’ll concede that the guy had partaken of a fair share of adult brews. Yes, kids DO have brewskis. Of the root variety. Anyway, somewhere in here (I, unlike Marta, was experiencing the sensation of blood combined with my glorious friend, Tito’s) a guy comes over and asks if we know Love Shack. I don’t need Marta to confirm that I lit up like I’d just been plugged in a socket. I think I said, “Of course!” I meant, “Duh, you giant jackass, and thank you for not being here earlier to witness our epic failure. We will not let you down. You can be certain I have rocked the SHIT out of that song so many times I cannot count them. Let’s get this thing on the books.”

    Dear Emcee, I must out you here and alert the readers (all one of them) that you tried to shut this shit down. I forgive you, because we delivered a performance that still brings tears to my eyes. We were spot on. My drunk self is certain of this. I will not ask Marta to confirm as the truth is sure to disappoint me. Love, Steph

    • A karaoke bar can yield some really dramatic situations. For example, Emcee and I met this woman who was pining for her friend at the bar with her boyfriend. A classic triangle. This poor woman had reached a standard of overserved that I haven’t seen in a while. I was a bit afraid for her as the night progressed. I was heartily rooting for her to boot by the time we all left the bar because, at a certain point, you just have to get that poison out. But at any rate, Emcee and I were enlisted to help her win her friend over with the song ‘Push It’ which is another one that has enjoyed a decent rotation in my playlists over the years. So, I assured this woman that we would do right by her. [This song came after Lissa selected a country song that she shooed us up to accompany her on. I think I was the sole idiot that made it all the way to the stage area. Which was tragic for Lissa as she killed it, and my presence up there did nothing but distract from the awesome. I believe my ratio of correct words to incorrect was 1:1,000,000. Nailed it! Still sorry, Lissa!] For ‘Push It’ we were sadly relegated to backup dancer status. Which we worked like “In Living Color” extras. Again, how successful my performance was might be a figment of my imagination. You decide. Emcee took a run at backup singer, but the woman was having none of that. So, we did our thing, but it wasn’t enough. Her friend left with the guy. Sad, but we tried. I think the song was at fault. Bad song.

    It was a great night. With some great people. Marta, you’re a rock star. No alcohol at a karaoke bar. Still impressed. Emcee, this town isn’t quite complete without you. Lissa, you brighten whatever place you inhabit. I’m ready for the next time!!



    The School Nurse: Part the Second

    I mentioned some weirdness around my kid’s school nurse. And people, the story continues.

    My kid noticed the nurse strolling around at recess. She may have been sniffing the air around the kids. I can’t say for certain. I’m guessing she didn’t notice if any of the kids were holding their privates in agony with an obvious need to use the facilities. (That part will make sense in a bit.) The purpose for the nurse’s recess visit became apparent later as the teacher relayed the following message, paraphrased only slightly, if at all:

    Just so you know, the nurse would like you to bring deodorant to school, if possible. And if you don’t wear deodorant every day, I suggest you do.

    I would like to point out something very interesting. When the kid gets home every day, she has a bladder so full that talk is impossible until the restroom has been visited. Because the kids are only allowed to pee once during the day. Unless it is a DIRE EMERGENCY. Which is when you can beg and plead for the bathroom pass. And you may not be awarded that pass unless it is quite clear that you are about to pull a Kristen Bell and pee in a jar. (I could have used Howard Hughes, but he seemed to be a little more into the urine storage biz.) But, anyway, smelliness will not be tolerated!! Pee on your neighbor if you must, but don’t stink up the air. Pollution of the B.O. variety is expressly prohibited.Your kidneys mean nothing to us. Your bladders may become filled to the brim with urine, and we couldn’t care less. If they (your bladders) resemble giant parade balloons, may the force be with you. Enjoy that bus ride home. But we will not abide the unholy stench of your underarms. You have been warned.

    Now, I hear what you’re thinking. No, really. I do. Yes, I’m in your head. You think I’m overreacting. But seriously, these kids can only go to the restroom once a day? What’s up with that? Are they afraid that they are in there throwing some sort of wild party to which only one person is allowed to attend at a time? And if so, do they not realize how very sad such a party would be? I would not want to attend that party. I’m standing there talking to myself? I do that every day. What’s the difference, huh? That’s not a party. That’s everyday life. So, as I was saying very longwindedly, they aren’t allowed to pee (a clear hygiene situation), but oh man, let’s make sure we address any stench that may emanate from their pits after playing on the playground. I think this nurse has a button, and I think we know what it is. I have a hypothesis. I believe that when she was a child, she was Mommie Dearested in a very strange way, and instead of “No wire hangers!” it was “No deodorant!” And so she was tormented by the other kids in school for being the stinkiest kid in all the land. There’s no other possible explanation. [Ed. Note: Yes. There are plenty of other possible explanations. Many of which are even plausible explanations. Let’s go with this one. It’s a touch more imaginative.]

