Category Archives: too much information

If He Couldn’t Pick His Nose, Would You Still Love Him?

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Tell me the truth: would you date someone who was missing a finger?

Does it make a difference if, say, only a section of the finger was missing?

I spent most of my train ride this morning considering it, and I’m still not sure. On one hand, I’d really like to introduce people to my boyfriend by saying, “Barbara, this is my boyfriend Stan, and we can never get married because he’s missing his ring finger.” And whereas I call Kamran “Dr. Boyfriend” here, I could call this finger-lacking guy “Four-and-a-Half-Fingered Boyfriend”. It has a ring to it, right?

But on the other hand, I feel like we’d have to set way too many ground rules for a healthy relationship to ever develop. I’d constantly be saying things like, “Okay, you can touch me with your nub, but if it so much as comes within an inch of my mouth, I swear I’ll cut the other nine off.”

Happy Birthday to Me! and I’m Sorry About the Smell

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My dear Dr. Boyfriend has a series of uplifting catchphrases, my favourites being “everything’s coming up Kamran” and “it’s your world, squirrel”. For my birthday today, he sent me this:

And while I have no idea who invited the guy in the cowboy hat to my party, I appreciate the sentiment.

But I’ll tell you what–it’s rough having a birthday when you’re lactose intolerant. As you may remember, I’ve been working on becoming lactose tolerant, and while I do believe I’m making strides, what’s coming out of my bum today smells nasty. I keep running out of the bathroom as soon as I’m finished, because I don’t want to hang around and have to explain to my co-workers who weren’t in New Orleans with me this week, “I’m lactose intolerant, but there was an ice cream bar at lunch yesterday, and what was I supposed to do?! It’s my goddamned birthday!”

Take My Ovaries, Jesus

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Last night, I cried when my portion of our karaoke bill came to $48.

This morning, I cried while watching an insurance commercial:

I’m about to leave to get my hair trimmed, and I really hope to cry during that, too.

With any luck, I’ll make a sobby scene during dinner tonight and get us kicked out of the restaurant.

Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, HORMONES!

Controlling What Comes Out of My Bum

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I used to be the lactose tolerant-est. I was raised to think there’s no point in eating a meal if you don’t follow it up with ice cream for dessert, that Dannon’s Fruit on the Bottom yogurt provided great surprises at every turn, and that chips simply don’t exist without nacho cheese. For the first 23 years of my life, I drank a glass of Nestle’s Quik for breakfast every morning, and to this day my dad still does, first stirring it loud enough to wake up everyone within a mile radius and then drinking it spoonful by spoonful.

During my last year of college, though, I cut out most of the ice cream so I could at least pretend to want to be healthy and started drinking soy milk because my family farm makes a pretty penny off soybean sales. And now I’m f-ig lactose intolerant. For a while I didn’t put two and two together, but now I recognise that the moment I put the smalled bite of /eks/ frozen yogurt in my mouth, I’m a burblinggurbling gas machine.

Sexy?

My co-worker who goes on week-long colon cleanses where she poos ten to twelve times per minute tells me that adults aren’t meant to process milk and that I should give it up, but I think that’s a load of horse hockey, and I’m now on a mission to make myself lactose tolerant again. I’ve been reading up on it, and apparently you can re-train your lower intestine to grow the right lactose-processing bacteria if you drink a little bit of milk several times a day. 1/4 cup at a time with food, they say.

I’m pretty pumped about the possibility of getting my life back, of not having to ask myself, Is this cup of dulce de leche Haagen-Dazs worth a day of nonstop flatulence? But while I’m working milk back into my diet little by little, I suggest that, um, you think twice about sniffing near my bum.