Sometimes… fun hurts.

As you know, Gorm and I (and sometimes others) get together for music day every now and then. What you might not know is that music day has become an integral part of my life; something I look forward to. It has come to be so that I depend on it. Unfortunately, this day can only be organized and executed on so much of a regular basis. Often enough, but at the same time the length between sessions leaves me longing for more and my fingers callous-less.

As a result, I’ve been known to be… somewhat reckless in my music day commitments.

About a year ago, I was battling a bit of a cold and music day was fast approaching. I was convinced the worst that could happen was that I wouldn’t get the rest I needed that night and I might be over-tired the next day.

I hadn’t had strep throat in about 18 years, so I dismissed my assumption almost as fast as I made it. The next day, I could no longer deny that I needed medical attention.

I went to the walk-in clinic on my way home from work. The doctor asked what was wrong; I said that I was pretty sure I had strep throat. All doctors seems to react the same way when you self-diagnose yourself. They tell you why it probably isn’t what you think it is. This doctor was no exception.

And then she looked in my mouth. She said she’d normally take a swab before prescribing antibiotics, but…

I left the office a little smug, having known what the problem was, but also a little scared because I really didn’t want scarlet fever. Again.

You’d think I would have learned from this experience. But like I said, I behave a little recklessly when music day approaches and I’m not feeling well.

I’d been fighting a cold and Friday night I noticed my voice was cracking. In an attempt to practice before music day, I tried playing, but found that I couldn’t sing very well (mostly that I couldn’t project my voice. At. All.). But I was convinced that the show must go on.

The following day, I woke up feeling pretty good. I went to music day and when I started singing, I found again that I couldn’t project my voice. But I soldiered on.

By the end of the session, I was croaking like a frog and sounded reminiscent of the pimply kid on The Simpsons.

Thanks Gorm.

I completely lost my voice for two days. I went to work on Monday and quickly realized just how much I talk at work on a day to day basis. I was told just how fucked up my voice sounded. I received pats on the back in sympathy when I squeaked out a response to their question. I may or may not have had laryngitis.

Despite the pain, ridicule and pity I received:

Oh no! Not another one!?!?!?

Alright, it’s official. I have another stalker. I know this because they left a creepy message on my car. I found it when I left work on Friday. This is it in all it’s glory:

Naturally, I spent the majority of my car ride home laughing, things like “Oh, Gorm, that’s a good one!” running through my head.

But then, my mind started wandering… have I said what kind of car I drive on my blog? I know I’ve said that I work near my school but I never said which school… And then for the briefest of seconds:

Because I wouldn’t be surprised if I got another stalker under my belt… And he’s probably hoping for the very same thing.

Turning something serious into something seriously funny?

I was once told that I have the ability to make pretty much any story funny. I'm not so sure about that. But let's give it a whirl... let me know how I do.

Four years ago today, my life changed. It was a Friday and I had the day off from work, which is pretty much a recipe for having an amazing day. Unfortunately, I spent the day holed up in my place doing schoolwork. Around 1pm, I decided I was going to go run some errands. Namely, I wanted to see about joining a gym (I had put on a few pounds and wanted to get rid of them... I had no idea how much worse it could get).

I walked out to my car and saw that I had a flat tire. I called BCAA; the nice mechanic came, switched over my spare tire and informed me that the tire was not repairable. I was devastated. I bought the car exactly two weeks earlier and had sunk literally all my money and then some into the purchase.

I ran a few errands on the pizza-cutter and went home to do some tire research. When I was leaving my house for the second time, I noticed that my car had been keyed while I was running errands. Fuck. Me. I went to my local reputable tire shop and had new tires put on (in record time, I might add).

I drove home, called my best friend and complained to her about the shit day I had so far. She suggested I drink. I told her I didn't have any booze and I'd spent all my extra money on tires so I couldn't even afford to buy any. She told me she had a few bottles and that I should come over and help drink them. I'll be right there! I hopped into my car and started driving over. She lived about 20 minutes away by freeway. I'd be drunk in no time.

It was about 6pm on a Friday night, so the freeway was busy, but not slow-to-a-crawl busy. I was in the right lane behind someone that was going unnecessarily slow (~75km/h). The centre lane was going about 35 km/h faster than I was; I wanted to pass the guy in front of me.