    Life is a bowl of cherries consumed while riding a rollercoaster.

    [Ed. Note: Don’t grade me on this one, people. There was no editing AT ALL. There’s usually SOME editing. A smidge of editing. At least a glance at my completed post before I actually publish. This time? Nothing. There will be blood mistakes.]

    Yeah. I could have just used a sarcasm tag at the end of “cherries” in that title, but I really needed to get the image of a rollercoaster in your head to explain that there are highs and lows around these parts. And, people, every low is a real shit show. But enough about the lows. I’d rather talk about the fact that at some point relatively recently, I regained the ability to succumb to the giggles. I’d lost that for a while. A really long while. As in years. You know the giggles I’m talking about, right? Those really great belly laughs where you finally regain your composure only to be triggered again, and you’re off and running for an unbearable (to anyone unlucky enough to be a part of your surroundings) period of time. Helpless to stop the madness until it’s runs its course. The people around you are either: involved in the joke and are crying with laughter as well; slightly amused at your inability to control the snort that slips out from time to time; puzzled; or rapidly losing patience. Two of my best friends from back in our Cisco days — (Hi, Kathy! See you tomorrow!) (Hi, Vicky!) — and I were often reduced to stumbling around doubled over with laughter and tears of epic proportions. Ah, the good old days. I can’t even remember the things that would set us off, but I remember so many days spent laughing together with complete abandon, and with utter disregard to any spectacle we might be making of ourselves. Laughing until my stomach hurt so badly, and I’d have to grab a seat to regain my composure.

    And those days are apparently back. I’m desperately hoping I’ll never lose them again. Conversations with my daughter are the genesis of many of these fits of uncontrollable and prolonged bouts of laughter. She is a loon. Like me. I worry about that sometimes, but she’s much more together than I ever was at her age, so I think she’s going to be all right. I subjected one of my other really good friends to one of these terrible fests of hilarity on a phone call recently as I was trying to recount an earlier laughing spell and triggered an entirely new one when I used the wrong word and basically spent stupid amounts of time laughing helplessly and trying desperately to regain some measure of control so we could continue talking. He was not similarly amused. Which helped me get my shit together enough to continue our conversation, and I allowed myself full privileges on prolonged laughter later in the day whenever I remembered what I said along with his deadpan response.

    I went out to dinner with some friends recently, (Howdy, Stephen! I know you read this, so I’m calling you out, man.) and I found myself back in the laughter zone when my brother recounted a story about his mailbox. If I told the story it would sound about as banal as a story could get (mailbox?!), but my brother’s delivery is spot on every damn time and typically has a way of hitting that sweet spot of making it impossible for me not to laugh uproariously, regardless of my current circumstances. Like, if I was in the middle of a restaurant, and it would behoove me not to be quite so loud and obnoxious. Eh. Whatever. That story was funny! And it could have been tears, people. Like I said, rollercoaster. I’m thrilled to be spending this much time howling with laughter these days.

    Hey, it’s time to get to the point of my story, and it’s going to be so damn weak after all that. I work in a tall building, and I attended an emergency response training. Something I’ve never done before. It was pretty fascinating. I’ve worked in a number of tall buildings. Never considered much of any of the things we covered in that meeting. Yay, I’m stupid. It was interesting to note that when the security guard asked if anyone had felt the building move in strong winds, some of the people looked a little weirded out. Even though they were on a high floor in the last location. I think it’s because you get used to the sensation and don’t realize what you’re experiencing. I notice it often and find it oddly cool. Why? I have no idea. I’m one of the biggest chicken babies you’ll ever meet. Would I find a fire in that same tall building cool? I would very, very much not find it cool. I would find it beyond terrifying because a lot of people have to get out of that tall building in a very short period of time by descending a narrow and terribly long stairwell. Did I mention that we are on one of the highest floors? That spells trouble, people. But I also have a bit of a dark sense of humor. Therein lies the problem. Couple the ability to anticipate how terrifying that situation would be, and add in a dash of dark humor while your charming security guards are demonstrating the handy safety travel seat that’s available to transport those who are unable to navigate the stairs in an evacuation because they are incapacitated in some way. Et voilà. During the demonstration, the security guard said something about the safety travel seats being a real slowdown in the evacuation process. And mentioned that an alternative to taking the poor chap strapped into the seat all the way down to the first floor and out of the building would be to leave that same unlucky dude stationed by one of the stairwell doors. He very emphatically stated that it was critical to come and tell someone in charge that the fellow was without transport and would need a lift out of the building. I believe this is when I chimed in with, “Well, this got very dark pretty quickly.” And I laughed heartily. Please understand that this was a group of like-minded people, and everyone was dark humor-equipped. It was not only me. Stop judging.

