I Will No Longer Have 6 Secrets

Evil Twin's Wife, who is over there on the blogroll, linking to her blog The Glamorous Life of a Hausfrau has tagged me to divulge six secrets. I love the word meme and think it's one of Richards Dawkins's most brilliant concepts. The idea of mixing secrets and memes intrigues me. Meme are "ideas that get loose in society" or "ideas whose time has come" to the point that people from disparate cultures vast distances apart will come up with similar new ideas at the same time. Secrets, especially the secrets of my checkered past, are generally hidden from the light of day...presumably for the good of mankind. Yeh. That's it. I'm a philanthropic secret-keeper: I keep them so's your brains don't explode or you trip and break a leg running away from me in all my freakish glory. Somehow, I think we've got a strong-stomached crowd.

Warning: My darling Curmy, who hails from Massachusetts is forever shocked at the things I will divulge to people, strangers even. I have no shame. Why should I?

So, here are the rules:

THE RULES:

1. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning.
2. Each player list 6 facts/habits/secrets about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

Without further ado and a drumroll please:

1. I once had a dingleberry in my mouth. Take a minute. The words will still be here when you're finished laughing, wincing, rereading to make sure you read that right, or whatever your reaction to that sentence may be. Now, I feel comfortable saying we'd all agree that a sentence like that begs some explanation (and a solemn promise never to utter it again).

It was not by choice. It's not like that's the kind of thing you spot and feel the unstoppable urge to pluck and plop into your piehole. It was an accident. No. That's kind of like saying Hurricane Katrina was a bit wet. It was a catastrophe. Let's just say I'll never lay on my back again while counting between 68 and 70. I felt something hit the back of my throat. I started pounding that kinda let me up pound you do when you just discovered there's a rattlesnake in the bed (or think a tiny turdball has hit the back of your throat). The second I was free I was up on all fours in the middle of the bed hacking like a cat with a furball. Sure enough, out plopped the world's tiniest Milk Dud and a bit of toilet paper that twirled out of the top like the Hershey's paper in a Hershey's Kiss. Needless to say there wasn't enough Listerine in the world to make me feel comfortable about the experience. And that was the dooming beginning of the end of that relationship. All I can say is: Gentlemen, there are times when a moist wipe is required. Use them.

Really, I feel the strength of that secret alone should be worth all six, but I'll play fair.

2. I went to Ted Bundy's execution. It doesn't come up much in conversation, what with Ted Bundy being dead and all. I wasn't an official witness, so I wasn't in the chamber when it happened. I went and took pictures of the crowd. What a crowd it was too! I no longer have a copy of the pictures. Evil Twin had a set of copies at one time, so he may have some we could scan.

3. I don't drink alcohol. I'm not a prude about it, I simply sucked at drinking. It was so much wear and tear on my friends to have to race to see who was going to get through to me first to tell me what I'd done the night before. Coulda been going to an ex-bf's house to drunkenly scream outside his bedroom door something slurringly incoherent save the fact that each and every sentence was punctuated with the crystal clear word needledick. Coulda been standing on top of a bar and delivering jokes as if I were a comedian. Coulda been projectile vomiting on Wonder Woman. Coulda been having a fight with a bf in which he was stupid enough to say "for all I care about you, you can go fuck my roommate all night" to which, of course, the only appropriate answer would be knocking on roommy's door and saying, "Guess what....." Coulda been inviting the Jehovah's Witnesses in for bong hits. When I'm teaching, when my students find out I don't drink someone in the class always asks me, "Don't you miss it?" I say, "No. If you totally suck at playing tennis and stop, you don't miss tennis very much." I figure this leaves more alcohol for the people who can drink it without become a threat to the public safety.

4. I ghost hunt. No, I don't work for Roto Rooter. I've lived in (or spent many nights in) three places that were haunted. This was before I started hunting. And, yes, I've seen a ghost. No, it wasn't so much scary as confusing. But I have had other things happen in haunted places that were scary. It's not just us in this world. That's all I'll say for now.

5. It took me about 20 years to get my bachelors. I laugh at you mere 5th-year seniors in this world. I was a 20-year senior. I feared the government was going to legally change my name to Sonny Drysdale without my consent.

