Standing To Pee

**If you got here through pStyle's website, or just stumbled across this post, thanks for stopping by!  I have transferred this blog to http://www.yeahimanerd.com.  If you want to purchase one of these pStyles, you can do so through me, by clicking HERE or using the PayPal button at the bottom of this entry.***

Three weeks ago, I posted this picture of my newly purchased pStyle on Facebook and Instagram.

It caused many dudes to question why, and many girls to ask where they could get one.  It even sparked a curiosity as to whether the GoGirl was better.

I'm only including a picture for comparison purposes. I have
never tried this product and cannot endorse it's use. Though if someone
buys me one, I'll totally go use it and review it.

I love camping and backpacking, but I’m getting too old and tired of hiking a mile away from my companions, digging a six inch hole to bury toilet paper, and popping a squat every time I have to pee.  I also do not enjoy the times I accidently pee on my shorts or ankles while attempting this squatting process, so I decided to spend the last half a year researching stand up urination contraptions.  Though the GoGirl seemed to be the most well known, it also had extremely varying reviews, which troubled me and delayed my purchase of a device.  The women who loved the GoGirl, professed that much practice would be needed before taking it to the wild, and the women who had problems with it…dude…they had problems!  I read review after review of the flexible rubbered GoGirl collapsing and leaving a puddled pee mess in their pants.  And then I also read many horrible accounts of women filling the funnel faster than it could be expelled; overflowing the container and again, making a wet mess.  I just wasn’t sold on the GoGirl, so I kept looking; and that’s when I found the pStyle.

Though the pStyle didn’t have as many reviews as the GoGirl, every single review it had, was positive!  I couldn’t even find a review lower than 4 (out of 5) on Amazon.  The 5 star reviews raved of it’s greatness, and the 4 star reviews pointed out petty complaints such as: it’s too long and made of hard plastic (making it less discrete than competitors) and it didn’t come with a carrying case.  That’s it.  No horror stories of pee leaking all over themselves, no woes of hot urine splashing back or dribbling on their feet, basically, no functionality complaints whatsoever!  I was sold!  After receiving it and posting the picture above, I decided that I would come back from a backpacking trip and review the shit out of this product for my inquiring friends and family.  So here’s what I found:

The pStyle rocks!

The day I got it in the mail, I drank copious amounts of water so that I could test it multiple times that afternoon in my home before I left for my backpacking trip the following morning.  For my first test, I dropped my chonies and shorts, stood over the edge of the tub, slightly bent my knees (as instructed) and peed into my shower.  The stream never even came close to flowing over the outer edge of the pStyle, and it drained out and away from my body just like it said it would.  The last step was to gently press upward as I pulled the pStyle away from my body to simulate wiping.  Afterwards, I grabbed some toilet paper and did a regular wipe anyway, to see how well the device actually “wiped,” and I gotta say, it did pretty well.  I only had a small drop on that piece of toilet paper. 

For my next test, I dropped my shorts and chonies again, but stood over the toilet.  Though I had to badly urinate, it took my body a few seconds to respond to the awkward positioning and overcome the fear of peeing all over my bathroom floor.  As soon as I relaxed, the pee came, and it went perfectly into the toilet!  I was ecstatic!  However, I didn’t let my excitement completely overtake me, as this tool would not prove to be perfect unless I could pee without dropping my pants and exposing my butt to the world.  Half the reason I got the pStyle was so that I could turn my back to my friends and pee on a tree!  Anyway, my last home-test worked.  I unzipped my shorts, pushed my chonies to the side, positioned the pStyle, and peed with ease over the toilet.  I was ready to go camping! 

The next morning, I left on an overnight backpacking trip with my dad and uncle.  I was eager to try out my pStyle after we stopped for lunch on the trail.  Unfortunately for me, my body freaked out.  Even though I had hiked out of view, as I stood there pushing and willing the pee to come, it would not.  I don’t, however, blame this on the pStyle.  As this unfortunate event was taking place, I remembered that this happens almost every time I try my first outdoor pee.  I usually squat and push and nothing comes out due to my body telling me that it is unnatural, and this was what was happening to me then.  Dejected, I zipped up my pants and returned to our lunch spot.  Of course, as soon as we began to walk, I felt the urge to urinate, but we were on our way, and I wasn’t about to ask my dad and uncle to stop just so I could fail again.  I waited until our next break, and then, despite my body not wanting to urinate in nature, I HAD TO PEE, and what a glorious and perfect pee I had using my pStyle!  No leaks, no hesitation, and very easy to use in the wild!