    And as we strolled back into our offices after the demonstration, I said that our lesson of the day was that you either needed to make sure you were always capable of navigating the stairs in the case of an evacuation, or make sure you were well-liked. I mentioned to everyone that my only chance of scoring a ride all the way down to the first floor would be to offer a bribe. I began with $400 but immediately upped it to $1000. And as I mentioned it to one of my friends, she said, “Exactly. The minute they deliver you to the exit, you hand them the cash.” I confessed to her that I had foolishly pictured in my head handing them the fat stack of cash at the TOP OF THE STAIRWELL. You know, like a boss. Which means I’d be up there all strapped in to my neon yellow safety travel seat parked at the stairwell door awaiting the firemen to come and collect my stupid ass. Because my co-workers would be downstairs already planning all their new purchases with my $1000. And this is when the giggles came. Because I couldn’t get the visual out of my head. My look of surprise as they accepted my money with looks of pity mixed with a healthy dose of barely-disguised disdain. My look of disgust as they parked me by the stairwell door of 17. And, finally, my look of chagrin as I realized I had no one to blame but my own damn self. Come on, firemen. Please save my stupid, sorry ass. And on and on, the images swirled through my head. I couldn’t stop laughing. But then it was time for the security guards to wrap up the training. Which meant it was time for me to pull my shit together. Stop the giggles. But I can’t control them! And DEFINITELY DON’T SNORT, STEPHANIE!!! Slight snort squeaks out. Did anybody hear that? Damn IT! I don’t know if they heard it, but the giggles are now out of control. Hide your face behind a tissue. They think you aren’t taking this seriously. DUDE! They have guns!! Well, I mean I don’t know if they have guns at the current moment, but they have access to guns. They told us so. They might have a baton. They are going to knock my ass out. I’m going to be laid out unconscious on the floor because I’ve got the giggles. Is my bladder full? For real?! Am I going to have a bladder control situation as well? Silent laughter is the bulging bladder’s killer.  Oh hell no. Why are you doing this to yourself??? You know the tears are falling now, right? You are laughing that damn hard. Sure, it’s silent laughter, but you look completely nuts. I mean, seriously?! Tears? OK, casually wipe your eyes with the napkin while continuing to try to suppress the giggles. Pull yourself together, woman!

    I hope I continue to struggle with giggle suppression. Because it means that I still have the ability to laugh with abandon like this. Nothing beats uncontrollable laughter in my book.

    It’s almost Valentine’s Day which means it’s time for kids in elementary school to pretend they like everyone. I’m here to assist.

    So your kid wants to write a personal message on all her valentines this year, but that one kid keeps calling her miscreant and she’s not really feeling the love on that one, huh? No worries. I’ve got some very nice entries below for your kid to use. No charge. Seriously.

    • You are a person that I know. Happy Valentine’s Day!
    • You’re dressed in clothes. That naked dream didn’t come true today. Yay! Happy Valentine’s Day!
    • The girl that sits next to you is named Callie. Happy Valentine’s Day!
    • It is winter. Happy Valentine’s Day!
    • Your pet appears to like you. Happy Valentine’s Day!
    • You rode the bus to school today. Happy Valentine’s Day!
    • You’ve never peed your pants at school. That I know of. Happy Valentine’s Day!
    • One whole day you traveled the entire school with your zipper down. You displayed an enormous amount of fortitude that day. Everyone in school was immensely proud of you. We wanted to tell you, but we didn’t want to negatively impact your act of courage. Happy Valentine’s Day!

    Now get out there and write those cards, kiddos! They’re due tomorrow.

    Randomness. It’s what I do best. Let’s get started.

    I got a new Mini. I initially selected grey based on the advice of others (because RESALE!), but I wanted the volcanic orange from the start. Since Sebastian’s promised he’s never going to leave me, screw resale. But in the event I do ever have to part ways with my baby, I did get the four-door. *sigh*

    Here’s Sebastian:

    Mini Cooper S Manual
    Sebastian (Cheeky chap named himself)

    Here’s Sebastian’s ass: (Don’t worry. He’s not shy. Also, he’s a car.)

    Mini Cooper S Manual
    Sebastian requested a little extra striping on his tushie.

