The Unanticipated (But Not Unpleasant) Side-Effect of Mucinex

I'm not feeling very pretty this weekend*. Not that I usually feel elegant under normal circumstances, but this weekend I'm trying to get over a cold. I'm in those last stages when you have a cough that takes you by surprise as you're talking to someone, and then you feel obligated to say "I'm getting over a cold" in the event that they suspect it may be cholera**.

These are the kinds of coughing fits that take on a life of their own. They don't hurt, but when they start I have to say to myself, "Well, let's see where this goes...". I am completely at their mercy. And they usually end with my throwing up a little bit, but, more alarmingly, I have started to PEE myself during the apex***.

I suppose I should be ashamed at admitting that. But it's just a LITTLE pee, and it only happened twice. Only twice, probably, because I spent the rest of the evening sitting on the toilet watching Nurse Jackie, coughing and peeing without a care in the world. It was strangely liberating.

It was during this pee and mucus fest when I noticed something that, in all honesty, I've noticed before. I simply hadn't had the forum to state it publicly: taking Mucinex makes my crotchel area smell like mint****. It's not a spearmint or peppermint smell; more a medicinally-mint smell. I actually googled Mucinex to see if they referenced this side-effect on their website, but I didn't find anything about odors. I also tried to find a comment field to alert the company. I guess I was thinking that while it's not the first smell I would CHOOSE to smell like, it's not unpleasant. I mean, it might make for interesting marketing. Companies have made millions selling products that smell questionable. Take Axe for example.

After I got bored with googling "Mucinex makes my crotch smell", I just googled "crotch smell". Here's a quick PSA. Don't do that.

But, I did find this interesting info-graphic, although I was disappointed that "Mucinex" wasn't on the list.

I also found it interesting that of the 6 possible reasons cited, the one I said "Ewwww" to was "Forgotten Tampon". Hey, I'm a busy lady. I know distraction. But really? I guess I assumed a "forgotten tampon" would show itself the door, so to speak, before too long. In any case, save that image, print it out, and hang it in your office. Don't say I never taught you anything.


* Despite this whole blog-thing starting out as a "How to Entertain Yourself When You Live in a Boring State", I'm telling you how I spent my weekend. It might not be exciting, but it was slightly entertaining. So suck it.
** I say cholera as opposed to whooping cough or TB because said coughing outbursts are accompanied by vast amounts of roiling mucus that I try to daintily wipe from my mouth-chin-cheek-forehead as if nothing resembling an Eva Carrière ectoplasmic event just occurred.
*** I know, I know...women pee themselves.  Eventually. But this is not a problem that I've had before, and I purposely chose to have two C-sections to avoid this issue. And to avoid hemorrhoids. And to avoid a flaccid vagina. I can say with assurance that I have now only dodged one of these. So far.
**** No shocker that this topic hadn't come up organically in prior conversations

Snow Day Binging

Today was another snow day. Snow days always sound exciting the night before. I usually go to bed with a list of things I plan to accomplish during this freebie-clean-slate day. For the record, very few of those things actually get done. I'm a great planner; just not so good with the execution. So, despite the fact that I had laundry and bills and a kitchen to paint, I was bored and couldn't bring myself to do any of it.

Instead, I wandered through the house, convincing myself that any chore was probably a bad idea because the power could go out at any time. Painting? I would ruin the brushes if I couldn't run water to clean them properly. Laundry? The clothes would smell if they stopped mid-cycle and would have to be re-washed anyways. Bills? I'd have to wade through the snow to get them in my mailbox (which would probably be destroyed by the plow). You see what I mean?

I started to pick through a pile of papers and books that had been accumulating for some time when I came across one of my old journals*. I started flipping through this journal, and it made me sort of chuckle. It was a diet journal. One of many. You see, I have always been on some kind of diet or another. It's just one of my hobbies I guess. It started back when I was in third grade and thought my parents were trying to poison me. I would only eat foods that were either packaged or that I watched being prepared. One might think this would cause a child to lose weight. Alas...no.  I ballooned. And then, when I got over my "poisoned"gig, I bounced from one fad diet to another, all of which I read about in my grandmother's Readers Digest. I did the Grapefruit; the Melba Toast and Prunes; the Cabbage Soup; the Eat-Anything-You-Want-But-Spit-It-Out-Before-Swallowing (I made that one up myself). If it didn't cost anything for a membership, I was in**.

