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not for the faint-of-tummy

2004-11-10 - 5:10 p.m.

Head on over to Luis' place and check out his burgeoning comments section for his cute color-coded post. Lots of interesting ideas floating around over there, and I seem to have been doing most of my blogging there instead of here.

Since you can read all my political crap over there, I'll keep this post limited to personal crap, although lately those lines have been getting blurred.

Winter maintenance running program starts up on Saturday, and boy howdy, am I looking forward to it. For the last couple weeks, I've been alternately too busy/tired/slightly ill to go to the gym. I'd like to try to get over there tonight after dinner, but am not sure due to an event which took place at the office today. If you are easily squicked out, you may wish to skip the next the rest of this entry.

There are few things fraught with more peril than vomiting at work. Due to my extensive experience, I am generally able to tell anywhere from 5-10 minutes before the event itself, and so have always been able to make it to the restroom in a ladylike fashion, rather than running desperately throughout the halls with one hand clapsed to my mouth and a look of utter and wild panic in my eyes.

Of course, the worst part is entering the bathroom. I've been lucky enough to never have had someone else in there with me while I did the deed, but how long can this good fortune last? Now I'm not really super-embarassed by vomiting. I've done it often and I've done it in public, due to the uber-delicate stomach which is my father's legacy to his only daughter. But I just know, should one of my colleagues hear me "being sick," the following conversation would ensue. "Are you okay?" "Yes, just an upset stomach." Pause. "Do you think you could be... pregnant?" Now, there's just no way to answer that with a negative and come across as believable without giving too much information. One hardly wishes to say "I just had my period and we have not reconvened the procedure since then, so no, there is no way that I could possibly be pregnant, save that I am carrying the godhead within my womb." No one wants to hear that, and more importantly, no one wants to say that. People, I make this vow today: should I ever hear a co-worker praying to the porcelain god, I shall simply ask her if she's okay, if she'd like some water, and then, after ascertaining, she didn't need any medical attention, drop the freaking subject. Those of us who are in the once-a-month club (and you know who you are) are, if not comfortable with, then familiar with our affliction. We know when it's coming, we know how to take care of it, and we really don't need hushed inquiries as to whether or not our uterus is occupied. And also, if you see a college freshman puking her guts out for all she's worth on campus, please consider that she may not be drunk, she may just be waging her daily war wtih acid reflux and has just lost a battle. There is no need for your smarmy remarks of "stupid drunk freshman!" and as she gently croaks after you "I'm not drunk!!" you may wish to turn about, fucking apologize, and ask if you may fetch her some water. Fuckers.


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Die Entfuehrung
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