Again, the car was new to me, so I didn't know it's capabilities; I wanted to be sure that I would have enough time to get out from behind the slow poke and get up to speed without slowing down the cars in the centre lane. I didn't want to cause an accident, after all. As a result, I had to wait until the centre lane was clear before I was willing to make the lane change.

I got my opportunity; I switched lanes and started accelerating, watching my rearview for the car that was inevitably catching up to me. I got up to speed and passed the slow dude. That's about the time I noticed the noise. It wasn't anything in particular, just kind of a loud, humming that wasn't there moments before. I decided I needed to get back into the right lane. As I was making my second lane change, I noticed my steering wheel was shaking back and forth, fairly violently. Shit. Something is wrong and I need to get off the freeway NOW.

I had already passed a sign indicating that I was 600m away from the next exit (the first exit I had encountered on this trip) - I was so close that I could see it. I started slowing down and tried to reach the exit.

Next thing I know.... BAM!

Loudest fucking noise ever!! My car pulled to the left. Left... where cars were driving 110km/h. Left... where two lanes of cars were driving 110km/h and then the giant cement meridian. I didn't want to go left. I steered right. With purpose.

Next thing I know, there are headlights in my face.

I'd done about a 160 degree turn and was travelling backwards down the freeway. I remember thinking "Please don't hit anything, please don't hit anything". I turned around in my seat to see if I was going to hit one of those speed limit signs. My trajectory was clear; I turned forward and waited.

BAM!

Second loudest noise ever!! I was flung into the driver's side door. Simultaneously, my backpack, which was in the passenger seat, was also flung about. It knocked me in the head, which knocked my head into the driver's side window. I was slowing down, all the while thinking "Please don't roll, please don't roll".

I came to a stop. I needed to get out of the car, like right fucking now. I got out of the car and was hit with the scent of moist dirt. I was on a grassy patch just off the freeway. Just off the freeway exit, actually.

I walked away from the car. I started taking in my surroundings. I noticed this trench dug through the grass. The trench was leading up to my car. This is what I saw:



My tire wasn't originally in this location. Don't get my wrong. It used to be attached to the car, I just mean that it was found about 50m down the freeway. A nice gentleman retrieved it for me and brought it closer to the scene. So when I turned around, all I saw was my braking system. Where the fuck is my tire!??! So, I was driving down the freeway, backwards, going 90km/h on three wheels and my braking system. Not desirable.

In the top left hand corner of the picture, you can see another car's tire. And a curb. That is what I hit. That is what ripped off my front bumper. Guess what I hit the curb with?



That's right. My rear driver's side tire. The same gentleman that retrieved my tire also informed me that I had snapped my rear axle. When I said "Really?!?!", he kinda looked at me funny and said "Look at your back tire... does that look right to you?". He said that he didn't want to be the bearer of bad news, but "it looks like you wrote your car off, darling". I was upset.

I told him I bought the car two weeks ago and I just had new tires put on. He questioned if the tires were put on at the dealership when I bought it. I told him I had them put on not even two hours earlier. It was his turn to say "Really?!?!". And then he asked where I went... not sure if I should divulge that information on here or not, so let's just say it's a major tire company.

A major tire company.

Eventually, the firemen showed up. When I was talking with one of them, another one came up and said he had to show me something. As we were walking over to the car, he kept stressing how important this information was. He knew that I was in shock, but he really wanted me to retain the conversation.

Fireman: See those bolts?

Me: Yeah.

Fireman: Do you see how those bolts are threaded?

Me: Yeah... (...I've seen bolts before...)

Fireman: If you were driving crazy and did something to cause your tire to fall off, those bolts would be mangled. The force needed for the tire to come off would have caused the lug nuts to sheer off the bolts, or at least, the threading of the bolts. Understand?

Me: Yeah.

Fireman: Your bolts are not damaged. If your tire wasn't blown and if we could find your lug nuts, theoretically, we could put this tire back on and have you on your way. Do you know what this means?

Me: No....

Fireman: Your lug nuts weren't tightened.

So, I wrecked my car, I wrecked my back, my neck and my knee. My knee hit the window roller; my doctor said that if I hit it an inch higher or an inch lower I would have had no issues. The spot I hit was the sweet spot - the IT band; it's a muscle that runs from your hip to your ankle.

I entered physio and a rehab program that took years to complete. Due to pain and limited mobility, I stopped cooking and moving. Not a good combination. I gained 40lbs in a 4 month period, which everyone was shocked to learn, because "I didn't look like I'd gained weight". Are you kidding me?!