This journal wasn't from my childhood though. This one started in 2012. And the first page was titled "Things I Didn't Eat Today". I remember when I wrote it. My kids were young and I was always hearing about POSITIVE reinforcement. I guess I figured that instead of writing down everything I DID eat, it may be more encouraging to list the things I DIDN'T eat. And also, because I'm competitive, I remember thinking that I could get into the challenge of listing more and more foods everyday.  This page in the journal wasn't even slightly filled. In fact, I had listed only one thing: an apple.  The folly of this plan isn't lost on me now, but at the time, it seemed bulletproof***.

Page two was dated late 2012 and was simply a list of TV shows and documentaries. Now, before I go on, I want to remind readers that I'm SHARING here. Please don't judge my inclinations; I am fully aware of my shortcomings. The page was titled "Do It Yourself Anorexia" (Which doesn't really make sense. Isn't all anorexia DIY?.. But I digress). There were a ton of titles. Everything from classic The Karen Carpenter Story to TV show Intervention. I remember watching most of them, trying to glean strategies from people who had perfected the art of not-eating. I always considered myself a quick learn, but evidently I have some kind of brain block in the food disorder matrix. I simply could not master anorexia. I mean, I'd do ok for a day or two. But then you better bar the door****.

The last page was just a little odd. It was dated 2013 and was titled: "Why I Eat and (How to Stop It)". Again, maybe not the most sentient title, but you know what I meant.  There was a list of garden-variety reasons why I overate. Sadness (get new friends). Depression (get better drugs). Boredom (take a class). But the one that was actually interesting was The Urge. It was number 6, but probably should have been number 1. And the solution in parenthesis was (remember the Hood man).

When I was a kid in the late 70's and early 80's, there were these TV commercials for Hood Milk with a little guy, the Hood mascot, made of some kind of horrid clay-mation. His name was Harry Hood*****. If you watched the video above, you need no further explanation. There was something about that little guy that completely bothered both me and my sister Karmen. We actually talked about it back then, and we both had a similar urge when he would appear on the TV screen. We both wanted to pick him up and SQUEEZE him. Like really hard. But we were only kids, and we never delved into the conversation more than to say exactly that, and it was always in combination with the miming of squeezing something in both hands and scrunching our faces up with slitted eyes.

It was only when I got older that I started to think maybe Karmen really wanted to squeeze him because she thought he was so cute? Maybe her squeezing was a mothering response? All I know is that my squeezing urge was something very very different. It was a weird and hard-to-describe tingling awakeness. I wanted to squeeze him, but I also wanted to roll him up into a ball like super soft white bread. And then pop him in my mouth to feel that creepy little Hood man stick in my teeth. Or, and even stranger still, I kind of wanted to roll him up and stick him in my vagina. And then just walk around with him slowly suffocating. I know! Super fucked up. But it was The Urge that made me want to do it. I can't tell if it was sexual or just a hunger response. I truly don't know. The best word I can find to describe it: predatory. Not the most satisfactory descriptive, but it's the best I can do******.

That was all that was in my journal. The rest was blank. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it, so I just put it in my cabinet of curiosities for now. And I guess the day wasn't a total waste. The power's still on. The pile of paper crap is cleaned up. And I guess one could say I cleaned out the freezer. Not bad, considering.

* Now, I love journals. Like a snow-day-eve, they hold so much promise. I am simply a sucker for those pages and pages of blankness. I have a ton of them, but I usually only write in a few pages and the rest goes unused...sort of like the actual snow day itself.
** I feel the need to admit that, as I perused the journal, I was eating leftover chicken wings that my friend Damon had brought over the night before. Unheated. I like them that way because I also tend to eat the bones and they're crunchier when cold.
*** By the way, after the chicken wings, I moved on to frozen T.G.I.F. potato skins with cheddar and bacon.
**** I was now enjoying two grilled everything bagels from the freezer, with melted cheese and tomato soup. Delicious. At the same time, I was heating two State Fair corn dogs.
***** As a kid, I never actually knew his name. I had to Google it just now. And I'm a little disturbed by the sexual innuendo, frankly. But I guess sex sells.
****** (I know, these asterisks are ridiculous) I mulled over the Hood man while polishing off a bucket of PF Chang's pot stickers from the freezer. Cooked of course. What do you think I am, some sort of barbarian?

