TMI Thursday: Bare Jam

TMI Thursday

Every year in late April, Smoky Mountain National Park has its annual Wildflower Pilgrimage. Tourons (tourist + moron) pay hundreds of dollars to be led around the park by rangers and volunteers, to see all of the spring wildflowers in their glory. Which is funny to me, because if you’re hiking the right trails, you can’t miss even the rare ones.

The ex and I went out to one of the best trails in the park for spring wildflowers. We split up, and he spent the morning fishing the river, while I hiked seven miles round trip and took several hundred pictures, one of which is the thumbnail in my right hand column over there.

We met back at the truck, pulled our lunch out of the cooler, and hiked off trail to a nice spot by the river. It was fairly far from the road, back in the woods, next to a good run for him to fish after lunch, and a beautiful plunge pool.

I spread out the ground cover, and we had lunch. It was a little past noon, and the sun was high overhead. We were both tired in the best way- that tiredness that comes from catching lots of fish and finding lots of wildflowers. We were not so tired, though, as to be completely uninterested in each other.

We seemed far enough from the road, which was not busy,  and though the trees were not completely leafed out, there was some cover between the blanket and the road… and so we decided to have each other for dessert. It was necessarily short, but not so short as to prevent me from enjoying the sun and breeze on my mostly bare skin. I sat up to put my shorts back on, and that was when I realized.

Apparently, I overestimated the amount of cover we were afforded, and possibly the distance from the road. When people can see a bear from the road, all traffic stops until the bear ambles off out of sight. We locals, as well as park officials, call this a “bear jam”. Well, it would appear that the ex and I created our own little “bare jam”, because as I slipped my shorts back on, I noticed several cars stopped on the road in direct sight of our picnic blanket. It was right about that time that the “bare jam” moved along and the road was quiet again.

Funny enough, that didn’t stop me from skinny dipping in the plunge pool after the ex wandered off for more fishing. That was easier to get away with, though, because the river bank was tall, and you couldn’t see the water from the road. We should have had our little rendezvous on one of the large boulders next to the plunge pool. Live and learn, I guess.

We’re lucky that we didn’t get heckled, photographed, or ticketed. No, the only consequence was a little sheepishness, and a bruise the exact size and shape of a sweetgum ball on the small of my back. 😉

Advertisements

TMI Thursday: Don’t Stand So Close To Me

I know, lovelies, I’m late to the party. Better late than never, yes?

TMI Thursday

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. This little girl was always breaking out in poison ivy, oak or sumac. (this little girl is in no way my baby sister, evar, no way, it’s a dirty lie). Her Mama was a working girl (not THAT kind, ya’ll, I mean all corporate and stuff) who left at the ass crack of dawn to get the office early.

So that was how this little girl found herself packing her book bag for a field trip all alone. She had a nasty patch of the Ivy on the small of her back, and it was itchin’ like a bitch. The little girl is in second or third grade maybe. She called her Mama and asked where the poison ivy medicine was so she could take it on her field trip. Her Mama told her to look for the cream with hydro-cortisone in on her bathroom counter and rushed her off the phone, because Mama was IMPORTANT and couldn’t be bothered with the little girl’s rash issues at the moment.

The little girl was a smart cookie- she found the tube that said “whatever % hydro-cortisone” on the front, threw it in her backpack and caught the bus to school.

Later that day at where ever the hell the field trip was, she walked up to her favorite teacher. Her favorite teacher was the new one- the cute young guy that had just started at the school and was very sweet to all the kids. The little girl just thought this teacher hung the moon, she loved him so.

You can imagine how it hurt her feelings when she handed him the tube of cream, asked him to help her with the itching, and turned her back on him and he ran away. Ran away to an old lady teacher and muttered something and threw the tube at the old lady and disappeared for awhile…

Well, it hurt her feelings real bad. Really bad enough that when her awesome sauce big sister got home from school, she had to cry and snot all over her and tell her all about it. Because her awesome big sister is an EVEN smarter cookie than she is, she said to the little girl- “bring me the cream you took to school today. RIGHT NOW.”

