A Spoonful Of Sugar Helps The Diet Go Down

, , , , | Romantic | February 16, 2019

(I am trying to lose a bit of weight before my wedding, but I tend to have somewhat poor impulse control, foodwise. My fiancé knows this, as I have asked for his help to keep me on track. I am at his mother’s house for lunch one day, and I see that she has made brownies for us. Trying to be good, I cut a piece in half and offer one piece to my fiancé.)

Fiancé: “I was going to have a whole piece, actually.”

Me: “Oh, okay.” *picks up the second half along with my half*

Fiancé: “But if it will help you stay on track…” *takes his half back*

Me: *disappointed* “Oh… But you wanted more!”

Fiancé: “Yes, but I also want to help you with this! You did ask me to, you know.”

Me: “Yes… but I didn’t want you to actually do it!”

Fiancé: “Um…”

Me: “Yeah, you know, I want you to help me by supporting me letting me do whatever I want!”

(I ended up with only the half brownie.)

A Crustacean Inflation

, , , , , , | Working | February 15, 2019

My mother has a serious shellfish allergy; as she gets older, it has become progressively more serious. When she eats shellfish, she needs to go to the emergency room. Her friends are well aware of this; every time she eats out at a place that serves crustaceans, she explains it to the wait-staff in excruciating detail. She also lives in a part of the country where shrimp makes an appearance in many food items, so she has to repeat this often.

One day, my parents are having dinner with a friend of theirs. A few bites into dinner, my mother can sense that something is wrong. She mentions this to my father, who confirms that she’s having a reaction, and he asks the hostess whether there was shellfish in the food. The hostess says that there was, but that she took the shrimp out when she remembered about my mom’s allergy.

My parents immediately ask where the nearest hospital is and get ready to leave. The hostess disappears as they’re putting on their coats. When she emerges, she has boxed up their leftovers so they can eat them later.

Stuck In A Bloody Cycle

, , , , , | Healthy | February 13, 2019

About twelve years ago I was riding my motorcycle when I got hit by a driver that didn’t look to see whether the road was clear while exiting her driveway. The impact and subsequent fall wrecked the bike pretty badly; the lights and the mirrors were shattered, the rear brake drum had cracked, the clutch got stuck on partially-disengaged, and the transmission got stuck on third. I was okay, aside from a nasty cut on my chin that got the front of my jacket covered in blood.

After checking myself for bodily injuries and concluding that I had sustained none aside from that cut, I exchanged the mandatory details with the woman that hit me, and told her I wanted to contact the police to have an accident report filled. The woman exclaimed that “she had no time for this,” and promptly drove off, leaving her front bumper, which had torn off in the collision, behind. I then found out that I had no battery remaining on my phone.

I just went to the police station to get that report, on that very bike which was somehow still driveable with all that damage. The officer I spoke to was horrified by the way I looked with all that blood, told me that the report could wait, and urged me to go to the ER to get myself examined. When he asked me whether I could get to the hospital myself, I absent-mindedly just nodded and pointed at the helmet I had in my hand. That seemed to satisfy him and I went on my way.

In retrospect, I don’t know what was worse: the fact that I rode a motorcycle in a condition that made it nowhere near legal to be ridden right up to the police station’s front door, or that the officer, who must have assumed that I was involved in a serious crash, was perfectly fine with me riding the motorcycle involved in that very same crash to the hospital.

The Cake Is A Die

, , , , , | Related | February 12, 2019

My sister and I have had a tenuous relationship for most of our lives. I was the little sister who worshipped her; she was the big sister who wanted nothing to do with me. You get the picture? We grew up, and I moved away and got married. She changed from the self-centered bully who ignored me unless she wanted something from me into a giving, intelligent woman, and our relationship slowly mended… until she started planning her wedding.

A thing you need to know is I have several life-threatening allergies: peanut, mushroom, and tomato. Life-threatening in the way that if I am in the same room of any of these and breathe them I can die. Literally die. I almost have three times. I inherited two of the three allergies from my father and have had them my entire life; they’ve been getting steadily worse until they reached this point of complete anaphylaxis.

Anyway, my sister was planning her wedding, specifically the food, and her first choice of meals was Italian. Tomatoes and mushrooms. Her logic was that Dad and I could eat something else, and maybe if we sat by an open door we’d be fine. I repeatedly told her that if I was in the same room as these foods they could kill me.

She did not listen. She went as far as to begin to book the caterers for the wedding until my dad stepped foot in their kitchens and immediately had a reaction. Suddenly, she pulled back and decided that if Dad was having health issues she didn’t want to risk it because she needed him there. So, she went another direction.

Then came the wedding cake. She wanted to have it topped with peanut butter frosting. I spent weeks trying to get her to comprehend that even if she made a tiny cake for just her and her husband to share, if it was in the room, I could not be there. It took my parents intervening to convince her not to have it.

I love my sister dearly and I understand wanting to have your way at your wedding but demanding I be in a room that could kill me just so she could have a specific type of food… yeah.

Physically Unable To Calculate

, , , , , , | Friendly | February 12, 2019

(I have a massive migraine, but unfortunately, I have a calculus assignment and a physics assignment… which requires even more calculus.)

Me: “The human brain is not made to do calculus with a migraine!”

Roommate: “You could have stopped with, ‘calculus.’”

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