The Lava Fondue Showroom and House of Bacon

PART 3

In order to get to the Lava Fondue Showroom, we had to go down a hall in the back of the House of Bacon, past the bathrooms and the kitchen, and then up a ramp into a small alcove outfitted to look like a vintage hotel reception area. We showed our tickets to the girl behind the desk, and she told us to follow her as she swung open the bookcase to her left. It was totally Scooby-Doo. 

We walked through the bookcase entry and into the Showroom. There was a small stage at one end of the room; a bar against the wall, house left; and several cabaret tables filling the floor space. I'd say the whole place could seat a solid 50.  Damon and I took our places at the bar, ordered drinks, and perused the menu. Damon had never had fondue before, which seemed ABSURD, so we ordered the House Ale Fondue (a basic fondue with bread and veggies) and the Potatoes Dauphine (balls of deep fried mashed potato).  My official review: it was pretty good. I mean, the fondue was fondue. Like all fondue, there's never enough cheese, right? Which means the cheese must have been pretty good. Case closed.  And the mashed potato balls were fine, but they really needed salt and would have been great with a huge slab of butter on top. Or sour cream. Or both*.

At showtime, the place was packed. And the audience was a mixed bag. Most surprising to me was the number of people who looked over 70.  Not that I have a problem with that demographic. It just wasn't exactly what I expected.  And speaking of that demographic...Damon and I got totally off-topic while enjoying our cheese (which explains the dearth of notes about the meal)**. 

The lights went down, and a young woman stepped on stage. Music started and she began to dance. Not terribly well, but she started to unbutton her shirt, so I decided to withhold judgement.  A couple of other women joined her. They tried to dance suggestively with each other. It was not exactly embarrassing to watch; it was just...not sexy.  And here's a thing that may have made it LESS sexy: it became apparent that the grandparent-y people in the crowd WERE grandparents. Or parents. Here to watch their offspring perform. Like a common dance recital. And when "Jareth" came on stage with a gigantic codpiece and began rubbing it all over the dancers, these old people lost it. They hooted. They cat-called. I swear I heard a man in his mid 80's claim to be lifting (without his hands, mind you) the cabaret table he was slumped at.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with the Labyrinth story-line. I was not. And I believe I can say that I am still not. I watched the movie once. Sort of. My sister Heather had talked my mother into renting it at the Short Stop gas station in town along with one of the two VCR machines available. This was how it was done back in the day. And the Short Stop typically had three movies to choose from: Hot Dog...the Movie; Against All Odds; and Duran Duran's Rio video compilation. We had seen all three a million times. Evidently, Heather was ecstatic about the new video addition and badgered my mother to bring it home. I happened to be on the TV room couch convalescing from having my wisdom teeth removed*** when Heather started watching it. And so, I watched Labyrinth while zonked on Percocet. It was like a fever-fueled nightmare of sorts.  I guess in terms of accurate stage production, the Lava Fondue Showroom performance wasn't far off the mark.

I learned a few things watching my first burlesque show, and because of that, I consider the night a success. First, "burlesque" doesn't mean naked. It means dancing around in your underwear with band-aid things over your nipples.  Second, codpieces come in many different shapes and sizes. Third, grandparents will attend anything their grandchildren do and LOVE it.  Fourth, I have really good rhythm for a white girl because it was driving me crazy that Jareth couldn't seem to hump with the beat of the music. Last, the combination of cheese and bacon and fried potato makes Damon fart more than usual. Bad farts. So bad that he ended up changing his own answer on his fart survey.  Live and learn.

* But then again, these are suggestions from two individuals with blood pressures nearing the "Hypertensive Crisis" arena.

