Category Archives: Me

I pooped my pants on a business trip.

For the first time I’ve let my new coworkers in on my secret blog. Why the secret? Oh, I don’t know… maybe because I’m writing stories about farts, female facial hair, and now “poop”. All of these stories so far have been from my childhood. No worries, we’ll be back there soon. This one is from a working mutha. Actually working in a respectable company, respectable pay, respectable title. Doing disrespect-able things.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never done anything dishonest during my career. Just stupid. In honor of my new co-workers who have travelled away from home, saw new places, venture out on their own, and ate bad Chinese food… This one’s for you.

This was my second travelling job, my first two were with oil companies. I have actually been quite the traveller, pinning places like New Orleans, Odessa Texas, and Oklahoma City. On this particular trip, I was in the amazing wonderment of Dallas Texas. I wasn’t even in Dallas, I was actually in Arlington. I’ve lived in Texas all my life and this was actually the first time I’ve been to Dallas. I flew Southwest and checked in to the suggested hotel. La-freaking-Quinta. It wasn’t horrible, but come on–it’s LaQuinta. They wanted us to stay there because it was like 50cents a night, and close enough to either walk to the office or grab the LaQuinta minivan.

After my first day of work at the Dallas Office, I decide to cut out early. I was tired and just wanted to sit by myself and relax. I hitched a ride back to the hotel and scoped out restaurants on the way that were in walking distance from my room. I saw PeiWei – SCORE.


If’ you’ve ever eaten at PeiWei, you know that everything comes in servings of two, but most of us fat Americans go ahead and eat both servings. I preordered and went to pick up my meal(s) and take them back to my room where I could watch tv and pig out. That I did.

Now that I’ve stuffed myself, it was all of like 6:00. There would be sunlight for a good 3 more hours, so I decided to take a walk. I have no idea what I was thinking. I’m not a walker… and here I am “exploring” freaking an Arlington strip center like it was Fifth Avenue in New York. Texas isn’t made for walking. The intersections are 18Miles wide, cross walks don’t really work, and store parking lots are about 20miles long to get from store to store.

So I’m in and out of dumb retail stores I could care less about, pretending to enjoy myself, but really I just ate too much Chinese food and needed to walk around. My stomach grumbles and immediately turns into 150degrees of sickness. I panic. I need a rest room quick. I am looking all around, no restaurants (restaurants MUST have public bathrooms). I’ve walked in the complete opposite direction of PeiWei and all the other restaurants on the planet. For some reason I walked in the direction of nothingness.

I’m about to die. I’m afraid I won’t make it, I’m doubled over in pain, and soon to be agonizing embarrassment. I’m wearing long, wide-leg jeans and a long sleeve shirt. It’s not cold, but it’s what I had going on. I was already sweating from walking and now from the possibility of shitting my pants. As fast as the wave came over me, it was gone. Whew.

I stand up straight, wipe the sweat from my brow and leave the store unsoiled.

Luckily, there was a Baskin Robins right around the corner, just one more intersection over. Remember, one block over in Texas means a freaking continent. I weigh my options of going directly back to the hotel, and making it *just* to the BaskinRobins. Baskin’s would have a restroom to use, I’d be relieved of all worries, and plus–now I wanted ice cream.

I made it. I opened the ice cream parlor door and the cool air rushes over me, ahhh instant relief. Luckily, the little storefront was semi-busy and no one would notice me going to blow out the bathroom. This is not something I’m proud of mind you. I am not one to talk about poop, or discuss it for any reason. That’s what makes this story so horrifying to me.

I reach for the knob to open the doors to the heavily thrown in which would relieve me of my PeiWei contamination boiling in my stomach. Shit. It won’t open. Guy from behind the counter yells at me of the line of people, ‘Sorry it’s out of order.’ Clearly, a recent PeiWei patron made a visit.

Oh gosh… the thought of walking all the way back to the LaFreakingQuinta was killer. But now, I’m staring at the ice cream, looking outside at the window, thinking of my hot walk back to the hotel. I needed ice cream. I was about to loose 15lbs anyway. The thought of ice cream is actually starting to make my stomach settle. Maybe that’s all it needed?

My stomach and I decided I needed chocolate ice cream in a waffel cone. I expensed my delight and head back for the hotel.

