"Ummm I'm Peeing....What Does It Look LIke?"

University: When being a slut with no ambition actually worked for me.

I've had a ton of time to reflect on my life since I've been lying here for nearly 4 months and as of late I've been thinking a lot about the good ol' days. It's a goddamn miracle I graduated STD free and without child. Remember the wait for an STD test? I think it took like a week didn't it? A week that felt like an eternity. I would do random vag checks and google searches to convince myself of a 1000 abnormalities before that long awaited week was over. When it would come back clean, I would go buy fudge from the market across the street from the STD clinic. Makes sense.

I would drink until 4am Tuesday-Sunday and miraculously get up at the crack of dawn in time to search for the condom I hoped we used. ask my roommate Katie to take notes for me in class. Sweet Jesus, I was out of control and I didn't have a care in the world. Actually, scratch that. I cared if my hair was frizzy, my box was shaved and if I could make our annual King's College ski weekend. End of.

The ski weekends were pretty pimp. A ton of us would all load up on a school bus, get shit faced and  drive up north. One weekend in particular, I thought it would be fab idea to bring a 60 ouncer of rye and a 12 pack of beer...and finish it in 2 days all by myself like any class act would. (How very Courtney Love of me, I know.)

Anyway, on the last night, some of my friends thought it would be a great idea to smoke some pot in my girlfriends car (also known as "hotboxing") and although I didn't smoke it at the time I had major FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) so I jumped in the car....

An hour later I was found in a closet eating a bagel by myself. Enough said.

Three of my girlfriends and I shared a room in the chalet that night. When I was finally convinced that bed was a good idea, I went. The room had one giant bunk bed. I was on the bottom with my girlfriend Mel while Kim and Katie were up top. I really, really wish I wasn't on the bottom as it may have prevented the story I'm about to share or at least I think it would've.

As a girl who has had a TON of cocktails I OBVS would have to get up and pee in the middle of the night... right? Well, I did. Only I peed on the floor. Of our room. In front of everyone.

I must have been high off my ass because I had no idea that I had gotten out of bed, stood in the centre of the room, pulled down my pajama pants and copped a squat right there. It was only until the sound of my mega loud pissing awoke Kim on the top bunk that shit got real. (Please note, I sincerely believed I was in the washroom sitting on the toilet.)

Kim: " NAAANNNNERS? What the fuck are you doing?" She grabbed her glasses and flicked on the light. 
Me: (With a serious attitude) "Ummmmmmm I'm pissing. What does it look like?" 

It was at that moment I thought there was no way that God existed. Because if he did, he would have pulled up my fucking pajama bottoms or made me spontaneously combust.
I had awoken mid-pee and I could not physically stop. By this time, lights on, the girls were up and screaming at me:

"NANNERS don't piss on my purse" 
"NANNERS....our clothes are getting wet, stop peeing!!" 
"Get a towel you idiot!!" 
"Why wouldn't you go to the washroom??! OMG what is happening? Why are you doing this?"

Those are phrases that are burnt into my memory until this day. I can still see the commotion happening all around me while I sat there frozen in the middle of the room peeing. In fact I was peeing so fiercely that the speed of my pee was making it splash up around me on my ankles. It was like my own little terrorist attack of urine.

Finally, I decided my bladder was empty and that was enough embarrassment for one night. I calmly and silently stood up, pulled up my pajama bottoms and got back in bed.

When I got into bed there was an eery silence. For a moment I thought this was all a vivid nightmare. There was no way that just happened. No one was yelling at me, lights were off and I was somewhat at peace. I closed my eyes and within 30 seconds the top bunk was shaking so hard from scream laughing that I thought it would collapse on me. Fuck. It was real.

My very stern response to the scream laughter was, "it's not that funny." And I didn't speak another word until we got in the car to go home the next morning.

I have never lived this down.


Nanners out.

The Ugly Truth About Hotdogs

The other night on Twitter, one of the trending topics was #NameYourVaginaAfterAMovie....

