Below are the 7 most recent journal entries recorded in poop_newsletter's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, October 27th, 2004
1:56 pm	"Dreams to Dream, In the Dark of the Night..."*** __________________________________________________________ I have been known to have very strange dreams where the most bazaar things occur, but for some reason, within my dream such events are all very casual and make perfect sense. I have no clue where the following dream came from... The dream began as I stood looking down at myself. I was wearing a larger sweatshirt than normal, but I could tell for some reason that I had a bit of a belly-- nothing too huge or even noticeable to anyone else-- It looked like I had balled up a t-shirt and put it under my sweatshirt. I was hanging with my mother in a budget hotel room, and all of a sudden I felt some weird discomfort down below... and I had a baby. It just kind fell out of me. And it was big- this big blond boy. It was clean and dressed. But the whole thing was just really casual, and my big concern was "How am I going to tell people that I’ve had a baby when it hadn’t even been visible that I’d been pregnant?" I hadn’t even known I had been pregnant! Then I started thinking I was a very lucky person, because usually giving birth was a very painful event, and I was lucky to have had relatively minor pains in comparison... So my mother and I are staying in this hotel room, and I have the baby sleep at the foot of the bed- like I would my cat. Again, this whole thing is casual. The next day (in dreams, you just seem to know how much time has passed), I find myself placing quarters in a parking meter for my car. Suddnely, a very large Saint Bernard runs by me. A girl on rollerskates is frantically being pulled by his leash. I do a doubletake and realize it is Julie Vollrath (a random girl I did theater with in high school and haven’t talked to in a good 7 years). She is followed by an African American woman in a green bike helmet on a little girl's bike with streamers on the handles who says hi to me. I know I should know her from somewhere, but I can’t figure out where. She yells at Julie “hey, Julie! It’s Hillary! Say Hi!” I turn and Julie is wrapped around a parking meter tangled with her leash and the dog has run off somewhere. She has a weird look on her face, like she doesn’t recognize me, but feels like she should muster up some faux recognition and hello. All of a sudden, I think “Shit! My baby!” I turn to the car, and the little blond boy (in a blue suspender jumper outfit) is saying “Mommy! The sun!” I have left him strapped in his car seat in direct sunlight, and, as we are a pale folk in my family, he is starting to get a sun burn. I take him out of the car seat, and that is the end of the dream. Weird. Do you think this dream means I shouldn’t have kids yet if I make them sleep at the foot of my bed and I forget about them in the car? I have no clue why I was staying in a hotel with my mother, why the baby came out dressed and talking, why Julie Vollrath skated by pulled by a Saint Bernard, nor why I never seemed to wonder where the baby came from (um, father?). I think I need more sleep. These Red Sox are killing me. _________________________________________________ ***Quarter to anyone who can "Name That Musical..." (16 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 25th, 2004
4:23 pm	I've Become Mimi _____________________________________________________________________ They have fired the receptionist at work. Not so much “fired because she sucked,” but rather laid her off because business has been quite bad in the environmental consulting industry as of late. Shall we blame it on President George W. Bush? Well, yes, we can directly, as 95% of our contracts are for the Environmental Protection Agency, and, “Georgie Porgie” as my 84-year-old grandmother calls him, has dramatically scaled back, if not completely obliterated many of EPA’s funds. Public Health-Smublic health. Do you really care if your water system operator knows how to get arsenic out of your water? I mean, it only causes cancer and all that. Well, you obviously don’t care if you are even remotely considering the possibility of voting for the G-man again this fall. I don’t care if you ARE anti-abortion and that’s the only reason you would consider it. Does it really matter if you are just going to ingest water from the tap that kills your fetus anyway? …But that’s another rant for another entry. So in the short term, my office has decided to deal with the tightening of the government purse strings by ridding us of a receptionist. I know, I know. We are all wondering, “Well, how the hell does a company survive without a receptionist?” And it is true, those mundane little things like answering phones and sorting mail- so trivial to the higher-ups, are actually the Achilles heal of any well-run organization and do, potentially, have the power to destroy us all. Thus, the