** So, Damon's parents are in Florida for the winter, and he had received a text from his father just as we ordered. I've tried to replicate the texted conversation accurately:

Dad:  HOW ARE YOU SON? HOT HERE WHAT ARE YOU DOING
Damon:  Why are you yelling?
Dad:  COOKIE AND DIANE ARE COMING OVER TONIGHT. AT 20:00
Damon: (...)
Dad: TONIGHT
Damon:  Are you guys planning on swinging?
Dad:  NOT SURE. WELL [sic] SEE WHAT HAPPENS
Needless-to-say, the two of us spent the following 30 minutes debating the meaning of this exchange, and the conclusion we came to was this: it totally sucks when you think you're slipping something funny into a conversation with your parents that you don't expect them to pick up on. But then they come back at you with a response that shakes your foundation. It happens a lot with my own mother, but Damon seemed to have had little experience with it. He totally didn't appreciate my lecture on at-least-your-parents-have-a-healthy-albeit-non-traditional-sexual-appetite. I tried several times to broach the topic, but apparently it's now "off limits".
*** "Removed" is a euphemism in this context. It was a hatchet job. It's also a story for another time. But let's just say, I am STILL spitting out bits of teeth that slowly erupt from my gums.

The Lava Fondue Showroom and House of Bacon

PART 2

Although we couldn't see any lights or people or evidence of any business to speak of, Damon found a sweet parking spot close to the block where we believed the Lava Fondue Showroom to be.  I thought the vacant looking buildings, dark street, and proximity to a CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE needle exchange was a good sign of exciting things to come. Damon seemed a little reluctant to leave the car. 

I tried to hide my disappointment once we rounded the block and saw the huge House of Bacon sign. Don't get me wrong; it looked like a fine place to eat. Large windows and warmly lit interior hung with those Edison bulbs every hipster covets. It's just...not what I had imagined.*

It wasn't that busy (maybe because it wasn't even 6:00 yet, and we were totally Linda-and-Ralph-ing it**), and we were seated quickly. When our waitress left a beer and wine menu, Damon and I had a shared moment of panic thinking there may not be a full bar. We looked around in alarm, trying to identify a cocktail amidst the tables.  I was talking Damon through a square breathing exercise when our waitress approached. I ordered two gin and tonics, waiting for her I'm-so-sorry-we-don't-cater-to-your-type-of-drunk closed mouth smile. But she took the order with no hesitation. Soon, she was back with healthy pours served in mason jars.

The menu was written on a chalkboard across the room, and we couldn't see it because it was pretty dim and we're getting old and also because I was getting five weeks out the one week contacts I wear. She read the entire menu to us, and we ordered four sides of bacon to split:

(L to R below) Garlic Sriracha, Parmesan, Almond Joy, and Sesame Brown Sugar

We were pretty hungry at this point, but we tried really hard to do that "smell everything and take small bites" thing that real food critics do. I took notes in my notebook***. We drank water to clean our palettes. I think we even used words like "savory" and "umami". We ordered another round of drinks.  And here is my inaugural food critic review: it was pretty good. 

I mean, of course it was tasty. It's fucking bacon. But it kind of dawned on me while I sampled the Almond Joy bacon that this whole restaurant was probably the shared brain-child of a couple of HUGE stoners who experiment in their kitchen at 2:00 AM. It doesn't  seem like real culinary artistry is what I'm saying. Cook up some bacon, slap some Hersey's syrup, coconut, and slivered almonds on it...Voila!

After ordering a third round of drinks, we asked our waitress about the fabled Lava Fondue Showroom. She told us to go through a corridor, past the kitchen and bathrooms, and ask at the "desk in the back room".  Damon went to investigate as I finalized notes. He returned triumphantly, announcing that we had just purchased the last two tickets, seated at the bar!  We squared up with the House of Bacon, and moved on to the burlesque.

*This kind of thing happens to me a lot. But in an attempt to be a half-glass-full type of person, I decided it wouldn't color my evening right out of the gate.