I wanted to frantically update my Twitter with all the movies that came to mind, but I pussied out. I have no idea why I can use the word 'pussy' but can't use the proper term 'vagina.' Ew. I hate that word. Maybe it's because when I was a little girl my mom bought me a book called 'What's Happening To Me'  and every page had the word vagina on it. This book was her way of saying " Hey listen, I've noticed your B.O and the hair on your legs and I'm betting you have pubes...but....I would actually prefer to not talk to you about this."

When my mom casually passed the book off to me, I recall my little virgin eyes frantically blasting  through the pages so I could find some pics. I didn't for real read it. C'mon, I still giggle at naked photos. The pics were pretty graphic; meaning massive bushes and really low hanging ballsacks.
Who drew this shit? They forgot to include the stretch marks, varicose veins, saggy tits, nipple hair and cellulite. I think if you're gonna publish a book about how your body is gonna suck for the rest of your life, and you're gonna be a raging lunatic a few days a month, then at least make it accurate. And may I also mention that both breasts in the pics were perfect AND the same size. I'm at least a B in one breast and a C in the other.

Since I only looked at nudie pics in the book my mom bought me, I was very unprepared for the crime scene in my pants the first time I got my period. I swear, I must have been away the day they covered periods in class. I didn't go to school on Mondays for like 7 years in a row. (Any of my besties reading this blog right now can testify to that.)  I conveniently had a headache every monday until I was 16 and my mom never caught on.

I think every little girl remembers the day she became a psycho. entered into womanhood. For me, it was hotdog day at school.

All the mom's on the PTA would come to our school every Thursday and make us hotdogs to raise obesity rates eat for lunch. I'm pretty sure I ingested a lethal amount of nitrates and cow biproduct in elementary school but those were the times.

After digesting about 900 calories for lunch I went outside for recess. I remember walking around
(Yup, I walked, I never ran even as a kid. Nothings changed) And out of nowhere I got these earth shattering stomache pains and I quickly scurried inside to the washroom.

I pulled down my underwear, sat on the toilet and took one glance down to my Hanes and what a bloody mess I found.Instantaneously I thought:'OMG, somethings wrong with the hotdogs! There must have been razor blades in them that have cut my organs and my vagina on the way out.  Wait, what if I'm dying? Is this massive organ failure?'

That moment was probably the 3rd time in my life I decided to run. I ran like a gazelle to the principal's office and was greeted by our secretary Mrs. Gadsen.
Me: (leaning over her desk and whispering) "There is something wrong with the hot dogs."
Mrs. G: "What do you mean dear?"
Me: (leaning closer) "The hot dogs are making me bleed."
She stared at me for what seemed like an eternity.
Mrs G: "Amanda, I think I should call your mom."

I slowly walked toward the sick room as the cramps began to set in. At that point I didn't realize "hotdogs would ruin my life every 28 days for the next 40 years, so I sucked it up. Once I got closer to the sick room I discovered one of my classmates Davina was not well either. The moment I made eye contact with her, I knew I had an ally. I was right about the hot dog conspiracy. There were for sure razor blades in there. She knew it and I knew it. Either that or we both conveniently had organ failure on the same day.

When I got home that afternoon, my mom explained to me the ugly truth about what was really happening. I sat there in my diaper maxi pad, somewhat bewildered that this was now my life.

To soften the blow of the news, my mom suggested we go ice skating. Looking back, what was she thinking? The right thing to do would've been to sit me down with a bottle of Jack Daniels and light me a smoke. I was in for lifetime of misery and she was holding back. I agreed of course to the skating because at 11 you don't really have much of a fucking choice in anything. So I invited my bestie and off we went.

I don't remember much about the skating part, but I do vividly remember her taking us to Dunkin' Donuts after. I'm flashing back to sitting there and swivling in my chair trying to eat my chocolate glazed donut in peace, whilst trying to avoid eye contact with my mother. My mom was just sitting there staring at me and smiling. It was like I was some sort of zoo animal. Creepy.