powers that be within my small corporate world have had the foresight to solve this problem before it even began. Rather than hire someone cheaper or even cycle in some unpaid interns (which would have been my idea), they have decided to make some of the junior staff play Moneypenny in what they have deemed a “temporary solution.” What is the logic behind this? Apparently, placing staff at the reception desk allows us to continue our normal project work (and normal client billing), while allowing the occasional phone call or mail distribution to provide only the most minute of interruptions. There is nothing like working at a company for three years as a respected employee, only to suddenly become the secretary every sixth business day in the rotation… ANYWAYS. So I was sitting at the front desk today, and I realized "oh, I have to go poo." I started shutting down the computer, as I was done at the desk for the day. Closing programs one by one, “SAVE, CLOSE, SAVE, CLOSE,” I gathered my materials for returning to my office (YES, I have an OFFICE, and yet I sort mail every six days). In between WordPerfect and PowerPoint, it hit me. I realized I REALLY had to go! I started clicking faster. In my haste, I accidentally pushed the computer POWER button instead of the CD ROM eject button- screwing up the whole computer and making me re-start the computer so I could get my CD-ROM out. Whir, Whir, Whir, the computer began to reboot. Ahh! I don't recall having to poop that badly so quickly in any recent memory. “Microsoft Windows encountered errors while shutting down. One or more of your programs may be infected. We well now conduct a Virus Scan.” Nooooooo!!! I could feel my insides turning over and over. I seriously started thinking about poop scenarios- like had I ever been in a car where I just had to poop on myself or something because I couldn't hold it? Then I wondered how I would cover up dumping on myself when I still had half a day left of work? Why, during this time, I didn't just run to the bathroom, I don't know. I felt I HAD to finish up at the front desk computer (going through that stupid restart after improper shutdown biz) and shut off the phones and such. When I finally got my stupid CD out of the computer, I started to run to the bathroom (other side of the building). Mid-sprint I realized it would be pretty obvious that I was running to the bathroom, the only room in that direction, so I tried to walk. However, my butt would have none of this walking thing- it kept telling me to run. So I ended up running, while trying not to, which forced my body into performing some disjointed skipping motion all the way to the bathroom. The huge grimace on my face must have appeared quite strange to anyone observing me skipping. That probably drew more attention to me than just running would have. I peeled off my pants before I even reached the stall... I guess that is what I get for French Onion Soup from Panerra last night, huh? (Comment on this)
Thursday, June 24th, 2004
12:31 pm	A Dream Is No Excuse For Poor Manners... ___________________________________________ So I had this dream the other night that Jeremy's old apartment on Chester Street in Allston, Massachusetts was having a party. I get there, and who is making out in the hallway, but Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz. They're totally going at it- only Britney Spears is also at this party and she is in the hallway- so what Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz are doing is TOTALLY inappropriate- in that "you shouldn't make out like that in front of your ex" type way. Britney Spears is looking all bummed and not knowing what to do, so I take her hand and we walk down the hall. At the end of the hall is the bathroom. I open the door, only to find this door no longer leads to a bathroom, but rather to a mysterious back bedroom that I have never seen before. A couple of my friends are there, so Britney Spears and I plop down on one of the beds and I start telling everyone how rude Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz are, "They're such Jerks! I mean, you can't act like that when your Ex is at a party. I mean, it is so RUDE!" I can't believe I am actually in a situation where I would side with Britney Spears, but I keep talking about how rude they are to make her feel better. "Rude, Rude, Rude! How can people be so inconsiderate?" Suddenly, Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz open the bedroom door and bust in. "EXCUUUUSE ME?!!!! What did you call us?" they yell at me. I can tell they are pissed at me. I realize there is no way out of this and I have lost any chance of being friends with Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz over this. As they continue to yell at me for calling them Jerks, I realize how sad it is that I have gotten involved in this dating feud and have had to choose sides- but really, how could you NOT side with Britney Spears in this situation? I mean, making out big-time in front of your EX at a party is NOT appropriate. I now realize how Britney Spears is so completely misunderstood. (Comment on this)