When I told my brother, he said that he was told the same thing (he was in an accident two months earlier and had also put on weight). His take on it was "Great... so I was so fucking fat before that you don't notice when I put on 40lbs?!?!" And I thought I needed the gym before.

Recently, I woke up to go to work and came out to a flat tire; I cursed and walked to the bus stop. Everyone at work asked why I came in so late, most were satisfied with "flat tire this morning". One person was a bit more nosy.

Her: So... you were late because you were changing your tire?

Me: Fuck, no! I was late because I took the bus. I'll call BCAA on my way home and they can change the tire for me.

Her: Ha ha. That's what I would do too... If I had to change my own tire it would probably come off when I was driving down the freeway! Ha ha ha ha ha ha...

I just kinda looked at her. When I didn't say anything (what do you say?!), she looked over at me.

Her: What?!

Me: I'm just trying to figure out if you are trying to be funny or not...

Her: No... why?!!?

And then it hit her "Oh my god... that's exactly what happened to you, isn't it?!?! I didn't mean it... I wasn't even thinking... I'm sorry!! Oh, god, I'm such an asshole!!". Yes, you are, Linds; yes, you are.

Sometimes I shouldn't be allowed to leave the house...

Sometimes I surprise even myself about how ridiculous my life can be. Usually, nothing too crazy happens, but every so often, weird stuff happens. Stuff that only ever happens to me. This New Years Eve was no exception.

By NYE standards, my night was pretty tame. I went to my dad's place, had a few drinks and was in bed by 4am. Even though I started drinking on an empty stomach and even though I didn't make a point to drink copious amounts of water, I didn't get completely plowed and I woke up feeling fine, albeit a bit tired.

The next morning, I'm gathering up my gear and putting everything by the door so it's all in once place when I leave. As I'm putting everything downstairs, I look for my shoes; they're not there but I knew they were last night.

My dad has a shithead of a dog that likes to take shoes from the door and chew on them upstairs. But it's weird even for Dusty to take both shoes; he's usually content with destroying only one.

As I'm finishing my visit, I keep an eye out for my shoes. I finally find them; by the back door, arranged neatly side-by-side. I found it strange; I didn't think I'd gone out the back door and Dusty doesn't leave anything neatly side-by-side.

Regardless, I put on my shoes and left. On the drive home, I started noticing that my shoes were tighter than normal. I decided my feet were swollen; after all, edema is probably a symptom of excessive alcohol consumption.

A couple days later, I went to wear the shoes and remembered the ride home New Year's Day. I thought to myself "I wonder if the swelling has gone down yet", kind of chuckling to myself at the ludicrousness of that thought.

I slipped on the shoes and they didn't fit. What the....?

As I kick off one of the shoes, it flips over and reveals the size of the shoe. A whopping 2 sizes* smaller than the ones I bought. Mother Fucker. I guess I shop at the same store as someone else at the party. I guess that same person left thinking that their feet had shrunk.

They left while heavily intoxicated; I did not.

And then I had the pleasure of making an embarrassing phone call to Bev to tell her I stole her friend's shoes. :|

 

*Note - I can't remember what size I bought... it might only be one size, in fact, it probably is only one size, but "whopping 2 sizes" sounds more impressive than "a whole size", so I'm leaving it in there.*

Too hot to handle

I like to cook, but cooking for one day in and day out becomes rather mundane. Every so often, I need to break out of my routine and cook for someone else. Sometimes this desire is so strong that I'll force my way into cooking for a friend, even if it requires me bringing all the ingredients and cooking it at their house. I get oddly excited about it. I'm pretty sure it's quirk that most of my friends are willing to deal with (...unlike all those other quirks...)

A few years ago, I was at the BFF's house, cooking some dinner for her. I can't remember the entire menu, but I do know that we had pork tenderloin with broccoli and carrots.

I seared the tenderloin in her frying pan and finished it off in the oven. Right about the time the tenderloin was finished and I was going to start 'nuking the veggies, she remembered that she had a lone lamb chop in her fridge that she wanted to use up. It was already cooked, so it would only take a few minutes in the hot oven.

One small thing, but it threw me off my game. The chop was finished before I was ready for it, so everything got dished up and we were just sitting around waiting for the veggies to come out of the microwave.

I was certain that I could be using those 3 minutes better than just standing there.