***Update to include a sixth secret. Thanks Blonde Goddess.

6. I didn't drive for nearly two decades. Sure there would the be occasional having been forced to get behind a wheel for some short period of time, but mainly I stayed away from the driving. I still hate driving, but I do it all the time now. It started in Florida and I will always swear that the difference in distance to the horizon was the culprit that started the anxiety that grew into the panic attacks that built the foible that Buzzardbilly had. I don't like wide open spaces and a horizon way off in the distance. I like my horizon up along the tree line and my open field of vision to go just to the next curve. They say that when they first took pygmies out of the jungle to a cliff where they could see the horizon in the distance they ran back into the jungle scared to death. I think I'm like them.

***end edit.

***nother edit.

An extra free secret just cause I'm giving like that.

I have had the misfortune of living with two different men who absolutely could not wipe their asses to save their souls. Seriously. I wouldn't have complained about it if it wasn't really bad in both cases. First guy was the dealer of the dingleberry—which btw was my first inkling that he did not have mad bathroom skillzz. That one actually left me a present I hope to never receive again. I was picking up laundry in the bathroom floor to do the washing. I picked up a pair of his sweatpants. They were unnaturally heavy. I checked to see if there was anything in the pockets and found no pockets. I opened the waistband and peeped in to find what looked like a Baby Ruth candy bar. It was a fully-formed drying turd pocked with peanuts (not really packed, so pocked) that showed no signs of having come to be in the pants due to illness. Oh dear God in Heaven was I pissed off!! I gently lay the turdysweats back down to wait for the pantspooper to come home.

When I heard his key in the door, I rushed to grab the pooppants. I met him in the living room screaming "WTF is this? Shit? Yes. It's shit. You shit your pants and then put pants, turd and all in the bathroom to wait for me to clean?!? How in fucking blue hell did a fully grown man come to not only shit in his pants but to also think that it would be okay to then leave that shit lying around on the bathroom floor until I happened to find it to clean it?!? Just who the fuck do you think I am?" He explained that he meant to clean it but he forgot. I pointed out that most people deal with turd cleaning right away. There really isn't a time you sit around with the turd and think about maybe when cleaning it might fit in your busy schedule. You left that shit for me to clean on purpose. Just who the fuck do you think I am? He looked really embarrassed and said, "I thought I had to fart." And I lost it all over the place. I explained that it would've taken me at least three good pushes to get a turd that size out of the hopper. By length alone you could tell this was no mere shart. He said, "No. Really. It just plopped out real quick." He said, "Look at it. No rest marks." Sure enough, it was smooth enough to have come out of the Playdough Poop Factory.

The second one was worse. Oh dear God was he worse. I don't know how they do it, but guys who cannot wipe their asses tend to hide it very well until it's too late for you to easily get away. The first one started living with me when I found out that he was a Charmin-dodger. The second one came to light after we'd married (the disastrous first marriage...my Curmy's just fine with all his skillzz, bathroom or otherwise). We were still in England. We'd only been married for a week or so. He was standing in the kitchen in his bathrobe (that's a dressing gown to those people) when I walked in and smelled something sorta like sewer, sorta like stable. As he came toward me, I noticed the smell got stronger. I said, "What is that stench?" He said calmly, "Oh, I'm afraid that's me."

Of course, I'm all WTF that unholy ripeness could not be attached to a person who bathes regularly. Then, he pulled the edge of his robe aside and there my friends was a caked-up layer of crusty shit about six inches long and two inches wide. It was as thick as icing on a birthday cake. It was obviously the buildup from many smears over the course of many days. I thought I was going to throw up. We had an ongoing shit battle through our entire dismal marriage. He would use about half a roll of asswipes each time he shit. I could hear the damned toilet paper spool going kathunka-kathunka-kathunka like a boxer practicing on the small punching bag. Yet, his underwear qualified as a Superfund Cleanup Site. Over time I noticed that when we were getting along his underoos weren't so foul, but if we were fighting I could be guaranteed I'd find a caked-up mess on laundry day. EWWWWW. Nasty prick was not wiping his ass to spite me!? Oh, yeh, that's really showing me. Wherever that fucker is today, I hope he has butt bugs.

**end second edit

So, there it is. I don't know who all has been asked and hasn't been asked, so I'm going to tag The Film Geek and Elvis Drinkmo.