The ice cream was amazing, but I had to eat it much faster than I wanted because it was so hot outside, and was starting to drip all over my hands. I looked like a second grader, I was a mess. The feeling hits again. Stomach on fire. This time, my entire body is sweaty, any crease in my body is covered in salty sweat (except for my hand which was covered in chocolate-and sweat).

I’m two intersections away from LaQuinta potty. It’s almost exciting. But now, it’s getting worse. I might die, literally. I’m shuffling as fast as I can. I’m still eating that damn ice cream. I could have thrown it on the ground. I have no idea why I didn’t. My legs can’t move in great strides, I’m afraid I’ll loose the precious gluteus-maximus-vault-like muscle tention I had built up during this ordeal. Ice cream in one hand, wiping sweat off my face with the other, my wide leg pants are now about three sizes larger than they were, I’m having to hold one of the pant legs up like a skirt. The LaQuinta is in site! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

On my journey back, I’ve already decided I can quickly go in the side door facing the parking lot and not have to go all the way around the front. My room would be on that side of the building. Success! I swiped my key card to enter the door, ahhhh that cold air conditioning rushes over me again. It didn’t provide the same relief as last time, but I was hot sweaty, and this was certainly welcome.

The feeling is worse, I’m about to explode. I decide it’s a good idea now to break into stride. I need to run up those stairs and dash into my room, FAST. The stairs were a little wider and a little less steep than normal stairs, I think LaQuinta was trying to be fancy. Who cares. I was on the second floor and I needed to get their in a hurry.

Mid way through the flight of stairs my life pauses and begins turing in slow motion.

I trip over my now sweat soaked wide leg pants, I trip. My arms are flung in the air, my chocolate ice cream and waffel cone slams and splatters on the stair way. I reach out my other hand to try and catch myself, I lost all balance, all sense of self respect and had lost any control over my bowels. Yes, I shit my pants.

This all happened in slow motion mind you…To me, it feels like it took about four minutes to complete that choreographed fall. Horrified.

I jump up, leave the crime scene and run to my room where I have to strip off heavy blue jeans, and shower. Hot steam shower. I would have used bleach if I had any. If you crap your pants, just know it’s not easy to remove your pants without the bathroom looking like a mental ward of some sort.

What I’m really afraid of, is that that stairway was on video, and I’ll end up on YouTube and then on Tosh.0 or somewhere horrible. “Fat girl falls on stairway, loses chocolate ice cream waffel cone and craps her pants”. haha. Wouldn’t that be funny? No. No it would not. That poor girl was horrified, left the giant poop-colored-chocolate mess, and never returned to that hotel again.


I farted in the car at prom.

This isn't the exact dress, but pretty damn close.

If you know me, you know I don’t fart. People who don’t know me, may think my outgoing personality and say-it-like-it-is attitude is open to such things as flatulence or belching. That is far from the truth. I don’t even allow my children to say the word fart. It’s honestly disgusting. That said, sometimes you have no control over your moral wishes. Your body says otherwise.

Its prom season around these parts. For high school girls, March is for finding a date, saving money, and dress shopping. I recently went shopping for a dress with my daughter who was really set on getting the $400 dress I let her try on. And no matter how much I tell her that she has no idea how good she has it, she really is clueless and spoiled.

This got me thinking back to my prom. I didn’t actually go to my senior prom. I went in a pair of jeans and took photos of my friends in their beautiful gowns while my husband stayed at home with the baby.  But I did go to A prom. It was my Freshman year, he was a Junior. We had dated most of that year, so prom was inevitable. My mom took me dress shopping, let me look at all the beautiful gowns and even let me try on a bunch of them. I think she was just being nice and let me feel like pretty woman, but in the end, she told me there was no way I was getting any type of dress and she assured me the bridesmaid dress that I wore for my brothers wedding would do just fine.

I’d post a picture from prom, but I can’t find them. My date’s mom bought the photos, she paid for everything because she loved me. Him, I don’t think so, but mom sure did! Anyway, if I wanted to go, I had to wear the dress. I didn’t know anyone to borrow from (I’d only lived in Craptown USA for a year).

The dress was royal blue. Home made from a pattern. Blue lace bodice over the blue satin. Long to the ground, (that year short was in style), blue sequined belt that hit just below my boobs, gigantic blue puffy sleeves. I hated it, but if I were going to prom that’s what I was wearing. So off we go.