I decided that I was going to be all efficient and get everything soaking in the sink so that it would be ready to wash once we were finished eating.

I grabbed the 375F pan off the stove and carried it over to the sink.

Without an oven mitt. It took a minute for it all to sink in...

It was hot. Like, really fucking, hot. I turned back to the stove and literally threw the frying pan at it. I immediately turned back to the sink and turned the cold water on full blast. It also took K a minute to realize what had happened. She tentatively asked me if I was okay. All I could do was shake my head and say, "It's bad".

It was bad.

I spent the night there, even though it was a Tuesday night and I had to work in the morning. After 3 hours of soaking my blistered hand in ice water, I realized that I was not going to be able to work. I could not have unscrewed a test tube if my life depended on it.

I spent the rest of the night trying to sleep with my hand in ice water. Once I used up all the ice in the house, I switched over to ice packs, once I used up all the ice packs, I went back to running it under cold water. It was a restless night.

In the morning I drove home and was fairly convinced I would be okay. Until I realized that I iced my burns for about 8 hours and they were still hurting. I decided seeing a doctor might not be a bad idea.

I went to the first walk in clinic I could find. They asked me to fill out a bunch of paperwork. They handed me a clipboard and a pen and moved onto the next patient. I stared at the paperwork. Rather than asking for help, I filled out the paperwork, with my left hand. (have I mentioned that I'm right-handed and I burned my right hand to shit? No? Well, I am and I did!)

I left any fields that I deemed unnecessary blank. Even still, by the end, my writing was so bad that the receptionist had to ask for clarification on a number of the necessary fields. I felt kinda bad, but my hand felt worse, so the guilt was fleeting.

I got in to see the doctor and she had one hell of a time bandaging me up. She tried to make it so that I had some use of the fingers that weren't burnt to shit. I had to go back every 2-3 days to have the dressing changed and to check for signs of infection. I went back to work on the Friday and got assigned some computer work.

The following Monday I decided that I could do my regular job. I was wrong. I went back to the make-work-project on the computer for the rest of the week.

And that is the story of how I burned my hand. Ever since, whenever I take a frying pan out of the oven and let it sit on the stove, I always cover the handle with an oven mitt. Extra insurance against stupidity. So far it has worked. *knock on wood*

Holy Feeck, he's a cruper

**UPDATED** (see below)

Sometimes I think I'm destined to be alone. A week ago, I would have felt somewhat saddened by this statement. Today, I think it's probably better than the alternative. Here's the deal.

Periodically, I go onto the internet in an attempt to meet someone. One of two things generally happen:

1) I meet no one, I talk to no one, I basically waste a bunch of time doing something I don't enjoy.

2) I meet someone and he is a complete nutjob and I spend the next month screening my calls and making sure no one is hiding in the bushes near my house.

Neither scenario is all that desirable. After I've gotten bored/scared of the internet dating scene, I decide that I'm better in real-life and to take this show on the road to try to meet people. And I do - I've actually made friends with several people that I wouldn't normally have met and now we go out and do things together. It's great; I like friends!

Now here's where it gets interesting... Since I've been in school, I've always kind of held out hope that I would meet someone through that avenue. It took a long time, but I did. Go me.

I went out on a date with this guy from class last week. We made plans to see each other two days later. The day in between, he messaged me to see what I was doing. I thought it was a bit weird, since we already had plans to meet up the next day, but I thought, well, maybe he's eager and just wants to see me. Kinda sweet, right? I ended up talking to him later on that night and he told me what he was thinking of doing:

1) Show up at my work so we could go have dinner. Or

2) Drive around my neighbourhood and when he found out I was home, to let me know that he's 5 minutes away and would be right over.

You know, since I like surprizes. Being that I have an "interesting" sense of humour and he said it with a chuckle, I assumed that he was kidding and just kind of laughed it off. But after hanging up with him, and thinking about the conversation more and more, I couldn't help but think "But what if he's not joking......."

We had plans the next day to meet up around my place and I was beginning to worry that if I met up with him and he found out where I lived, I would come home one day to find him sitting on my porch. Yes. I was beginning to worry that he may start stalking me.

I thought, maybe I'm over-reacting (that has been known to happen once or twice before). So I called K and told her about it and asked her what she thought. She said one thing that I was also thinking "He seems needy. Like really needy. But maybe he just really likes you". I had double-booked myself, so I decided to cancel the plans. Here's what happened in our text convo (have I mentioned I hate text convos?):

Me: Hey - turns out my stepmom wants to play badminton, so I can't play tennis with you. Sorry.