That big sister was still an angsty teenager with a liver full of sibling rivarly and hatred. So when the little girl produced a tube of Preparation H? She could only roll around on the floor, convulsing in a fit of pee inducing laughter.

Because she truly was an awesome sauce big sister, she found the REAL poison ivy medicine for the little girl, and the little girl and the old lady teacher talked to the very cute and thoroughly disturbed new male teacher the next day and everyone was happy…..

This may seem a little immature, now that I’m almost thirty and I love that little girl so much it makes my heart hurt, but…

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! She asked her teacher to help her with hemorrhoid cream! BWAHAHAHA!

TMI Thursday: In Which I Discover FWB

TMI Thursday

At the tender age of sixteen, I was hanging out with a group of people who were at least five years older than I was, which I would recommend highly to any teenager, so long as their parents aren’t around to hear me say it.

There was a guy in our little gang who was so handsome, so hot, so incredibly attractive that I was smitten the moment I saw him. As I got to know him a little better, I realized how wild he really was. He was passionate about everything, was a risk taker, was always pushing the envelope. He was the guy that you begged not to talk when the cops showed up, because it would only lead to unmitigated disaster.

I will explain at this point that this guy was Icelandic. He had white blond hair, ice blue eyes and chiseled everything. He was six foot tall and I only wish I had a picture, could post a picture, because my description doesn’t even do him justice. He was smokin’ hot.

So it happened that one night that we found ourselves quite drunk and rather alone. One thing led to another (as it so often does when one finds themselves quite drunk), and the next thing I knew, I was having sex with the hottest man to ever walk the Earth. Of course, because this is my life and not a Molly Ringwald movie, a very irritating chick who was visiting a friend from some other town interrupted us. Which killed the mood, because not two hours previously, she informed us that she was covered in little white bumps, which her doctor told her was a fungal infection she caught from the tanning bed.

It mattered little to me. I had taken advantage of the opportunity of a lifetime.

Until I realized that Fungal Infection told all of our friends what happened.

My girlfriends (again, these girls were at least five years my senior) were horrified with him. They asked me- “So are the two of you dating now?”, and I thought about it for a minute.

“No, I don’t really think so. I really don’t think he has any interest in dating me.”

“Then why did you sleep together? Why did he sleep with you? Why in the blue fuck did you sleep with him, then?”

“Um, because I could? Because I know that he’ll never date me, but who would turn him down?!”

I will admit, I was as confused as they were. I didn’t understand why they were so outraged. We’re friends, I have a huge crush on him, we got drunk, we had sex, end of story. Should I have not slept with him because I knew what was up? But then I never would have slept with the hottest man to walk the Earth, evar?

“This was so wrong of him. He knows how much you like him!”

Okay, but he didn’t tell me that he loved me? He didn’t say that we would be together. He just started nibbling on my ear, and I didn’t stop him. I encouraged him. It never occurred to me at any point to stop and say “hey, what are the chances of you ever buying me dinner”?!

He and I spoke about it once, briefly. He asked me if I understood that our little escapade was not the beginning of a beautiful relationship. I nodded. He asked me if I was okay with that, or if I felt taken advantage of. I told him that I was fine with it, that I would have loved to date him, but that I knew that was unrealistic, and had never really thought otherwise?

We remained friends for years afterward, and there were a few inappropriate moments peppered here and there, but nothing as glorious as that first night. I think he was afraid of my friends.

So that, my lovely freaders, is when I figured out a few important things:

Sex and love are two very, very different things, and you can have one without the other- in fact, I would gain to say that having the two of them together is something of a rare bird.

Women have to have a connection with a man to sleep with them, no matter what you try to tell me. If you don’t care about someone on a very basic level, it’s not happening.

That feeling that you get from having sex without love- that gnawing guilty/wanting to turn his spare bedroom into a nursery feeling? It’s biology, folks. In case you get knocked up. What do you do with that feeling? Acknowledge it and dismiss it. It’s not doing you any good unless you are, in fact, knocked up.

