If you are someone who is prone to anxiety, do yourself a favor and do NOT purchase scarlet red body wash. I promise that if you do, you will look down at the bottom of the shower while soaping yourself and be CERTAIN that you are bleeding from at least one organ. EVERY. SINGLE. FUCKING. TIME.
It does wake me up, though.
Sitting here in the dermatologist waiting room, there is a teenage boy with severe acne, looking pretty sad.
I wanted to lean over to him and whisper, “Don’t worry, it gets better,” but then I remembered that I’m here to get my moles checked for cancer.
So it doesn’t really get better…it just gets…deadlier?
I’m going to stay quiet.
I’ve been complaining about my frequent urination issues for a while now, so, urged by friends and family, I finally went to see a urologist.
Urologist: “So what seems to be the problem?”
Me: “I have to pee ALL the time. Way too much. Way too often.”
Urologist: “It sounds like you might have overactive bladder.”
Me: “No, I KNOW I have an overactive bladder. That’s what I’m saying. That’s the only symptom. My bladder is overactive.”
Urologist: “Right, but I’m saying, that means you probably have Overactive Bladder. That’s the name of the condition.”
Me: “Are you serious?”
Urologist: “Yes.”
Me: “So they just took the one symptom and named the condition that?”
Urologist: “Well…yes. Essentially.”
Me: “That seems lazy.”
Urologist: “I’m sorry you’re disappointed.”
Me: “So I just paid to hear things I already know. Things anyone who knows me knows.”
Urologist: “Possibly.”
Me: “Is your job even real?”
He’s doing a cystoscopy on me next week. But I’m pretty sure he recommended it just so he could say a big, medical-y term I’ve never heard of and prove his job is real.
I’m on to you, pee doctor.
That moment when the parent of a student sends you and your co-teacher a rude, confrontational note in an envelope, but she accidentally also encloses the results of her gynecological exam.
She has Menorrhagia.
It’s characterized by a heavy menstrual flow.
Yeah. I googled it.
Kid (frantic, pointing to his penis): “Miss Emily!!!! My private parts are hurting and I DON’T KNOW WHY!” (Hops from left foot to right foot, clutches pants, bends knees).
May I remind you I teach 4th grade. Not kindergarten.
This kid is 10.
I sent him to the nurse.
I just made a donation to Red Cross in order to support those in the Paris terror attacks. When it comes to supporting France, however, I think any act of solidarity right now is helpful and significant.
And THAT is why I am eating this entire wheel of Brie.
Water tastes better when you pour it into a wine glass and then replace it with wine.
Kid: “Miss Emily, can you please look at this for me?”
(This = the inside of his gums, where he had a huge, raging canker sore)
Me: “I’m looking. And I see. So I’m going to stop looking now.”
Kid: “Well it’s just that it hurts. Do you see anything?”
Me: “Yes. It appears you have a canker sore.”
Kid: “Will it kill me?”
Me: “What?! No. No it will not.”
Kid: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Yes. Canker sores are annoying and unpleasant, but they go away and they will certainly not kill you.”
Kid: “Is it like a cold sore? Because a cold sore can kill you.”
Me: “It’s different from a cold sore…but last time I checked, a cold sore will not kill you either.”
Kid: “Well that’s not true. You don’t always get them in your mouth…”
Me: “This conversation is over. Please get back to work.”
And then I stood up, went to the other side of the room, and hid behind the math center.
Because that’s what you do when a 9-year-old alludes to genital herpes.
You run away and hide behind a bin of protractors.
#mastersdegree
This morning, as I was running at 6am after having been sick all week, I started to doubt my ability to run this upcoming Philadelphia marathon.
But then I remembered that I ran my very first marathon a few years ago with an extremely painful UTI (don’t ask. I discovered it too late. And I’d come too far).
And my sister ran a half marathon with a bladder full of kidney stones.
And my brother ran a half marathon with two extremely chafed, stinging, bleeding nippples.
And we ALL finished our races. And made pretty good time! Which just goes to show.
My family is disgusting.
We really should take better care of ourselves.
Jesus Christ.
Eric is cooking me breakfast in my kitchen while I lay sick on the couch…
Eric (yelling from the kitchen): “Hey, do you have pepper?”
Me: “No…”
Eric: “Salt?”
Me: “Maybe some packets? In the fridge.”
Eric: “Right. Because that’s where salt is kept. Ok…a pan?”
Me: “Ummm…check the cabinet. I think there’s an orange one?”
Eric: “Nope. There is not. Garlic?”
Me: (hysterical laughter)
Eric: “Yeah that was an insane request. A sponge?”
Me: “Why?”
Eric: “To clean the pan.”
Me: “Just let it soak.”
Eric: “But I have to use it again. Right now.”
Me: “Oh. Sorry. No.”
I will never again be cooked for.
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