Monday, April 12th, 2004
10:37 am	Down the Rabbit Hole ************************************************** It’s funny how our bodies change as we grow- allowing us to trade in those awkward braces for brilliant Crest smiles, or those few extra pounds of baby fat for a quick glimpse of that sexuality yet to come. However, usually one expects such moltings to occur at predetermined periods within our lives- junior high, middle school, or maybe even ninth grade. Or for the early bloomers such as myself- at recess during third grade- jumping rope with Christina Colliani and Christina Christofferson on the playground of Jack N. Darby Elementary School on a naval housing base in Hario, Japan. While many middle schoolers ache for their voices to pick an octave and stay there, or to hear their mothers’ exquisite glee in “welcoming them to womanhood,” third graders think nothing of such nonsense. In fact, the very thought of constricting undergarments or bleeding through one’s pants is enough to send the average third grade tomboy into a flying rage! …which is exactly how I reacted upon jumping into those ropes that fateful day 16 years ago. As I skipped to the tune of “Cin-der-ell-a, dressed in yell-a,” I began to realize that something was wrong- painfully wrong. As I jumped up and down, my side ponytail bouncing to the beat, it occurred to me… Jumping rope hurt my chest like hell! When did that happen?!!! Yesterday, jumping rope had been fine! But now, each little bounce felt like the Gummi Bears (bouncing here and there and everywhere) were jumping on my chest in a ‘Hop on Pop’ story gone terribly wrong. I yanked my arms in and hugged myself in reaction to the pain, causing me to lose the beat and suffer a brutal plastic-encrusted rope whacking (a nice little insult to injury). I spent the rest of the school day at my desk, contemplating my new conundrum. What was I to do? It hurt to jump, so I couldn’t do that anymore, obviously. The answer, I decided, lay in four square. The next day, I’d made it to my usual dominating role in the head square, when… WAM! James Thompson, a half black, half Filipino kid of admirable build slammed the bouncy ball into my chest with such force, I’m sure my lactation glands are STILL recovering 16 years later. I fell back in pain, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back the tears. What I would have given to sink into the pavement at that very moment! As any pubescent girl knows, the last thing you want to do is draw attention to your chest--even during critical injury. The embarrassment of people looking at your boobs is just too much at that age. So you do what I did at that moment: bend over and hold some body part far away from your chest. Yes, everyone just saw the ball whack your knockers, but if you buckle over and rub your knee, attention to your chest may be deflected. Elementary school boys are stupid enough to usually buy it. It seemed to work for me that day. The pain in my chest was excruciating, but people looking at my newly developed breasts was even worse. I longed to apply pressure to my throbbing boobs, but I instead bit my lip and placed my hand on a distant thigh. “Is your leg ok?” asked James halfheartedly as I slunk away. No answer was needed. The game continued, thankful to have one of the better players knocked out. The Bra. Back at home that night, I pulled out the small bra I’d received in a care package from the States a few weeks earlier. It was still in its little cardboard box- tossed aside in favor of the books and candy that had accompanied it. I’d thought it stupid- with its happy little pre-teen on the cover, smiling as she stood there in her training bra and cotton panties, a proud mother standing next to her, decked out in a matching ensemble. Uhg! This woman and her daughter seemed so unbelievably happy posing side by side in their underwear, it was all I could do to keep from upchucking on the titillating duo. I opened the box and donned the bleached white garment. The elastic dug into my shoulders and rib cage, and the tiny cotton cups barely served more purpose than decoration. I held the box next to me and studied myself in the mirror, comparing my image to that of the smiling model twits. Here I was in only the third grade, I realized, and I had outgrown a training bra before ever even putting one on! I’ll spare you the details of how I tried to wear that ill-fitting contraption for a while, finally giving up, only to have some teacher pull me aside one day and tell me I should think about wearing a bra. Let’s just say that full-fledged puberty ensued by the age of 11, and when I started seventh grade at a 7th –12th grade high school, I had juniors and seniors asking me out. It didn’t help, I suppose, that I was in many of their classes; I can see where the confusion came from. But my point is thus: one goes through this time in one’s life, and then one moves on. We are led to believe that puberty and all the embarrassments of ill-fitting clothing and bodily surprises only happen once, and then you are on the home stretch. So, imagine my surprise the other day as I was sitting in my office chatting with a coworker, when all of a sudden I hear this SNAP! I feel my bra pop open under my shirt like a chest cracking on ‘ER.’ In an instant, my boobs fly to their normal pendulous position, freed from their “lift and separate” Warner’s© Bra confinement. All this happens in a flash as I’m mid-sentence describing some political story I heard on NPR that morning. I continue to stare straight ahead at my colleague. OH, MY, GOD! I think. Did what I think just happened really just happen? …Don’t look down, Hillary! Keep talking! Don’t draw attention to your boobs that have just jumped out of your bra! Maybe if you keep staring straight ahead, they’ll keep looking at your face, and they won’t notice that YOUR BOOBS HAVE JUST REDEEMED THEMSELVES FROM SHAWSHANK!!! I politely finish my conversation and wait for my coworker to leave the room. I debate running to the bathroom, but I don’t want to run across the building exposing my newly mobile self. Had I just not hooked my bra completely that morning? I decide I need to check it out. So, I crouch behind my desk and hope no one comes in as I peak under my shirt. As I’m hunched over halfway upside-down in the corner of my office, I try and inconspicuously refasten my bra. I realize that the SNAP! had, in fact, been the sound of my plastic bra clip busting in half. Why, it had completely fallen off! I didn’t think that really happened to people! It must be on the floor somewhere! I pull my head out from under my shirt and begin scouring the floor for my missing bra piece. All of a sudden, I hear footsteps and SMACK! I hit my head on the underside of my desk as I jump up. To my relief, it is only my officemate. She’s cool. I tell her “my bra just busted open!” She laughs. “I didn’t think that really happened to people.” “Neither did I! But it is totally busted! I can’t walk around the office without a bra.” I begin to run through my options- call my boyfriend and have him run by my apartment to pick up another bra… Nah, he doesn’t have keys. “There’s Target,” says my officemate. “Or you could try and go without.” I remember my gym bag and my sports bra in the car, and I decide that sporting the ‘flat gymnast boobs look’ is better than swinging pendulums for the rest of the afternoon… ********************************************************** Later on that day as I am packing up to leave, I realize I have to pee. I debate running to the bathroom, removing my coat and setting down my bags before I head out, but I’ve been dying to get out of the office since my boobs decided they wanted to run free earlier that day. I decide I don’t have to go that badly, and it can wait until I get home. As I’m driving home, I realize it is the Massachusetts primary today and I haven’t voted yet. Funny, as closely as I had been following the primaries in other states, I hadn’t given my own a single thought. I‘d practically assumed that Massachusetts didn’t even HAVE a presidential primary- that we just gave Kerry our votes by default. But here I was driving home, listening to NPR, and I realized I wouldn’t be a good citizen if I didn’t go in and show some civic responsibility. Besides, I would throw my vote Kucinich's way (as my online survey had shown him to be my closest match- followed by Sharpton, hehe!), and hope he got a little publicity for his ideas. (And NO, that was NOT the same thing as voting for Nader in the 2000 election- far from it!) I head over to the Allston Public Library (my old hood) to vote. (Yeah, I haven’t changed my voter registration to Somerville yet, but I’m more familiar with Allston-Brighton Politics- so suck it!) I run in through the back door, hit the voting booth, and deposit my ballot into the machine under the watchful eye of a security guard. Now I REALLY have to pee. Go Captain Small Bladder! I run into the main library area looking for a toilet. Now, admittedly, I haven’t been to the Allston library that much. I worked long hours and it was usually closed when I returned to my former Allston abode each evening. I had hit a few used books sales in the entryway, but not really examined the shelves. As I walked around, I found myself in awe over the shelves upon shelves of books in different languages. Russian Books. Vietnamese Books. Not exactly the kind of thing you’d see in the public library in Grand Forks, North Dakota. A small twinge of shame began to creep up on me for not having explored this library before. Of course, as a result, I also had no clue where the bathroom was. Luckily, I saw a sign directing me to another hallway. I ran, my bladder close to losing its patience with me. Upon reaching the bathroom