**This reference, "Linda-and-Ralph-ing it", is an old saw known only to my sisters and me. It describes those types of people who begin work at dawn's crack and call it a day around 3:00. Then, they go home and eat supper no later than 5:00; bed by 7:00.  And they always seem to put stuff on lay-away at Service Merchandise.  And the wife usually has a hair salon in a room that used to be a spare bedroom, but now it has a separate entrance and always smells of Apple Pectin perm from Sally Beauty. You know...those types of people.

***Because Damon and I have a shared attention span of a two year old, I decided to bring a notebook and pen to take notes during this excursion like a real professional.  Which is a good thing, because we kept having to remind ourselves to pay attention to what we were doing and stop talking about the stupid things we always get talking about. For example, the background music: banjo covers of pop songs, and we spent quite a bit of time playing "everyone drinks until someone names that tune". In the spirit of true reporting, I insisted that he Google the name of the band using the songs we could identify and the descriptive "blue-grassy". He came up with the name of a band, and I wrote it down, trusting my source. But as I'm reviewing my notes JUST NOW, I'm realizing that he was either screwing with me or he misspelled something because he gave the name of the band as The Gregory Brothers.  And having just tried to link audio, I can tell you that it was NOT The Gregory Brothers****.  I've included a viral favorite from said group below... and so the mystery remains.

**** TOTAL REDACTION: DAMON WAS RIGHT! It WAS the Gregory Brothers...I promised him I'd make a public apology, and so here it is. Go forth, you three readers, and know that I was hasty in my criticism. Here it is:

The Lava Fondue Showroom and House of Bacon

PART 1

When you live in Maine during the dead of winter, it's easy to go a little shithouse crazy. I mean, even during the high season of summer, decent entertainment is hard to come by around here. And after two months of sub-freezing temperatures, bi-weekly power outages, and a dog who parks herself in front of the heater and smells of the skunk she was sprayed by FOUR MONTHS AGO, I am ready to get the fuck out of this house. But where to go?  Frankly, I cannot sit through another whist party at the Town Hall hoping to win the coveted can of creamed corn.*

So, imagine my surprise and delight when I came across this ad on a blog called Weekend Sinners:
BURLESQUE SHOW
This Saturday: Lady's Labyrinth
Details: Join Sarah as she once again ventures into the Labyrinth, Tormented by Jareth and his slightly altered creatures at every corner to make a career decision that she is hesitant to contemplate. 
* There is a little bit of a secret entrance, we usually have a little sign out in front of the door, but if you can't find it go through the House of Bacon and tell them you want to see the burlesque show.

Right?  And it gets even better. The name of the "showplace" is called The Lava Fondue Showroom. So, we're talking bacon, cheese, and titties...and in my almost-backyard!

Have you ever had those dreams where you're in your childhood home and you suddenly stumble upon a secret room and you think "What the...? How long has THIS been here?!" I had that dream a lot. And my dream room was usually filled with MAD magazines and Oreos; at age 9, that combination simply took my breath away. After having this dream intermittently for awhile, I happened to mention it to my two younger sisters. They thought it was pathetic. Karmen said that her dream room would be filled with shoes and dresses. Heather said her room would be a Miss America pageant and she'd be the winner. I told her that wasn't exactly how dream rooms worked, but she was in her I-am-Debbie-Boone phase and told me to leave any comments with her publicist.

In any case, I sort of had that "dream room" feeling when I saw this ad: surprised, excited, and wondering how long I'd been missing out on these kinds of events that were practically right under my nose. There was no way I couldn't go.

I volunteered my friend Damon to join me, and while he pre-gamed** for our big night out, I jumped into the shower.***  Then, we headed 30 minutes west to the second largest city in Maine: Lewiston.



*I swear that's the prize. It has been since I was 7 and was finally allowed to play. And I have a sneaking suspicion it could be the same can of corn that gets handed around each time.
**Damon's pre-gaming this particular evening entailed "sipping" a gin and tonic while conducting a straw poll titled: Do You Enjoy the Smell of Your Own Farts. Not surprisingly, results were leaning toward a distinct gender bias. See Diagram A below.
***I feel compelled to admit that I showered solely to try and shave my pussy. I'd never been to a burlesque show, and for some reason, I got it in my head that there may be an amateur hour during this thing,and I needed to be prepared.

DIAGRAM A: