I would like to share with you the great Mustard Debacle of 2011.
Carlisle, Chandler, and I went to Subway in the hospital, as we so often do when we're at the school studying. Let's just say that the A-Team Subway Staff was not there. This was like the H-Team. It turns out that mustard was their downfall.
Chandler asked for honey mustard on his sandwich. This seems to have been quite the request, but the (obviously new) girl picked up approximately 18 squeezy bottles, and more than once picked up the honey mustard. Finally, she had her selection narrowed down to 2: honey mustard and spicy. She looked at the honey, then promptly put spicy on the sandwich. Chandler looked like someone had kicked his puppy. It was a really sad face.
After Carlisle and I had recovered from laughing at poor Chandler's misery, it was Carlisle's turn. He asked for yellow mustard. This, too, was obviously misguided. Because he, too, got spicy. Then, supposedly because the guy in front of us with the purse (yes, an actual purse; not a satchel or man bag or European carry-all, but a white vinyl purse, no accompanying woman in sight) had requested that more mayonnaise be put on his sandwich, dude fixing Carlisle's sandwich said, "You look like you need some more mayonnaise," but then proceeded to put yellow mustard on the sandwich. Which was confusing as all get out.
Okay, so Sex Talk with The Hoff (what I now affectionately call our professor, who is female) was not as entertaining as I had hoped. Apparently she used to give these lectures wearing a leather skirt and boots and carrying a whip, but, thankfully, someone dropped the "professionalism" bomb on her to make that stop. She was blunt, though, which helped me get over most of my discomfort in discussing boy parts. Studying in mixed company probably helps, too. But I no longer feel the urge to cover my face and run away at the mention of "ejaculation," so a battle has been won. However, I will try to remember that everyone else may not be there with me and will thus refrain from engaging you in an awkward sex conversation. What can I say? I'm a giver.
I have something to confess. I have recently been obsessed with Charlie Sheen's recent sojourn down the road of insanity. I wasn't really interested until he got a twitter account, and suddenly I was hooked. But it was short-lived. I watched the live broadcast, and it depressed me. His life is a little sad and a lot crazy. Carlisle said, "That man needs Jesus and a lot of professional help." Amen, my brother. But the occasional picture of him doing things like "playing Pong" with the DirecTV screensaver bouncing around his television is still entertaining.
We had a long day of tests today, so my brain is a little tuckered. But after the histology board on Friday, it's Spring Break!! It is probably safe to assume that I will not post again until after that, but maybe I'll have good stories. Until then, live healthy so you don't get polycystic ovary syndrome. You heard it here first.
cheers
Erin
P.S. If you look up polycystic ovary syndrome on Wikipedia, I urge you to refrain from clicking on the article about hirsuitism. It is not safe for work/school/public/innocent eyes.