door, I stopped. The sign said “Children’s Toilet.” I opened the door and looked inside. It took a second before my eyes were able to locate the tiny toilet. It cowered in the far corner of the giant room, like someone had broken off its base and just left the bowl. Hmm. Maybe I’m supposed to use the bathroom next to this? I check the only other door in the hallway, but it is labeled “staff only.” Great. There is no other bathroom in sight. At this point, the uric toxins have begun to block all forms of rational thought. ‘Maybe everyone just goes in here,’ I think. I realize I must be right; in my head I rationalize that they just call this the children’s toilet because it is in the children’s section. But everyone can use it, I am sure. I run in and lock the door behind me. As I attempt to squat over the tiny bowl, I am reminded of my mother’s old kindergarten classroom, and its tiny toilets her miniature students used. The top of this miniscule bowl barely reaches the bottom of my calves. I have to catch myself on the wall as I misjudge the squatting distance and lose my balance. Great. I’ve fallen in a midget’s toilet. Here I am in this HUGE white room (no stall- just a room) crouching over something the size of a tea kettle, trying to relieve myself, and it occurs to me: I might fill this small porcelain dish up if I keep going. But I can’t stop- the penance from my obsessive tea drinking at work that day. As I sit there contemplating my day, I realize I must have fallen into some Lewis Carroll novel. Who knows what “EAT ME” treat I consumed that morning that allowed me to bust through my bra Bill Bixby/Lou Ferringo–style. And what possible “DRINK ME” elixir had I consumed that afternoon to end up here, in a room large enough to do cartwheels in, yet crouched in a tiny corner praying my poop (which looked the size of Michael Jordan’s sneaker in that toilet) wouldn’t block up and make me run to the librarian with the news that a 24-year-old woman had clogged the children’s toilet. I half expect to see the white rabbit jump out from some small little hole in the tiled wall. Upon completing my business, I work hard to hoist myself up from the toilet stump, pray my ‘leftovers’ go down the tiny pipe as I flush, and wash my hands at the mini-sink. I exit the bathroom and brush past the string of four-year-olds and mothers who have formed a line outside the door. I ignore their quizzical looks. Before leaving, I peruse the aisles of children’s books, my hands settling on a Russian version of “Alice in Wonderland.” I have a feeling I would understand THAT more than I would understand my day. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 23rd, 2004
9:44 am	CITRUS FRESH So I am reading some loving words from friends over e-mail this morning as I eat my grapefruit breakfast at work. I finish digging out the fruity flesh and gently squeeze one of the halves of grapefruit so that the remaining juice trickles into the other half and I can then salvage a few sips. All of a sudden, I must hit a fruit chunk and squeeze too hard- causing grapefruit juice of comical proportions to spray out and wack me in the face, shirt, and pants! I look down and realize I have these HUGE brownish yellow spots on my tan turtleneck. My entire front is covered! I run to the bathroom and try and salvage my shirt with a towel- only succeeding in making it worse, of course. I decide the only answer is to put my shirt on backwards- hoping no one will recognize the tag protruding under the fabric in the shape of an adams apple. I put on my sweater jacket to cover my back. But now I distinctly smell like grapefruit. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, January 30th, 2004
2:39 pm	I feel like the mother of a 1 year old. *************************************************** So I feel like the mother of a 1 year old. In the wee hours of the morning today, I awoke to the sounds of wheezing, stomach contractions, and a little choking - followed by projectile vomit. At first I thought this was a strange and twisted continuation of my dream involving Julio the hottie bag boy at the grocery store, but upon flipping the light switch, my eyes focused in on my poor little kitty Murphy bent over a pile of orange soupy goodness. Murphy looked at her mess, turned to me, then turned back to her mess, and proceeded to walk out of my bedroom. Oh, poor kitty, I thought. Someone's got a hairball. I get up and grab the paper towels in the kitchen right outside my bedroom door. Just as I am finishing the cleanup job, from in the kitchen I again hear wheezing, stomach contractions, a little choking - followed by projectile vomit. I enter the kitchen and turn on the light. My little pink longhaired sweetie is staring at the chunky mess in front of her. She looks at me, looks at the mess, and walks into the living room. I am out of paper towels this time, so I have to reach under the sink for a new pack. I hear my roommate stirring in her bed from