Striking Oil

A lesson on diet pills: Read the warning labels and take them seriously. Anything that says "You may get gas with oily spotting" is not a force to be reckoned with.

But let's get serious, people, when you are on a quest, nothing gets in your way. Every quest is a journey to self-discovery and I wasn't about to let some silly, over-exaggerated warning get in the way of my quest to hotness.

I was really doing well on my own. I landed my first job, going to the gym five days a week, counting my calories; I was getting rid of the post-college 50 pounds I managed to rack on. But as the weight loss started to dwindle, I sought a little help from a little pill called Alli.

Everything was going fine, and minus a few tummy rumbles that first week, there didn't seem to be much of a difference. Then I worked extended-time at school. A small group of students who needed a bit of extra help in reading. We were going over a passage when I felt the brewing of a fart. As a teacher, I have learned to master the masking of the fart sound, so I let her rip, silently of course.

That's when the smell crept and attacked like a stealth ninja. Suddenly, my students were gasping for air and explanation: "Miss, what is that SMELL! I think I'm going to die!" One actually ran to the garbage pail and vomited. Aghast and gagging, I realized it was coming from me.

I quickly got up to try and get another teacher to cover while I ran to the bathroom, and I saw the oil. Yes, like BP on the Gulf of Mexico, oil completely blasted through my pants and all over the chair. Shame and mortification doesn't even begin to cover it.

I got that other teacher and ran to the bathroom, but there was absolutely nothing I could do; I never thought to bring extra clothes with me to work....I mean teaching is tough, but bodily fluid spills never usually got involved. I had no choice but to fry in my own oil for the remainder of the day.

Walking the class out became another quest; how do I hide the reeking stink from me as well as my completely oil-stained pants? I lowered my school bag as low as it could possibly go and ran the streets of Brooklyn like a deep-fried cheetah. My friends, striking oil is not nearly as rich as it seems.

Needless to say, that was the end of my relationship with Alli. I'll take my extra pounds over losing my internal organs through my anus any day.

An Homage to Boobs

This blog post actually comes from motivation by one of my closest friends in high school, Jenn Brenn, or Jenn Smith, now. So, before the homage to boobs, I send my thanks to her for reminding me that laughing at myself started much sooner than college.

A little background info on the silly poem: My high school sophomore English teacher, Mrs. Lowe, asked us to write and sing our own song as a creative piece. As a generally quiet and respectful student, not comfortable in my identity, this was a horrifying task -- a task I am forever grateful Mrs. Lowe assigned to us. You see, a poem about boobs literally just popped into my head. I asked her permission, and she laughingly agreed to let me sing about boobies. So, I wrote my silly poem down, memorized it, stood up in front of a class (which I never spoke in), and sang my breast homage. After a moment of complete silence, the class laughed hysterically and I even received a standing ovation. From that moment forward, I was not afraid to speak publicly; a gift like no other.

So, this poem is for a few people: To Jenn Brenn, for making me remember and for loving me in high school, despite my absurdities. To my classmates who forever changed my confidence. And finally, to Mrs. Lowe, who first gave me the courage to be myself.

Breasts

By: Kristen M. Fusaro

We have two mounds upon our chest,

Which help us look our very best.

Sometimes we pay, sometimes we don’t,

It’s rare you’ll see a star who won’t.

These two mounds upon our chest,

Are called melons, boobs, and breasts.

When they merge from beneath our shirt,

We are looked upon as dirt.

Some are large, some are small,

But fascinating are they all.

There are those that fall to the floor,

And there are those that burst through the door.

Men think they are God’s best creation,

Women think they are an invasion.

We have to pay all kinds of cash,

To help enhance our womanly stash.

Some men are just obsessed

With the wonders of our chest.

Us women just wonder why

They can get such a high,

From these two mounds upon our chest,

I’d like to call…our breasts.

Black and White and Red All Over

     Freshman year of college claimed many things from me. My savings account, my checking account, my hopes and dreams of becoming a famous author, but above all, my dignity.
     It was an evening like any other in my good-for-something dorm room. I called up my best friend, Pam, who lived several residence halls over and demanded we have a Disney-movie night. Knowing the exciting plans I had ahead, I slugged off my pajamas, hopped into the shower, and started searching for a fresh pair of pajamas to switch into. For the decency of mankind, I decided to put on a bra.
     To my chagrin, my bottle of Robitussin from my top drawer had fallen over and leaked all throughout my socks, bras, and underwear. Eh, I will put up laundry tomorrow, I figured, and proceeded to put on my now white and red-Robitussin stained bra and a black pair of underwear (which I did not realize were the most drenched at the time).
     I heard a knock on my dorm door, and knowing it was Pam, and figuring she would get a good laugh, I told her to come in. Except it wasn't Pam. It was Michael. The hottest upperclassmen guy on my floor.
     There I was in all my glory. Trying to stay cool, I said, "Oh hey, what's up?"
     "Um, I was just wondering if I could have some printer paper....I ran out."
     "Yeah, no problem!" Stay cool, stay cool.
     Bending over to pick up the paper from my printer, I realized the Robitussin was leaking from my underwear down my leg.
     Red and white bra. Black and red panties. Red dripping down my leg. I looked like I just walked out of the Bates Hotel.
     Staring at my crotch and thighs, Michael mutters, "Uhhh, Kristen, you should really get that checked out."
     "Oh no, it's ok, it's just Robitussin." Staying super smooth and ultra cool, staying super smooth and ultra cool. I hand the paper over to him.
     "Yeah, well, we have mental health services on campus, too, ya know. That's not how you take Robitussin." And he walked out of the door.

A Quick Pick-Me-Up

     I absolutely had to make it into work that day. Yes, snot was dribbling from my nose, yes, I was sneezing and coughing on anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross my path, yes, I was deemed as a pandemic similar to that of small-pox or the Bubonic plague, but I dragged my sick, sorry self to work.
    In the attempt of easing the mucous and general grotesqueness oozing from my body, I sat at my desk and simply drank Day-Quil directly from the bottle.
     Most of my student government students watched in despair, helplessness, and fear, but not Joe. Joe, who always has an optimistic view on the world, simply states, "Well, it's five o'clock somewhere."