Him: Oh, no problem - what about dinner?

Me: Will be staying at my dad's for dinner.

Him: Well, what about after that?

Me: Depends on what time I finish up with the folks, but I doubt it will be early enough to do anything afterwards.

Him: Oh, okay.

... ... ... (some time later)

Him: What time are you leaving?

Me: Soon, just gotta get cleaned up.

Him: Something really inappropriate.

Me: Shooting him down.

Him: Ha ha - I'm so creepy. Can I call you?

Me: I just got on the phone. (quickly call K)

Him: Oh. Okay.

... ... ... ... ... (some time later)

Him: Have you left yet?

(I didn't respond, because I figured I'd left by then)

... ... ... ... (some time later)

Him: How was the game? Are we meeting up?

Me: Still with the folks

Him: Oh. Okay.

... ... ... ... (some time later)

Him: Are you asleep? Can I call you?

(I didn't respond, because I figured I was asleep by then)

He also told me that when I don't respond right away, he gets grumpy and doesn't feel better until I reply. He has also started calling me "Babe". He also told me that he has started liking me more and more "ever since our first beer". Our first beer was yesterday, buddy.

So - it turns out that I have an innate ability to meet complete nutjobs. Period. Internet, real-life, public transit; my gift knows no bounds. Options?

1) Go for it!! Get into a relationship with someone that is completely off their rocker, who's entire day/life revolves around me and won't be happy/complete unless I'm there with them, reassuring them and giving them a reason to live.

2) Remain single.

Being single never looked so good.

**UPDATE - I've since told him that we want different things and that it's not going to work. He really wants to talk about it. I really don't. He continues to text me to tell me that he's been thinking about me and he hopes that I'm okay. I don't respond.

I just re-read this post and I don't think it does justice to just how creepy this guy is. I mean, he was really, really creepy. The fact is, he had me running for the hills within 24hours of our first date. I think that's a record... well, except for the first nutjob; he had me running in an hour. But that's a whole other post....

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations!

C'mon.... "Like" me on facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/That-White-Girls/235085719871139

Then I looked up "Syphilis" under Google images.... I saw things you can't unsee.

The past few days have been a roller coaster of events and emotions; I've come to the conclusion that the universe hates me and wants me to cry.

I think I wrote a post about karma, or Murphy or The Spite Gods having it out for me. Well, folks, it's happening again. Luckily, for EliseArt, I will be able to reuse pictures from the post that I'm pretty sure I already wrote. These are all true stories. (*dramatization... may not have happened).

Stompy moved out and my landlord was working on the place getting it ready for the new tenants. He called and asked me to go through the storage room and pick out anything that wasn't mine and he'd deal with it. Sounds great. I pointed out a few items, one of them being a set of crutches, and he took them away. All the while, I was eyeing the crutches, thinking "Wow, those could come in handy!".

I was reluctant to actually keep the crutches, because of karma, or Murphy, or The Spite Gods or The Universe having it out for me, so I let him put them out in the alley. Later that night, I went and had a few drinks with K, told her about the crutches and said "If I take them, isn't it just asking to get hurt?". She said no. And then I fell down.

I didn't hurt myself in an I-need-crutches-kind-of-way, but it sure answered my question. And the answer is, yes, yes it is just asking to get hurt.

The other day I was driving home and realized I needed gas, I also realized that I forgot my wallet at home. I had to stop in at work for a few minutes before heading home and chuckled to myself when I considered calling BCAA and having them bring me $10 worth of gas, just so I didn't have to go home and then go straight back out. I thought it's a bit ridiculous, but I never use BCAA so I might as well. Then I realized that my BCAA card is in the wallet I forgot at home. Dammit.

I cleaned my car the other day and it made me think that maybe my car isn't dead to me and maybe I don't need to buy a new one soon, maybe it is a good car. And then this morning I was driving to work and BAM - it sounded like my front brakes fell off and were just rolling around in the wheel well. I was pretty sure the car was going to burst into flames. I parked it and then walked the rest of the way to work.

I went about my day and I decided early on that the breakdown wasn't the end of the world, it would almost work out well. My mechanic is close to my home and my home is close to the polling station for the election. I could tow my car to the mechanic, walk to the polling station and then be home, all within a reasonable time period. It was practically perfect.

