Sorry, Sister

Sometimes nuns are in disguise

In November of last year I had been working with Jack of Most Trades for about a month. He hired me on for some office safety responsibilities and we got to hang out like best buds almost every hour of every day. Cool, huh? We are still working together and although it has been close, we haven’t filed for pre-divorce . . .yet.

Jack and I are the first to admit we don’t “fit in” with the main floor crowd at the shop. Maybe it’s our fault, maybe it’s theirs. To strengthen the downstairs employees’ case against us (Jack specifically), one day Jack needed a hole punch and he didn’t have one, so he body checked a locked door to retrieve someone else’s. When questioned about the incident, he told me he just really needed the hole punch. To this day, there are little round pieces of paper scattered on the stairs leading to our office – a reminder of Jack’s grand theft hole punch “WTF moment”.

But there is more to the story, of course. Jack is a patient man when it comes to my obsessive cleaning and random crying fits; when he gets to work he transforms into a militant hot mess. He will lose his shit on a weekly basis. Where he rarely yells at me at home, he completely makes up for at the office.
He always scream -asks me all these hard questions like:

“WHY DO YOU GET HURT ALL THE TIME?”

“WHY ARE YOU CRYING (AGAIN)?” and

“WHO THE F CARES?”

In the construction industry swearing is acceptable. You can even call someone an “F’n A-hole” and they won’t be offended. I don’t like it when Jack scream questions me with swears. And I don’t think I’m alone.

Back to November . . .

I was having a conversation about Windows 8 with a lady from the aforementioned main floor crowd, when Jack walked in.

MF Lady: “We were just talking about you.”

Jack (jokingly): “Why, what the f#cked I do?”

While speaking with the main floor lady, I had noticed a mild mannered, grey haired lady sitting on the couch in the waiting room. After Jack threw out the F bomb, I instantly felt very awkward and motioned my eyes from him to the lady sitting in the waiting room. She wasn’t just any little old lady. . .

MF Lady: “There’s a sister behind you.”

Jack: “So there is.” Turning to the nun sitting on the couch he said apologetically, “I’m very sorry about that”.

Jack quickly turned on his heel and mentioned something about “going to go pray”.

You see, Jack was raised a good Catholic boy and had he known a nun was sitting behind him, he would have never peppered us with profanity.

Jack is a good man; hole punches are hard to come by, and sisters just don’t dress like they used to.

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A Blow WHAT?!

Blow outs happen sometimes, but we all wish they wouldn't.

Blow outs happen sometimes, but we all wish they wouldn’t.

I’ll bet you didn’t really want to read this because you thought it would be dirty. And mostly, you’re right. But, it may not be the kind of dirty that men live for.

That’s right, today we’re talking blow outs. If you’ve never heard of it, you’re lucky. If you think it’s about chemically straightening your hair, then hunny, you’re going to get an awakening from poo hell when you have a kid and realize there’s a whole other world of blow outs out there. And they’re free.

Let’s get one thing straight. I am one of the lucky ones because I am merely a part time Auntie and do not have to bear witness to this on a nonstop basis. I just want to know whey they call them “blow outs”? Is this a technical term? If so, I propose they be called blow ups. As in, all the way up the back.

I am writing this after, in an act of desperation, placing my bare hand on a poo soaked piece of paper towel (the only barrier between me and a poo soaked baby). This was my first experience with one of the more disgusting things in life and it makes me never ever want to experience it again.

I was concentrating on the color of font I should use for my wedding invitations, the biggest problem in the life of a non-parent, when my sister yelled in horror,
“Oh My God. I need some help over here!”

Considering I am a First Aid Instructor and this is similar to what we teach our students to say during an EMERGENCY, I figured I better respond. Instant remorse. I ran to the  living room and clearly remember staring in relative amusement and thinking, “Ohh hooo, this is not my problem.”

According to my sister, it was everyone’s problem,
“Are you just gonna stand there? Do something!”

“OK, we need to take her to the bathtub.”

This is when the paper towel came into play. This is the type of situation they don’t (but should) play out in the Sponge Towel commercials. Forget the fully grown men dressed in sponge pocket costumes, we need to portray a blow out. 98% of parents would instantly switch from Bounty to Sponge Towels. The other two percent are the Dads that gag every time they go to change their baby’s diaper, and they’ve just given up on the diaper change altogether.

We got the crying child to the bathtub and I glanced over and noticed her looking at me and giving me that toothless grin. It kind of made me laugh because, even though she can’t talk yet, I imagined her saying, “I got you guys GOOD!” Everyone knows if you act first and say, “Just kidding” after, no one can be mad.

Good one. Now, be a doll and don’t EVER do it again.