The ending of this story might be better than the story itself.

Two years later, when the ex and I crossed paths with this guy as a couple? We chatted idly for a few minutes, and he asked my new boyfriend if we were dating. When the ex confirmed that we were, he smiled, leaned over and said: “Good for you, man, you’ve got a live wire there…”

Not only did I sleep with one of the hottest men in the world, but I got a rave review.  Does it get any better than that?

Happy TMI Thursday!

TMI Thursday: In Which I Serve My Country

TMI Thursday

Yes, lovely freaders, it’s TMI Thursday! Today’s story takes place in the long, long ago when I was about sixteen. My friends were a group of people at least four years older than I.

One of our friends was leaving to join the Marines, so we threw him a party. His last hurrah. Much booze was consumed, and I don’t really remember how Mr. Marine and I ended up on the pull out sofa bed together, but we did.

Like any good and patriotic American girl who finds herself drunk and cuddled up to a soon to be Marine, I felt compelled to give him a decent send off. I mean, doesn’t he deserve to go into basic training with the highest morale possible? The fact that he was handsome and halfway charming didn’t hurt at all.

I gave him such a good send off that we never made it to the main event. Which surprised me, because at the tender age of sixteen, I had no clue what I was doing. I woke up the next morning with a sticky t shirt and feeling a little sheepish.  I was also a little sensitive about my lack of experience- had I made a fool of myself? My consolation was that at least he had left town, so I wouldn’t have to deal with any aftermath, and to this day, I still don’t know that anyone else at the party knew about what happened that night.  I went on about my sweet sixteen business and after a while, I mostly forgot all about it.

Fast forward several months, to Mr. Marine’s first visit home on leave.

I’m sitting in the same house the send off party was held in, drink in hand, talking to a friend when he walked through the door. I turned to see who it was, and he saw me, and I must have blushed harder than I’ve ever blushed since. What do you say to a guy in this situation? All the worry and doubt and sheepishness came flooding back like a day hadn’t passed between our encounter and his return.

Turns out, I didn’t have to say a thing. He picked me up into a huge hug and twirled me around, going on and on about how much he had missed me?! I mean, it could have been a scene from a World War Two movie! We were not great friends before his send off, so his enthusiasm had to be about his farewell party.  So, not only did I not make a fool of myself, but apparently the memories of that night kept me on this guy’s radar for almost a year afterward, which made me feel a lot better about the whole thing. That was also when I realized what a simple and grateful creature the male human can be at a basic level. Nothing else ever happened between us; we talked that night and I never saw him again.

How’s that for serving your country? 😉

TMI Thursday: Pete

When you have a big crowd of people that you hang out with, there are always a few folks on the fringe. One of them is always an old guy, usually a drunk, and at least moderately creepy.

Meet Pete.  Pete’s poison was red wine. He would finish a bottle or two in a night, easy. A little background on Pete:

– The first time I met him, he asked me if I was a Polynesian mail order bride and what catalog MH ordered me out of.

– Pete  not only worked the Ren Fest, but he wore the costume continuously while the Ren Fest was in town.

– Pete is a known projectile puking drunk.

We were at a friend’s house- that friend that always throws the parties- and we were upstairs playing pool. This was poor judgment on the part of our host, who generally never allowed Pete inside, except for the basement.  The evening progressed as a normal evening does.

Then, in one swift minute, MH and his best friend asked Pete if he was okay in the same breath. Pete wasn’t looking good- he had that telltale blank panicked look, a thin film of flop sweat, and his jaw was set. Steven went to open the sliding glass door and we were all directing Pete towards it. He then threw up all over the sliding glass door, the floor, and Steven’s hand. They got him out on to the back deck, where he proceeded to throw up all over the deck boards. It was dripping through to the basement porch below.