The thoughts in my head at the moment went something like this:
"Wipe that fucking smirk off your face before I slap it off of you" And there it was. It was that moment I didn't know I'd been waiting for my whole 11 years on the planet. My first mood swing. Yesterday, I was playing with barbies and today...I was gonna fuck shit up.

Now when I think about it, Kathy Bates in Misery wasn't that bad of a person. It was just a movie about a misunderstood woman on her period. Right?

I could go on all day about the sheer misery of puberty and gorging blood from orfus's but I don't want to ruin the surprise when I rewrite  'What's Happening To Me?' I'm titling my book, 'What the Fuck is This Shit?' Stay tuned!

BTW-A few movies that came to mind to name my vagina after were: When Harry Met Sally, Misery, Lady and the Tramp, Miracle on 34th Street, Fame and Field of Dreams.

If you're reading this at your desk right now, I bet you're sitting there naming movies after your own vag. Don't lie. 

Peace out

Down in a Blaze of Glory...

Last night I heard some Eminem which brought me back to the night I lost my virginity...I am sooooo tempted to write about it but 3 out of the 4 people involved in that event are on my Facebook (excluding his mom-long story) so I'm gonna do the lady like thing and forgo sharing that experience. Unfortunately you're stuck with another post about my leg...Shocker.

Typically, the type of surgery I had keeps people hospital bound for 2 days and then they can peace out. I on the other hand, was shackled up for 5 blissful days, rooming with the cast of Goodfellas (see last week's post to get my wise guy movie reference) There is a small part of me that kind of prefers staying in the hospital over living alone. I think P.O.W's are more comfortable than I am. Actually, I know for a fact they are at least more sane.

When you live alone, you have a lot of time to masturbate  think, and the strangest anxieties can manifest. MANY disturbing thoughts run through my head on any given day. For example, a couple weeks ago I mentioned that I believe there's a murderer that hangs out in my bathtub and today I believe that the fan I have blowing on my face at night is gonna spontaneously dismantle and the blades are gonna fly off and slash my face beyond recognition in my sleep. That's legit...right?

BUT, I do have to say that my biggest most traumatizing fear is showering these days. Showering with one leg ain't easy and the sheer terror of someone finding my wet, naked, lifeless body on my bathroom floor is enough to scare me in to making my own homemade catheter. Ugh. I just shuddered and swallowed my tongue at the same time. It has legitimately become my worst fear (well that and being swallowed whole by a shark and surviving it.) So now when I travel the exhausting 10 feet to my washroom I carry the following: 

Lip Gloss- If I'm going down in a blaze of glory the least I can do is have a kissable pout and die with some dignity. 

Phone- In case I need to call 911 if I go tits up. Or if I need to call my mom crying from the toilet to let her know how unfair it is that i have a broken leg AND my period. (That happened)

A book-If I were to survive a slip and fall but can't move until my landlord finds my rotting corpse, then I must keep my mind preoccupied with some sort of pleasantry. (This week's book was Justin Bieber's 'Oh Boy' book my co-workers sent me-don't judge. (Technically I don't have to bring a book, I mean I could use the time on the floor to practice my british accent but I'm sure that would grow old.)
3 towels:

• 1 for my luscious locks 
• 1 to wipe the pee off the floor - I recognize that I've talked about pee a lot lately but since I broke my leg during the great fall of 2012, I think I've shifted my pee hole and I pee straight out instead of straight down. It's the strangest thing. I'm okay sharing this with strangers, just not my doctor.
• 1 is a courtesy towel for the police to cover my saggy breasts with in my own do-it yourself crime scene. I'm not kidding about my breasts. As I was laying in bed this morning, I noticed the gap between my breasts is expanding. Actually, I wrestled my breast out of my armpit if you want the real story. 

Well, I could continue writing about more of my fears but I'm about to pee my pants and I must go pluck my nipple hair to prep for today's shower. But before that and in closing, I wanted to leave you with a pic of my assisted pissing device. Yup, I'm 90.

Have a good weekend,
Nanners

Hospitals, doggie killers and the mafia.

I've been mega inconsistent with keeping my posts up to date. Having my foot broken into 9 million pieces has actually left me swamped with stalking celebs on the internet. As you can imagine, that's a daunting task. 

