Now, Internet, I’m going to let you in on a little secret here because I know I can trust you, baby. It may come as a shock to those of you who have read me since the beginning, so brace yourselves: I am not always very appropriate.
I know. I know. Pick your chins up off the floor and dust that dog hair out of your mouth. It’s true.
Whether it’s calling a vagina “floppy beef curtains,” calling my unborn daughter a “crotch parasite,” or referring to the home in which I live as “The Sausage Factory,” I can be downright, well, CRUDE. I happen to consider this a plus. It wins me some friends, it weeds out people I’d probably consider boring and well, it makes me who I am. Rude and crude.
But even someone as uncouth as I am has boundaries. Specifically, I don’t go around telling complete random strangers about things that they may consider to be a little disturbing, even if I’m really desperate to share how Dave and I did some kinky role playing last night and he was the Easter Bunny and I was a Pineapple and it was effing hot.
Aunt Becky, you might argue, you BLOG about this sort of thing where all the world and Baby Jesus and your parents can even see it, and you’d be right. The difference between blogging here on my own blog to my audience and telling some poor guileless cashier about how the Monistat was REALLY for my SON is that you all can click away quickly if I start talking about something you don’t want to hear about. Then you can quickly delete me from your reader.
While the cashier can technically do so, it would probably be frowned upon by his management, so he’s just stuck there, ringing up the Monistat and tampons and blushing furiously and trying desperately not to think of the gross crotchal region of the woman handing him money.
Moving on with a totally awkward segue into my REAL post…
When I was early on in my college career, after spending many years working as a waitress, I wanted a break from the serving industry. But since I’ve yet to become an heiress, I still needed a jobby-job so I applied and began working for a vet. Being an animal lover since I was probably an embryo, I figured working the front desk for a vet’s office would be pretty flipping sweet, especially since it didn’t involve burning the hell out of my hands with hot plates.
The job itself was fine, but I was made miserable by one of the sea hags that worked there, Melissa. She’d been the target of the office hatred, so when I showed up, she rather quickly began to take out all of her frustrations and hatorade on me. This job, it was not turning out to be grand. So much so that I did quit it to go back to serving within a couple of months, burnt hands be damned!
But while I was there, I got to see how the other half really lives. I mean, of course, the RABID animal people.
While I’d always considered myself an “animal person” even going so far as to think of becoming a vet until I learned that they make surprisingly crappy money for a shit ton of work, I had no. freaking. idea.
Sure, I’d seen those bumper stickers and sweatshirts with kooky cats and stupid sayings on them. I’d seen the specialty shops devoted to dogs and cats and the people who loved them. Hell, we have a doggie bakery here in town, so I know that these people do exist.
But I never, ever could conceive of true the level of craziness.
At our vet’s office, we had attracted a True Crazy (wonder if HER pharmacist knows!). I don’t remember her name, but I’ll call her Janine for this story’s sake. Janine bred dogs, Weimaraners to be specific, easily one of the most gorgeous dogs on the planet. In addition to breeding them, she also showed them in dog shows.
She was a nice enough lady, although I’d been warned that she was nutso by the other staff, I gave her a chance. A chance, of course, to prove the other staff right.
One night at 8:01 PM, coincidentally a minute after we’d closed for the night Janine called up in an absolute panic. One of her dogs, she bellowed into the phone, one of her dogs was running a fever! And she must come in RIGHT NOW and NOT WAIT UNTIL MORNING FOR A REAL APPOINTMENT. She’d be there in 8 minutes!!
Fuck, man, I thought. I just wanted to go home and I had to stay there until she left. Oh well. Whatever. I’ll make an extra 2 bucks sitting around doing jack shit.
Sure enough, about 8 minutes later Janine blows into the place, tears pouring down her face while she carried her 90 pound dog up to the desk.
“My baby!” She screeched in my face. “He’s got a temperature!”
Thankfully for me, as I was about to bust up cackling at her (The dog looked FINE, and perhaps even a little ashamed and most certainly not knocking on death’s door), the vet walked out and lead Janine back to the exam area.
The vet tech promptly came up front to tell me this nugget: the temperature? 0.01 degree higher than absolutely perfect for the breed. It would be like calling your doctor if your “fever” was 98.8 rather than 98.7 degrees. Big fucking whoop, right? Besides, we all wondered why was she taking the dog’s temp ANYWAY if it wasn’t sick? The last place I’d want to be is putting stuff up a dog’s pooper, but not Janine. She must’ve dug it.
Janine comes out of the exam room in a whoosh and heads straight for the front desk without her dog.
“He’s staying overnight,” she said triumphantly. “The doctor tried to tell me that he was fine, but I want to make sure he’s in the best possible hands all night long.”
Um, okay. We’re ALL leaving when you leave, lady, so no one at all will be here. But um, okay.
I just nodded my head silently. She took this as an offer to jibber-jaw my head off. And what I learned next I can never, ever unlearn. No matter how hard I try.
“My dog (referring to the one now unhappily in a kennel in the back) is a show dog and we have a show coming up. I can’t have him be sick for the show….” She prattles on about shows she’s won and lost and just as my brain is starting to liquify and fall out of my eyeballs she changes subjects.
Specifically, she’s now talking about her secret for preparing the dogs for the show a subject that I could not be less interested in if I tried.
But, making the mistake of being polite, I asked her what her secret was. After determining that I wasn’t going to steal her thunder, she leaned forward conspiratorially and told me…
“Well, I take the males right beforehand and I ejaculate them.”
My mouth dropped open.
“I find that it relaxes them and then they perform better!”
My mouth flapped in the breeze.
Thankfully, the vet poked his head back out and beckoned for Janine to come back for some paperwork or something and told me, after seeing the look of horror on my face that I could go home.
A part of me died then and there, and another part of me wondered what the hell the other dog show people would think of someone whacking off their dog in the prep area. Perhaps they all do it. Maybe it’s one gigantic bestiality orgy before a dog show.
I’ll just never know. And THAT, my friends, is JUST FINE with me.
So what’s the most inappropriate thing that someone has randomly said to you? I’m positive I’m not the only one who has this happen to them.