As I was getting ready to leave, I thought I'd give the mechanic a call just to let him know I was going to tow my car there. I get the voicemail, which isn't unusual, and I listen to the greeting and it says they're shutdown UNTIL MAY 23rd!

My other mechanic is in Surrey and there's no way I could be back in time to vote. Luckily, BCAA was able to fix my problem and I didn't have to have my car towed and repaired. So.... never have to use BCAA, huh? Blamo - Spite God powers initiated!

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations

Are you pregnant?? Nope, just fat. Thanks.

I strongly encourage you to go and read this post before reading this one. Fine. You don't even have to read the whole thing. Just scroll to the last paragraph and read that. Okay?

So I'm in school and there are other people that are in my class. Weird, I know. So there's this guy that's in my class right now that's known as Chris, Mr Perfect, or simply Mr I-know-everything-about-everything. Safe to say, he's pretty smart.

My teacher didn't include last week's assignment in the note package he gave us and he had only one copy of the assignment in his binder. He needed someone to go photocopy it or email it out to the rest of the class. Being the team player that I am, I volunteered for this job and passed around a piece of paper to get everyone's email address so that I could scan it in and send it off.

I got home and scanned in the assignment and started entering email addresses into gmail... As it turns out, the Chris that's in my class, has the same name of the fellow, Chris, that writes "The Bucholz Discharge". Now I can't say for certain that Class-Chris is Cracked-Chris, but since I believe that's a fairly unique last name, I think it's safe to say that it is him.

Funny thing is, I declared my interlove for him in the post I made you go and read and it turns out that he sits behind me every week. Crazy right? What are the chances? Roughly 2%, I'd say. So anyway, I thought I'd update that post (you know, without actually updating that post):

With my luck he lives in Halifax (actually he lives in Vancouver and I know him), is married (he does have a girlfriend) and finds me repulsive (I have no defense for this). Fucker. (I stand by that remark)

Never interrupt me in the middle of a Star Wars musical!!!!!!!

Alright folks - it's 2% time! If you don't know what I'm talking about, go here or here.

A couple of years ago, a couple of weeks before Christmas, I got really sick with the worst flu ever. Once I recovered and started eating and drinking again, there were some... symptoms.

My pee was funny; it smelled weird and looked weird. I attributed it to the fact that I hadn't peed in four days because I was so damn dehydrated. I figured if I flushed my system, it would go away; a couple of days of drinking water and it did.

A couple of weeks later, I went over to my aunt's house for Christmas dinner. It was a particularly snowy year; K picked me up in her AWD vehicle, so I didn't have to drive my car. We also dug my car out because it was buried deep.

After dinner, we went for a walk in a park through the snow. I started getting this strong abdominal pain; the pleasant walk became a death march for me.

I slept over at K's house; the pain persisted through the night, but when I woke up, it was gone. That night for dinner, we had... you guessed it, leftovers. Yum!

Shortly after dinner, I developed the same abdominal pain.

I was certain it was indigestion; we attributed it to the stuffing: Uncle Barrence uses roughly 20x more poultry seasoning than most people. I was convinced I was simply experiencing a sage overdose.

Again, the following morning I woke up and the abdominal pain was gone. I went home; that night, I noticed the same change in urine. I thought I might have a bladder infection and I would see a doctor the following day.

I next morning, I woke up sick. Really sick. Really, really sick. I felt terrible. I had a lot of pain and needed a doctor fast. I went out to my car and it wouldn't start. This car has always started for me; I was crushed.

I called a taxi and one didn't show up for 45 minutes and then when he did show up he went in the opposite direction of where I told him to go. Fortunately, there was walk in doctor in that direction. Unfortunately, that walk in doctor was closed.

I walked to the Safeway so I could use one of those free taxi phones because I didn't know the phone number by heart. An hour and a half after calling first the taxi, I finally got to a doctor.

The receptionist asked me why I was there. I told her I thought I had a bladder infection. Here, pee in this cup. I did and then I waited for the doctor. He came in and told me that my urinalysis came back negative and asked why I thought I had a bladder infection. I told him about the pain, the changes in urine and said I felt terrible. What kind of terrible? I'm nauseous, I'm lethargic and my back hurts. Your back hurts? Yes. Where? I showed him.