I'm currently lying in my bed starving and in pain and that brings me back to being in the hospital a few weeks ago so I thought I'd share a little bit about my experience. It's EXACTLY like staying in the Four Seasons. 

Prior to surgery you can't eat or drink anything for 12 hours. That was awesome especially since I've been proudly eating my feelings since 2003. This was no easy task. At one point I was so tragically hungry that I considered dispensing soap into my mouth when I went to the washroom. I remember staring at the soap dispenser thinking "I could SO put that in my mouth right now."(To those who know me, I say that a lot.) The only thing that stopped me from sucking the soap out of the dispenser was that it may have triggered me foaming at the mouth. Explaining to the nurses why bubbles came out when I spoke, would've put me at risk for being put into a straight jacket so I decided against it.  

Speaking of nurses, I have the UTMOST respect for them. They are the people in the trenches putting up with everyones bullshit and complaining. My first encounter with a nurse named Dorothy went something like this:

Nurse Dorothy: "Girl, you're gonna have to take down your panties now so I can put this swab in your bum and vagina." 

Me: "Can you at least take me to dinner first?" 

Everyone: Insert crickets followed by ego shattering silence. (I hate when I try to be funny and no one gets it.) 

I guess in Dorothy's defense, after working a 12 hour shift with the constant smell of shit wafting up her nose and swabbing people's cha-cha's and assholes, she can't see the humour in much. 

After I was anally probed, I had the pleasure of meeting my roommate Pina, her narcissist daughter Mary (who actually ruptured my ear drum when she said hello), and Pina's mob boss husband Joe. I'm pretty sure he was packin' heat and he's currently having me followed so I'm gonna lay off on talking smack about him. If you think I'm joking about Joe, I'm not. Joe meant business. Pina claimed he worked the nightshift at a produce market, yet he was for sure wearing two thousand dollar suits every time he came to visit. I was on to him. I watched the Sopranos. 

Pina was a tiny, old, Italian chain-smoker with the thickest of accents. In fact, I think it's safe to say Pina loved only 3 things in this world: Smoking, trash talking her daughter-in-law and smoking. 

Poor Pina was riddled with debilitating arthritis but this never stopped her from pulling a sneak attack. By sneak attack I mean I would be lying in bed at 3am, high off my ass on morphine trying to sleep and I would literally jolt up as she would be standing over me breathing heavily. 

(*Please read in an Italian accent) "How are-a chu feelin'?" (This is the point where I would buzz the nurses to change my sheets as I just shat my pants.)

One night, I got up to pee on the floor  to go to the washroom and I was hopping back to my bed and I pulled my curtain open and there she was, sitting on the chair next to my bed painting her nails at 4am. She looked up at me, "Good-a Morning." 

At that point how was I supposed to ask her to leave?  For one thing, she was married to the Godfather and I did not want to wake up with a horses head in my bed if I offended her by asking to get the fuck out. Secondly, she just looked so helpless. I just let this sneak attack slide and indulged her while she told the story of her whorish daughter-in-law and how she killed her dog. Pina found out about the untimely demise of her own dog through Facebook while she was in the hospital. This news made Pina want to "cut a bitch" so to speak, and rightfully so.

(*Italian accent)"I tella you, that-a woman change-a-mya-son-a. She is a whore-a. If he-a didn't love-a her, I would a punch-a her in de face-a. WHHHHYYYY GOD-A! Whhhhhy? She kill-a my doggie and my-a dreams." 

(I think it's illegal for people on morphine to counsel others at 4am so I just laid there and nodded my head.) 

As I got to know Pina, it turns out we're all whorish dog murderers and we're all one offensive comment away from being punched in the face. Needless to say, her thoughts and horrific outlook on humanity kept me wildly entertained. 

Well, I should wrap up this post. This morning I discovered the 3rd hair on my chin, I must pluck while there is still natural light in my apartment. Wait, are bearded ladies in? Maybe I'll hold off and just grow a chin strap. 

Nanners