the kitchen light and the noise of the cabinet. I contemplate closing her bedroom door, but I'll be finished soon, I think, and I don't want her to freak out if she wakes up to some figure standing in her doorway. As I open the new paper towel container, I again hear wheezing, stomach contractions, and a little choking - followed by projectile vomit in the living room. I quickly wipe up the mess in the kitchen, turn out the kitchen light, and proceed to the living room to see what Murphy has coughed up there. There is a large chunk strangely resembling masaman curry near the heater, and a few feet away, a smaller chunk where Murphy stands, perplexed. Looks like she tried to walk away before her stomach was done talkin'. I try and whisper soothing words to her as I clean up the mess. She jumps on the futon couch and I join her. I pet her and rub her and try and make her feel better. I'm tired, but want to make sure she is alright. As I sit with her on the futon, I realize that she may yet throw up again, and it is probably something I want to avoid having happen on my new futon. The hardwood floors are one thing, but people like Johanna actually sleep on this couch. As I am pondering the implications of cat vomit on my rainbow futon cover, Murphy again begins to wheeze. Crap! I think. But I've left the paper towels on the other side of the room! Not enough time to retrieve them. Think quickly, Hillary! Think quickly! I jump up and reach for anything in sight. My left hand lands on the set of drawers near the door. The mail! I grab a letter for Bruce Ladd, the former occupant of the apartment, and shove it in front of a choking Murphy, just as she vomits. It all lands perfectly on the letter, sparing my futon. Score! I remove the letter, the once nicely penned forwarding address no longer visible under the orange stain. Sorry Bruce. You had a cat. You'll understand, right? I throw the letter away. As I continue to sit with Murphy, catching her vomit with paper towels once again, I begin to contemplate the nature of the housecat hairball. As a child, I always imagined a hairball to look exactly like that- this little ball of hair that gets coughed up- indistinct in appearance from the dust bunnies under the couch -similar to the rubber band or lint balls of yester year. No one prepares you for actual cat vomit- like Dinty Moore minus the bisquick topping. How mother like- I think, as I sit up with my sick little baby. But I quickly realize the distinct difference between little children and cats. As Murphy runs around the room, dodging her vomit like little mini landmines, I conclude how much easier this would be if she would just stay in one spot! With a little child, I could simply say "OK, honey. Lean over the toilet until you are done!" in my soft motherly voice. And my child, speaking English, would understand and obey. A quick flush job and we're outta there. Murphy, however, certainly does not speak English- well, at least not in emergency situations- and seems to think she is upchucking the plague - the further away she gets from each cesspool of disease, the better. Poor girl. I chastise myself for not applying her hairball medicine more frequently, and for letting her hair grow extra long this round without shaving it back a bit. I check my mental day planner for the weekend. Friday: See high school friend Jenny perform with other second year Harvard Medical School students in fundraiser. Saturday: Run errands. Clean room. Laundry. Learn to use new scanner. Sunday: Super Bowl Party. I mentally add "shave cat" to the list before Super Bowl party. Murphy is slowing down now, and I figure it might be safe to return to sleep. I cover the futon in paper towels and climb back into bed. I hear two more 'wheezing, stomach contracting, a little choking - followed by projectile vomit' routines before I drift off to Never Never Land. Unfortunately, Julio the bag boy from earlier in the night hasn't waited for me, and I am hounded by images of an old restaurant I used to work in during high school and larger than life drums of soup cooking over the stove. In the morning, I find two small orange pools of liquid in the kitchen- one on Murphy's food mat. But she looks nice and calm, like the worst is over. I warn my roommate she should close her bedroom door before she leaves for the weekend, apply some furball medicine to Murphy's paws, and head out to work. I'm a little late, but I figure no one will notice if I don't say anything. I don't know if the "my cat was sick" excuse will get me very far. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, January 29th, 2004
1:34 pm	The Amazing Anus so I wonder why my poop had little light colored chunks in each log today, much like little corn bits, when I haven't had corn since Monday. oh, wait. they must be almond pieces, as I have had them for lunch the last two days. It's amazing such big chunks can pass through your system, yes? (3 Comments |Comment on this)