He started hitting me in the back: Does this hurt? YES! He started looking at the chart again. I looked at him questioningly. He said he just wanted to review the urinalysis again. But, no, there were no signs of infection. I was sitting there feeling miserable, wondering why he was wasting my time going over test results that he already said were negative. Either they're negative or they're not - get on with it!

Doctor: This is odd. You have no sign of a bladder, or urinary tract infection, but I think you have a kidney infection. It makes no sense; in order to get a kidney infection you have to have a UTI and you have to let it go untreated for weeks before it'll move up to your kidneys.

Me: Maybe... I got the bladder infection weeks ago... after I got sick... and it moved up and now it's in my kidneys???

Doctor: The infection would still be in your bladder, it would be throughout your entire urinary tract. Your urinalysis would be positive, really positive; the infection should be rampant. *shakes his head* Bizarre.... Almost no one gets a kidney infection without having a UTI first.

Almost no one? Like maybe 2% of the population? Sounds about right.

I'm a medical marvel.

Big thanks to my special guest animators: JArt and JCart for providing the illustrations.

I decided not to hit you because you cowered as soon as I came over.

I thought I might roll with this 2% business because it occurred to me that some people might think the scarlet fever incident was an isolated event and I was just being overly dramatic.

Immediately following scarlet fever, I developed a 'secondary rash' after the antibiotics went in and blasted the strep out of my body. This rash was localized to three parts of my body: my hands, my feet and the inside of my thighs. It was quite painful.

The hand rash was absolutely disgusting. In the end, all the skin on my palms dried up and peeled off. The peeling exposed new skin. Skin that was not ready to see the light of day or to touch things. It was raw and it was angry.

Because of this secondary rash and because I never had strep throat, the doctor decided to send me to an internal medicine specialist, who deemed me healthy. Of course. The rash persisted on the inside of my thighs, so I was sent to a dermatologist, who prescribed me the most kick ass cream ever.

The rash disappeared, finally. The scarlet fever, secondary rash, peeling hands fiasco lasted about two months. I was miserable. But, finally, it was over. Until one day, several months later, I woke up on my friend's couch with swollen hands.

OH NO - I have scarlet fever again! I waited for the full body rash to develop. Fortunately, it didn't. Unfortunately, I developed the same secondary rash as the last time.

I happened to have an appointment booked with my family doctor. By the time I got there, I was at the stage right before peeling. He started asking me all kinds of questions, mostly pertaining to my work in the lab. Are you testing anything different? No. Have you switched departments? No. Have you been working with any different chemicals? No. Do you work with, or test for, heavy metals? No. He tells me that my symptoms are indicative of high level arsenic exposure. OH NO - someone has been poisoning me!

Have you started eating any new foods? No. Have you changed your diet in any way? No. Have you ingested anything at all recently that you don't normally eat?

Well, I did take pepto bismol last week. What? I... I... I took some pepto last week. You took pepto bismol? Yes. Do you normally take it? No. Well, I guess bismuth is a heavy metal... so maybe it could produce the same symptoms of arsenic exposure. I'm sorry... what?!?! Are you telling me that I exhibit symptoms of heavy metal poisoning when I ingest pepto bismol? It appears that way, yes.

Are you fucking kidding me? He wasn't.

Any guess as to the number of people that have the same reaction? Roughly 2%, perhaps? Sounds about right.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the illustrations.

Quick - randomly say something random!

I am the 2%. What's the 2%, you ask? 2% represents the fraction of the general population that have unbelievable things happen to them, things that do not happen to the other 98%. Sounds okay, right? Riiiggghhht.

The 2% has two sides, two extremes. One extreme is: unbelievably awesome things happen to me! Things like winning the lottery or never having a sunburn. The other extreme is: I can't believe this happened... why me... wwhhhyyyy!?!

I have yet to win the lottery and I get a sunburn every summer. I'm the 2% that gets the shaft. Oh come on, I must be exaggerating... just being dramatic, right? Wrong.

One Sunday morning, I woke up on my friend's couch with a headache. We'd polished off more than our fair share of booze the night before so I wasn't so surprised that I was under the weather. What I did find odd was my hands. They felt.... weird.

Upon first inspection they appeared to be slightly red and felt almost numb. I was sure I slept funny and it would just take some time for the feeling to come back into my hands. I was right. But what I didn't anticipate was that the feeling that came back ended up making my hands feel worse. That and they were swollen. And I mean, sausage fingers kind of swollen. I convinced myself that it was normal and there was nothing to worry about. Denial can be a powerful force.

