Turkey Burrito

It's about that time of year again. Time to throw out the left over turkey from Thanksgiving. Let me tell you, the garbage disposal is not ideal.

Murphy's Law in the Kern house was "What can go wrong will go wrong, in the middle of the night, when Dad's not home." So, of course, dad was out of town when mom had the grand idea to run half a left over turkey down the garbage disposal instead of just tossing it in the garbage can.

I may never know how exactly this happened - the physics still confuse me - but just before bed there was some kind of plumbing explosion in the laundry room. It looked like a turkey bomb went off. It was absolutely everywhere. There was turkey in the washing machine. There was turkey stuck to the walls. The carpet was soaked in what had become some kind of turkey sewer broth. Gag!

Uncle Todd to the rescue! As mom and I cleaned up what we could, Uncle Todd addressed the plumbing issues. And by clean up, I mean scrape turkey off the walls with a mop.  On his way out of the house Uncle Todd rolled up the turkey sewer broth soaked carpet and declared he was taking the Turkey Burrito to the curb. We were up so late cleaning up the mess that I missed school the next day. The absence note that I presented to my English teacher was one for the record books, I’m sure.

Too Much Watermellon

I know a little boy, who shall remain nameless, who pees the bed when he’s had too much watermelon. So when our friends brought their daughters to our house for a cookout I kept teasing them, “Don’t eat too much, you’ll pee the bed.”

I should have listened to my own advice. Apparently this rule applies to adults and children alike.

I woke up the next morning quite abruptly. As I bailed out of bed I said to Josh, “Don’t roll over.” So naturally he asked, “Why? Is Jackson in the bed?”

Nope. I was just being courteous enough to try and keep him out of the wet spot. I’m sure you’ve painted yourself quite the mental picture. But it’s not as bad as you think. It’s not like I had to lay down newspapers. Lets call it a squirt – or a dribble, maybe.

Between the watermelon and the very vivid dream I was having about sitting on the toilet, it was bound to happen. Not only was I sitting on the toilet in my dream, my hands were in warm water. So as you can see, this really was not my fault.

Nevertheless, take my advice. Don’t eat too much watermelon. 

Highway 6

One of the several reasons Josh should have dumped me when he had the chance occurred two summers ago on Highway 6. Wandering down the side of the highway late at night, drunk, sweaty, wet and bleeding he picked me up and took me home. Well, not without a quick stop at Aunt Vicky's on the way.

The day started out great! Free tickets to see a few of my favorite bands at Westfair and all access passes to the VIP tent with free beer and a private porta-potty was setting the day up for success. But you really have no idea how drunk you are when you're sweating balls and guzzling one cold beer after another.

Despite my intoxication I was courteous enough to be concerned about Josh getting stuck in the concert traffic when he came to pick me up. So I stuffed an extra beer in my purse and cracked open another for the road as I started hiking down the side of Highway 6 in the pitch dark. About 1/4 mile down the road I came across some rough terrain, slipped in the gravel and biffed it on the side of the road.  It must have been a while since I visited that private porta-potty because I spilled my beer and half my bladder when I hit the ground.

Just as I finished picking the gravel out of my knee Josh came to the rescue. I jumped in the car and sent him straight into the concert traffic I was trying to avoid. I needed to get to the closest toilet, Aunt Vicky's house, because I wasn't done peeing.

The next day we drove up and down Highway 6 more than once so I could show Josh the slope I slipped on that caused the whole accident. Never found it. Turns out that road is flat as a pancake; I was the only thing tilted that night.

Table Rock Lake Enema

It's exactly what it sounds like. The Table Rock Lake Enema was the result of a ski boat and a poorly designed inner tube.

The first tube we tried was called the Flying Saucer. We had to exchange it because it took Lucas for a ride like a kite. After becoming airborne and then landing upside down, he resurfaced with bloody elbows.

We traded the Flying Saucer in for a two-man tube. With inflatable seat cushions that weren't well secured, and one bump after another on the wake, it didn't take long before the water was rushing in the bottom of the tube and straight for our butt holes.

Just like the scene from Great Outdoors, my dad and I start yelling "Stop the boat!" Of course, mom can't hear us and keeps right on going. It's not easy keeping water from rushing up your bum at 20 miles per hour. There was only one thing left to do, bail out. We plugged our noses, counted to three and rolled off the side and into the lake. And that's why we call it the Table Rock Lake Enema.

Olive

Memorial Day weekend 2005 my Grandpa and I ventured down to Rhoden Auto to find me a car. I had driven one hoopty after another since I was 15. I finally had a Real Job so the next thing I needed to officially send me off into adult hood was a car payment.

Grandpa was somewhat of a car aficionado. He spent every Monday morning at the car lot telling dirty jokes and eating donuts with his buddies. So I couldn't think of anyone more suited to help me pick out a Brand New Car.

I had few requirements: good gas mileage, a CD player (yeah, there was no iPod then...) and a sun roof. I saw a pretty green one that met my high expectations. Grandpa and I drove it to my parents house that happened to be just across the street from the duplex I lived in. I got my dad's ecstatic seal of approval "Looks ok to me," and purchased my first Brand New Car.

Grandpa must have really known his stuff or I'm one lucky schmuck. My girl Olive just hit 88,888 miles and she's still going strong! Not bad for a pretty thing with a sun roof.

History Repeats Itself

It was a rainy Spring day about ten years ago when it happened. The event that changed the landscape of my ass forever. Leaving my second floor apartment wearing flip flops and carrying and entire semester worth of text books I ran down the slippery wood steps.

This wasn't just a fall. It was like a scene from a cartoon. I became airborne. I'm fairly certain that my feet came up over my head before I landed ass first on the steps and slid down toward the bottom.  My roommate, Kelli Watson, didn't even know where to begin. I knocked the wind out of myself and starting making caveman grunting sounds trying to breath again. She asked, "Should should I call an ambulance?"

By the time I drove the two hours home and straight to the doctors office my mom works for I was falling apart. The final score was two sprained ankles, a back spasm, pulled muscles and a dent in my ass. I fell so hard the edge of the steps actually rearranged the fat - permanently! I had no idea human flesh could turn black-purple-red and take on the consistency of applesauce.

Then last night, it happened again. Famous last words were "Josh, you carry Jackson and I will carry the drinks. I don't want you to fall down the steps." The last step was a silent killer. All Josh heard were the drinks exiting the cups, not even a thud. I laid in the grass on top of Diet Coke and rum trying to form words.

Ouch! Stupid wood stairs!

Rubber Ducky, You're The One

I've found a lot of strange things in my purse before; including silverware and socks. But three Rubber Ducks is by far the strangest. And I love it.

I've done strange and disgusting things in he last five weeks. Today I picked someone else's nose and wiped it on a bib. I've actually shouted through the house"Oh my God, come look at this diaper!" I've intentionally sniffed a baby's butt and stuck my finger inside just to check. And none of this bothers me. I actually think it's kind of funny.

I've spent the last five weeks being amused by hiccups, bathtub suds and taking pictures in cute outfits. I just hope the second five weeks don't go as fast as the first.