We double dated. It was my first fancy date. He was in a tux jacket and shirt and wore a cowboy hat, fancy new black wranglers and of course boots. This was pretty much the uniform for the town prom-goers.  His friend was a Senior that year dating some girl who eventually egged his house and made him miserable. His bud’s mom rented a Cadillac, we sat in the back. It was probably the nicest car I’d ever been in at that point. It had a gigantic back seat with leather interior. Damn that leather.

We ate at the local country club (which wasn’t local and was about 20 miles away). I think this must have been one of the parents ideas because we were the ONLY people in the entire restaurant. I was nervous and felt weird. I felt like we were all playing dress up and we looked stupid. I honestly don’t remember what we talked about or what I ate. Probably because it sucked. This wasn’t what the movie proms were like.

After dinner we slid back into the car and we set off to the long drive to the high school. On those damn leather seats, in that stupid car.

As the radio got louder and we set out on our 30 min drive back though town, I decided to be sweet and tell my date I loved him. This was the first person I had ever said this to. I think we were just trying it out, didn’t really mean it… but it felt cool to say it.

I slid next to him, me now sitting in the middle of the backseat in this gigantic Cadillac, I put my am through his squeeze tight, look him in the eye, tell him, “I love you.” I smile sweetly, and then fart.

His head quickly turned toward the window. I began to sweat. There was no mistake at what had just happened. Those freaking stupid leather seats and my ugly satin dress provided the perfect acoustics for such horror. My arm was still interlocked in his, and I can feel him shaking. He’s laughing. I’m horrified. If I was an open farter, I might help him laugh it off and tell everyone, “roll down all the windows! Man, my stomach hurts!”

But no. I just can’t do it. I’m horrified, embarrassed and I want to go home. Then, the idiot rolls down his window and says he’s hot. The stupid soon-to-be ex girlfriend stick-girl in the front begs him to roll it back up because she’s freezing and now they’re fighting it out, and I want to die.

Complete silence in the car for the rest of the ride.

When we got to the high school, girls went to the girls room, boys waited for us. This provided those jerks the perfect opportunity to talk about my fart. To talk about how disgusting I was and how my fart stinks (and it did).

I can remember every second of that part of prom, but I don’t remember ever dancing with him. I don’t remember even taking our photos. I don’t remember the ride home. All I can remember is the stupid ugly ass blue dress and those stupid leather seats.

And if you’re wondering my daughter DID get that $400 dress. And she’s going stag. And she loves to fart.


Hello world!

I’ll leave this lame post title because I suppose it’s correct. If you’re following me from the beginning, its because you know my story and you know there is sure to be some good reading here… or you’re scared to death I’m actually going to write about you. I thank you just the same.

I’ve been on a reading kick lately and thought, Shit. My story kicks their story’s asses. True, if I had a drug habbit, my story might be a little more interesting.

I told my mom a while back I was going to write my story. She laughed. I think it was more of a “oh, shit” giggle than a “oh that will be wonderful!” giggle.

Why would I write my story, and why is my story any more interesting than yours? It’s probably not. But hey, its my story, and in my story I decide that everyone thinks I’m interesting and funny and wants to hear all about the twists and turns that got me where I am.

I’ll try to post in order. Although, I’ve already written a few chapters that are the most interesting, or are the ones I find myself telling over and over because they get the best reaction. Those are the chapters that are kind of like a train wreck. You shouldn’t want to keep listening, but you can’t help but want to hear all about.

In a nutshell:

  • Girl has too many siblings brothers.
  • Girl moves to Craptown USA.
  • Girl has entirely new life.
  • Girl finds boyfriends.
  • Girl realizes she is awesome at journalism class boyfriends.
  • Girl decides to be a journalism teacher have baby.
  • Girl gets married to baby’s daddy a boyfriend.
  • Girl has another baby.
  • Girl parties with babies.
  • Girl doesn’t like lame husband.
  • Girl loves being alone.
  • Girl changes entire life.
  • Girl writes a new chapter.
  • Girl finds cooler husband Schmoopie.
  • Girl realizes she raised awesome daughters.
  • Girl writes about true stories because blogging is fun.

While this seems simple, I could honestly write an entire book on the first bullet point. This outline could will change. Good luck on keeping up with me. Thanks for the follow.

And don’t worry, I’ll change all the names of the innocent. (Assuming any of you are innocent).