Body Fluids - Whatever

by Troy Foster

I used to be grossed out by random body fluids.  Even the term is disgusting.  Now, with four kids, perspectives change.  I probably have a combination of snot, poop, pee, blood, vomit, bile, and saliva on this “clean” shirt that I just put on this morning. The beauty, however, is that if I spill anything on it – ever – (and I do mean anything) - I have four excuses.  CSI would have a field day with my clothes.

Before I had kids, I gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to an old dude that had a heart attack.  And, he threw up in my mouth.  Of course, I did the right thing.  Spit out the throw up and kept going.  He died.  So, it was sad.  But, I was also disgusted that a stranger threw up in my mouth for nothing.

Now, that wouldn’t even phase me.  If anyone is going to have a heart attack, having it around me is a good bet, as I’ll have no hesitation about the mouth-to-mouth.  Can’t guarantee results though.

Sweatin’ on The Speaker

by Troy Foster

Of the House, that is.  Many moons ago, I worked for a Congressman on the Hill.  When the House Republicans signed their “Contract with America,” it was a big buzz in Washington.  (For those of you that are too young to remember this, please don't leave me comments to that effect; I get it - I'm old.)  So anyway, I decided to get my picture taken with the newly elected Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich.  Signed up for a time and everything.  Then, so unlike me, I got lost in work and realized that I was late.  Late for the Speaker.

So, I booked it.  Back then, me and running didn’t go together – so, it was probably a sight.  I had to run two buildings over.  Only problem – it was hot and humid.  When I start sweating, I can’t stop.  So, I arrived, fully drenched.  The good news is that he wasn’t on time.  I stood and waited by these red, expensive looking curtains.  Realizing that I couldn’t wipe my sweat on my suit (without it being in the picture), I quickly wiped my head on the Speaker’s curtains.  Very absorbent.  I helped pay for them, right?  And it’s only sweat.

I got to thinking about this run to the Speaker's Office when I was talking with friends about literally running for Congress.  I've always loved the idea of making a difference; and even age has not broken that spirit and drive!  Oddly, and maybe telling, I've gotten much better at running.  (Shout out to my trainers/coaches at Orange Theory Fitness.  I know, I can't help myself - whenever I have the opportunity, I thank them.  But they deserve it.  Really.  Ok, I'll shut up.) 

Don't Nair Me

by Troy Foster

I’m the worst when it comes to practical jokes.  Don’t get me wrong.  My ideas and execution are both killer.  But, sometimes I take it a little too far.  Some refer to it as prison mentality.  If someone “gets” me, I’m going to get them back and they may not survive.  The line between funny and over the top or inappropriate becomes a little blurry for me.

As an example, an old roommate of mine were in a practical joke war.  It was short-lived.  I don’t even remember what his initial salvo was, but my response was to put my Great Dane’s poop in a baggie (with holes slit in it) in his desk at work – hidden behind some important-looking books.  People wondered why he smelled so badly; he didn’t discover it for over a week.

Again, his retort is somewhat fuzzy to me – I just know that he retaliated.  My response was to put Nair in his shampoo.  You know that stuff that women use to remove hair?  Yes, same stuff.  I wasn’t being mean or malicious.  I thought it was funny, and appropriate.  From the time that I poured the Nair into the bottle right up until the point where my roommate emerged from the bathroom with patches of his hair gone in clumps.  He didn’t think it was too funny.  Neither did I when I thought about it.

But that incident, nor the countless others, have helped me develop a filter of any sort.  So, you have been warned.  Don’t dare me to a practical joke challenge.  Or you might find yourself “naired.”

Car Cussing

by Troy Foster

In our family, we don’t let our kids cuss.  We’re pretty traditional.  “God” and “Jesus” are also forbidden unless referencing them properly.  Tradition ends when the car doors shut (on some days).  I have declared “car cussing” as a way for the kids to express themselves using whatever language they want without any reprisals.  They ask for car cussing sometimes, but it’s only a special treat.

And, we have a blast.  The kids giggle with excitement when it’s time.  Henry laughs so hard that it’s tough for him to get out “weiner sandwich” as his worst cuss word.  Lily, our little princess, simply repeats “boobies, boobies, boobies,” and laughs uncontrollably.  Our oldest is embarrassed by all of our behavior and refuses to participate.  But am sure that he’s wanting to say what Henry will eventually screams at the top of his lungs “what in the he*% are you doing?”  Just having fun.

Stealing the Marshall Papers

by Troy Foster

Is there a statute of limitations on this, I hope?  Anyway, here goes.  When I was in Washington, they released the papers of deceased (and first Black) Justice Thurgood Marshall.  When they say “release,” they mean that they are under lock and key at the Library of Congress.  Only Members of Congress and their staffs could go sneak a peek – for the first few months.  So a friend and I took advantage.  It was pretty interesting.

As we left, the alarms beeped.  We looked around.  Nope, didn’t have anything.  The library staffer looked, and thanked us for stopping.  I was annoyed.  That night, I unpacked my book bag that I took with me to work.  In it, I found a two-inch stack of Justice Marshall’s handwritten notes.  What?  Of course, only the handwritten ones.  Perfect.

Without sleeping all night, my mission returning them began early.  I had thought of what I’d say, how I’d apologize, and planned it out.  Hoping not to get arrested.  I walked into the Library, signed in, and saw the papers in the same station where I left them – with no one there.  I sat down and unloaded them.  Then realized this was covert – so had to stay a bit pretending to read them.  One of the more nerve wracking, yet silly experiences in my life.