We made a fast exit towards the car, because if there is one thing MH knows about me, it’s that I simply cannot be around puke and pukers. We’re getting ready to pull out of the driveway when Pete came running toward the car, spitting chunks out of his mouth, screaming “why don’t you like me? don’t you like me? why don’t you like me?”. Lucky for me, MH hit the gas and we drove down the driveway and away from the red wine puke covered creepy ass old guy in a Peter Pan suit.

Happy TMI!

TMI Thursday

TMI Thursday: Poop Vengeance

TMI Thursday

I used to work night audit at a hotel in my hometown. The hotel was a quarter of a mile from a huge conference center that had more conference space than room space, and they would place conference attendees in our hotel. It was a quarter mile walk, and they even ran a shuttle for the guests.

I checked this lady in one night, and she was rather unhappy to be staying with us instead of at the conference center, where you could stumble from the bar to your room rather than having to hoof it a quarter mile. I assured her that the walk was short and safe, and that the shuttle runs regularly. She was a professional woman in her early thirties, wearing a pinstriped pantsuit and was properly accessorized. She was Professional Barbie, except that her hair was dark, not blond.

I was also working Friday morning when she checked out. Shortly after she left, I got a call from the executive housekeeper.

“I am not fucking cleaning this up, and neither are my girls. You’re going to have to bring a crew in here, because we’re not fucking touching it.”

Diana had the mouth of a sailor, yes, and she was also a hard worker, so I was very concerned about what it was, exactly, that she was refusing to clean. I managed to get the story out of her without having to go up there….

Poop. Poop everywhere. In the bed. On the curtains. In the fake ficus tree that sat in the corner. In the microwave. In dresser drawers. In the sink. On the counter. Poop. Everywhere. Smeared in some places, smashed in others, and some of the piles were left in their natural turdy shape.

It seems that Professional Barbie decided to protest her rooming assignment with her own doo doo.

What is incomprehensible to me is that there was easily a week’s worth of poop in there. Did she work on it all week and live in the room like that? Did she take a laxative Thursday night and burn the midnight oil? Also, was there no way to protest that didn’t involve grabbing a big pile of your own turds and placing them lovingly in a microwave?!

I keep grudges something fierce, ya’ll, just ask MH, but I don’t know that I would be willing to touch my own poo, nay, smear my turds on the curtains to punish someone else…

We called in a Hazmat crew to clean the room, reported the girl to the conference center, who called her company, who reimbursed us for the expense and fired her.

No shit.

Happy TMI Thursday! 🙂

TMI Thursday: Lend Me A Hand….

TMI Thursday

This story occurs back in the way back when, before WH and I were married.

He took me camping, here in Western North Carolina, and this was one of hundreds of trips we took. We found a campsite over looking the lake (ask him which one it was!), and got out of the car to set up the tent. Immediately, a horrible, awful poop smell washed over us. We searched high and low for what we were sure was a bear pile, you know, just so we could not step in it during those middle of the night pee stumbles. It was nowhere to be found. We shrugged it off and had a wonderful night in the woods.

The next morning, we woke up, got our bearings, and broke down camp. MH got behind the wheel of my little Neon, put her in reverse, and tapped the gas. The tires started spinning, but we weren’t going anywhere. The ground was covered in wet leaves, and we figured this was what was keeping us from getting any traction.

I am not a morning person, you all know this, and this little mishap was getting between me and some awful gas station coffee, so I was impatient. Hard to believe, I know.

I jumped out of the car and immediately spotted a clump of leaves stuck to one of my tires… so I grabbed it and kind of pulled it off/brushed it off of the tire…

Which is exactly when I found the stinky ass stanky bear pile we were looking for the day before- all over my hand. Bear poo. With blackberry seeds and everything. It was light brown, almost orange, really, and sticky. Poor bear could have used some shredded wheat and triscuits, let me tell you.

I used some random rag and half a bottle of purell to clean up with, and MH helped out by laughing hysterically at me. The purell killed the germs, but it did nothing for the stench. I held my hand out the window while we drove for damn near an hour before it faded.