A little while later, I noticed my pants were chaffing me. They really seemed to be digging into my stomach and it hurt. A lot. And they had an elastic waistband. That's not quite right, so I inspected my stomach and it was also red. Nothing to worry about here. All is well.

A while later, after changing into some larger pants and they too became uncomfortable, I suspected something else might be happening. I, again, inspected my stomach.

Small raised bumps had appeared. The tell-tale signs of an eminent rash. I was convinced I was having an allergic reaction so I popped a couple anti-histamines and hoped for the best.

The following day I woke up, with swollen hands, a rashy belly and sore feet. But that's what Monday's feel like, so I went to work. After spending the day at work, I came to the conclusion that I might have more problems that I originally thought.

I still wasn't feeling well and I certainly wasn't hung over. I decided to go to the doctor.

I went to a walk in clinic, feeling a bit like a tool. I can't believe I'm here just because I have a rash and I can't make a fist because my fingers are so swollen and why do my feet hurt?... The doctor came in and asked why I was there. I think I'm having an allergic reaction. Why? Well, because I have this rash and look at my hands! He looked me over and asked some general questions: how are you feeling? have you been sick? how long ago did you have this cold? did you have a sore throat? how do your feet feel? They hurt, in fact.

He took some notes, my temperature and then looked at me and said: "I don't think you're having an allergic reaction. I think you have scarlet fever. Do you know what that is? I've heard of it... I think he realized that I had absolutely no idea what it meant because he explained it to me.

Scarlet fever is caused by the streptococcus bacteria (the one that causes strep throat). Now, certain strains of this bacteria secrete a certain toxin and certain people are sensitive to this toxin and it results in a full body rash. This occurs in roughly 2% of the population. Of people under the age of 12.

Seriously. I had a childhood disease at age 27. Fuck you, 2%.

He wrote me up a blood work order, took a swab of my throat and told me to come back in two days. Scarlet fever, left untreated, can cause kidney failure, so he was pretty concerned about it. He had also never seen anybody that picks out their own clothes get scarlet fever before. I went back in two days and he looked me over again and decided that he wanted to send me for more blood work. He wanted to test me for everything that could possibly cause a full body rash (sounds reasonable), illnesses such as mono (okay, that's not too bad) and syphilis (what!?!?).

Oh, don't worry, he said, I don't think you actually have syphilis, I just want to be sure. Okay... sure... no problem... I'm clean...

I went and had the blood work done and went back to the doctor in two days time to get the results. I had to go in the middle of the day, so I had to leave work and go back after my appointment. At first, I didn't really consider syphilis as an actual cause of my problems. But then the doctor walked out, went up to the receptionist and said "I need an infectious disease agent on the phone now." Infectious disease agent? Syphilis is probably an 'infectious disease'. Oh dear God, I have syphilis. How long have I had it? Can it be treated? Where did I get it from? Who gave it to me? Who have I given it to? Am I going to die?

By the time they called my name to see the doctor I was pretty much sweating bullets and had convinced myself that I was a dirty whore. I went into the examination room and waited. And waited. Oh no, he's probably waiting to talk to the agent before he comes in here. He finally came in and said: I got your test results. Uh-huh. And it came back negative for mono. Uh-huh... And negative for everything else, but we don't have the results for the strep tests yet. So, no syphilis? No, no syphilis, come back in three days for your strep results.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. No syphilis, I'm not a dirty whore. No awkward telephone conversations for me - success! So I went back to work feeling pretty good about myself and I told the story to one of my work friends. I was kinda ashamed that I had to have the test done in the first place, so I was trying to keep it on the down-low. But when I got to the point where I said he tested me for syphilis, my not-so-subtle friend yelled out "YOU HAVE SYPHILLIS?!!?!?"

Everyone turned and looked. I was mortified. NO! NO SYPHILLIS!! It came back negative. But that doesn't make it any better, does it?

So I went back to the doctor and got my results. I never had strep throat - my throat culture came back negative. My blood work, however, was positive. The doctor was slightly baffled... how can you have it in your blood if you don't have it in your throat? Almost no one gets strep in their blood without strep throat.... Almost no one? Like 2% of the population? Sounds about right.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the illustrations and being so damn excited about drawing the pictures that I had to write the post.