    As I’ve been tooling around town in my new boyfriend, I’ve spotted some interesting sights.

    To wit:

    • My kid and I spotted a fellow doing some serious flossing work on his teeth while driving. And I mean SERIOUS flossing work. You know that flossing is a two-handed operation, right? Those of you that engage in that activity? I feel that activity is best done by my hygienist, because I’d hate to deprive them of that satisfaction. Of course, I also participate in a few sessions of spirited flossing in preparation for a dental visit, so I can answer in the affirmative when questioned about it by my hygienist. But it’s not the type of thing I’d ever even think about doing in my car. While driving. For many, many reasons. First, ewwwwwwwwwwww. Just ewwwwwwwwwwwww. And second, dude, put a hand on the wheel. For steering. We, as fellow travelers, are quite concerned about your ability to navigate the streets.
    • What is the deal with this van in the picture below? What’s the purpose of that antenna? I definitely feel that the problems that van is encountering as far as clearance mean that the antenna is a critical add-on. Therefore, I can only conclude that this van is not the innocuous vehicle it appears to be on the outside. Let’s all flex our imagination muscles and see what we can come up with as to the purpose of this vehicle and its occupants, huh? I’ve already been hard at work. I’m giving myself sparkle points for the more ridiculous explanations. You should do the same.

      Why the antenna, people?!?
      Why the antenna, people?!?

    OK, next topic. I’ve saved the very best for last. This is comedy gold, people. At least in my opinion.
    My daughter said that the school nurse came by to talk to all of her class about hygiene. I’m going to include a paraphrase of what she said. I think this is pretty close, but I’ll say it’s a paraphrase hoping that it’s much less offensive than this.

    Ok, girls and, mostly, boys,
    I’ve been noticing a weird smell coming from this grade level.
    Now, I just wanted to give you a reminder to make sure to shower and use soap in the places that smell more than the others. *gestured to pits and privates*
    And if you haven’t already, start using deodorant. I have a few samples in my office.

    Now, I’m not sure how much hand-holding I need to do here. We can all agree that there are many points in that “helpful hygiene huddle” at which we, as normal humans, might have stepped in and said, “Um, a word, school nurse?” When my daughter came home and told me about this, and it was obvious that she was unaffected, I was rolling around in laughter so extreme that I was crying, because WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK??!!?? Since she was clearly not scarred by the interaction, we just talked through the inappropriateness of it and enjoyed the humor of it, because I’ve found that humor is the best way to approach things like this whenever it’s an available avenue. I can only hope all the other kids in the 5th grade are similarly unaffected.

    There’s unfortunately more. One of the girls decided to avail herself of some sweet, free deo. She escorted herself on down to the nurse’s domain and returned with some lovely tampons and pads, because….. Look, there’s no reasonable explanation at all for why she would return with menstrual supplies. So, my girl and I rolled with it and came up with reasons for the swapping in of tampons and pads for deo and ended up on the floor rolling with laughter. Because it’s kind of what you have to do in these situations. So, here’s what we came up with. Well, some of what we came up with. Some of it was too ridiculous for me to share. You won’t believe this, but I don’t tell you guys everything.

    • Clearly, the nurse gave the child tampons to be used in place of deo because they are slender and can be discreetly placed in the pit where they would soak up any sweat, rendering the sweat powerless to produce odor. Also, perhaps the tampons were scented. Double duty. Additionally, I have to assume there was a comedy goal in providing tampons for a deo sub because you’d have to walk around with your arms glued to your sides just to keep those suckers in place. That’d make the school day awfully interesting for your fellow school denizens, as they observe your attempts to manage almost any task during the day, no? Oh man, I didn’t even think of the fun that summer temps would present. With the string? People wouldn’t be able to resist pulling that little guy, and they’d be presented with a sweat-soaked surprise. Huzzah!
      [Ed. Note: I really should edit these suckers. What I meant here was that the little string-a-ma-jobbie is accessible during the summer because of attire, where it’s all tucked away during the cold months. Context, Stephanie. You’re stupid. Love, you.]
    • The pads were provided as a superior alternative to the tampons because STICKY! They can be stuck to the shirt, thereby giving the former stink sufferer full operation of the arms. Raising your arms is impossible when attempting to keep that dastardly tampon in place. Not so with your friendly pad. Oh sure, the pad is large and unwieldy, and all of your friends are pointing at you and your pit diaper. But your friends stink, and you are odor-free.

    My kid’s school nurse is crazy, yo. I think this may have been a substitute school nurse. If so, sorry, regular school nurse. I have no evidence whatsoever that you are crazy. But your sub is nutty as hell.