Fold My Laundry Please

I have been tagged a few times lately for different memes.  I like to do memes because it’s like having a blog post handed to you.  However, when I do take the time to sit down and write, I actually have something to write about, and so memes get set aside for those days when words cease to flow and I need a little bit of inspiration.  Unfortunately, that means they start to pile up, and people think I don’t like being tagged because I don’t respond right away.  Okay.  To be honest, I don’t respond within the same month usually.  Perhaps I need to get myself a meme wraith like Diesel has.  Right now, I’ve only got three memes in my queue, but they all essentially have the same request.  "Tell us a few unusual things about yourself."  So Allanna, Claudia, and MereCat, these five stories are for you.

• I have actually seen a stuck pig bleed.  We lived in Reifenberg, Germany when I was in 1st through 3rd grade.  The house we rented was nestled between three farms.  On the left was a dairy farmer, behind us a huge apple orchard (Did you know you can spoil a cow’s milk while simultaneously ticking off the farmer by feeding the cows copious quantities of apples?  It’s true!), and to the right a butcher.  Every so often I had the opportunity to watch a pig be slaughtered.  It wasn’t like I had a special invite or anything; the farmer did it in a courtyard that was essentially his front yard.  My little brother loved watching them and would provide vivid play-by-plays for us if we couldn’t be there.  (*making wild slashing motions with his hands*  HE TOOK THE PIG AND HUNG HIM UP BY HIS FEET AND THEN GOT THIS HUUUUUUGE KNIFE AND JUST WENT SWOOSH DOWN LIKE THAT AND THE PIG FELL OPEN AND THERE WAS BLOOD AND GUTS AND I’LL BE RIGHT BACK!)  Without getting too deep in the grossness, the pig was quickly and humanely dispatched before the slicing and dicing began.  Somehow the farmer missed one morning.  The result was a rather comical chase involving an intensely fierce and incredibly loud pig and three or four farmers who were equally loud.  They thundered up and down the cobblestones of our little street, squealing and shouting, running here and there, and were it not for the fact that the whole time the pig was spraying a rather gruesome fountain of blood, it would have seemed like something out of a tv sitcom.  Instead it was more like something out of an independent film.  It lasted about an hour before the pig finally got weak from blood loss and gave up.  It. Was. AWESOME!

• I have devised an inventory sheet for our household non-grocery supplies.  You know, things like shampoo, toilet cleaner, dish soap, etc.  The chart is even organized as to what section each item can be found in at the store when I go shopping.  Once a month, I go to Walmart, follow the path my list has mapped out for me (with a small detour to watch the fish with the children), and Bingo! Bango!, I’ve spent $160 on toilet paper, deodorant, and laundry detergent in under an hour!  I actually have several checklists and spreadsheets that I’ve devised to help manage my household.  It’s kind of a work dorkier, not harder, principle. 
• When I was in high school, I joined the boyscouts.  I was of the mindset that I was going to become a surgeon when I grew up, despite the fact that I can’t even clean out cuts and scrapes without feeling all gooey inside.  Anyway, the Boyscouts of America have these clubs called the [Insert Future Career of Your Choice Here] Explorers.  I joined the Medical Explorers and we got to go on tours of hospitals, watch operations (ewww!), watch med students play around with actual cadavers (double ewww!), talk with doctors about their careers (enough with the gory stuff already!), etc.  Something I wasn’t aware of when I joined was that in order to be an Explorer, you had to become an official boyscout.  There were no merit badge ceremonies and I didn’t have to wear the uniform (How cute would that have been?), but according to the BSA records, I was a boyscout.  I even got invited to jamborees and camporees.  The only time it ever became a problem was when I turned 18.  Apparently, the government keeps track of the BSA files to make sure that all young men sign up with the Civil Service.  These records don’t seem to have any documentation about gender (it is, after all, the boyscouts), because I and my family were harrased about me signing up for several months.  There were many official threats letters and phone calls exchanged before someone official arrived at our door one day to verify with their own eyes that Melissa Victoria Meserve was, in fact, female…as we had claimed.  They introduced themselves, spoke with me a bit, noticed I HAD BREASTS, and then went on their merry way, never to bother me or my family again.
• Don’t tell anyone, but I don’t actually want anyone to fold my laundry for me.  In order for someone else to fold my laundry, I would have to sit there with them and tell them which drawers everything goes into, how to fold it so that you can fit more in, whose underwear is whose, etc.  It’s just less work to fold it myself.  Maybe the name of my blog should be changed to Wash My Dishes Please, because that I hate doing so much that I don’t even care what method you use to get it done, as long as the pots and pans are clean and off of my counter!
• I used to be a competitive ice-skater.  I was young, and thin, and covered in muscles.  My favorite moves all involved skating at top speed and jumping, because I was what they referred to as a "power skater".  That’s really just a nice way of saying that I wasn’t very graceful, but I could jump four feet off the ground without even trying.  "Power skaters", such as myself, are perpetually covered in bruises, because jumping really high means you fall really hard.  One time I fell in such a way as to drive the back of one of the blades on my skates a full inch deep into my calf muscle.  It hurt like the dickens, but didn’t cut through my tights.  Fashion faux pas avoided!  Also, it didn’t bleed until about 20 minutes after I left the ice rink and had time to thaw out a bit.  Apparently, when you spend 5+ hours on the ice, not even constant physical exertion will keep you warm enough to bleed.  Other injuries incurred during my skating career include a sprained wrist, a dislocated hip (Don’t worry, it was relocated once I tried to stand up and then fell over on it!), and ice burn on the entire left side of my face.  It was good times.  Good and expensive.

So there you have it.  Five stories about me that you may, or may not, have known.  I will be answering any questions you may have in the comments.  Autographed photos will be mailed directly to your house and you can expect them in 6-8 weeks, or whenever I get around to it!

Humor-Blogs.com has stories that would curl your toes!