This is what it looked like from my perspective after
positioning it.  See?  All lady parts covered!
Also, please erase from your memory my dorky
Tevas with socks. Coolness is a low priority out in
the wilderness.

I wanted to post a picture of my urine actually coming out of the pStyle (‘cause yes, I totally took a picture of that!), but my brother, who is as gross and unashamed as me, pretty much told me (through his laughter and shaking of his head) that it would be a bit over the line, so I decided against it.  However, what’s a good review without pictures of the product in use?  For those of you who would like to see how it worked, I created a Flikr account just to give you the chance to witness it in it’s glory.  To see that picture, click HERE.  That way, for those of you who think pictures of pee are the grossest thing in the world, and better kept to our imaginations, just keep reading and don’t click on the link!  We all win.

The rest of the trip, I was able to use the pStyle successfully, and I was so thankful to have it!  Our campsite was wide open, with thin bushes scattered throughout, so if not for the pStyle, I would have had to hike quite a ways before finding a decent place to drop my pants and pee.  Instead, I was able to duck behind a bush, turn my back, and urinate.  Alas, I never did walk up to a tree to pee.  Even though my private areas were completely covered, my embarrassment of peeing in front of others overcame me, and I felt that I still needed to hide.

If you are a camper, or you just don’t like using public toilets, I highly suggest the pStyle.  Not only did it function perfectly, but it was also easy to clean and put away.  The shape of the device allows the pee to drain right off, so when it was stored in the Ziploc it came in, there were no lingering drops of urine.  Though the wiping effect isn’t perfect, it’s damn near close, and I didn’t have to use toilet paper on the trip.  Also, it was small enough to carry in my fanny pack (heck yeah I rocked a fanny pack!) and I felt pretty discrete whenever I brought the pStyle out.  Seriously, I have no complaints about this device whatsoever.  I can’t wait to add my review to Amazon and inspire more women to get this product!

Buy one for yourself today!!

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O Canada

I met a Canadian today.  On Canada Day.  And he talked about what they do during their holiday, including using the word “oot”.  It was pretty awesome, and I haven’t stopped geeking out over it all day.

I’m not really sure why I became so obsessed with Canada, but I vaguely remember how it started, and that I wasn’t alone.

My memory isn’t the greatest, but I believe that my best friend Shannon traveled to Canada with her high school orchestra. Maybe? I just remember that in one of her letters to me, she told me about their accents, and somehow, a phrase was coined: “Let’s go oot and aboot and play hockey with the mooses.”  Yes mooses.  I don’t care that I’m a teacher and know better.  There are just some words that are funner when used ungrammatically. 

From this letter of hers spurned subsequent letter envelopes decorated with red maple leaves and our Canadian phrase.  Before I knew what was happening, I had a collection of mooses and moose related items all throughout my room.  Also, it wasn’t uncommon for Shannon to receive some sort of moose related gift or card from me.  Still isn't.

I carried this obsession through college, proudly displaying a few of my stuffed mooses upon my bookshelf.  Somewhere in that time frame, I was gifted with an enormous Canadian flag that I hung proudly, and prominently above my bed in my dorm room.  People that visited my dorm started questioning my nationality, and to amuse myself, I decided to start affirming their beliefs of me being a Canadian.  Should they delve further, I had fabricated an entire backstory of living in Alberta, going to one of the figure skating competitions with my mom during the Calgary 1988 Winter Olympics, and sadly, moving to California at the age of 10.

I am a terrible liar, and am pretty much forced to tell the truth all the time due to the blush that starts forming on my face through my dishonesties.  However, my desire to be Canadian must have been strong, because I think I truly started to believe my backstory, and told it with a straight face every time.  People usually called me out on it as they got to know me better, and if they were really close friends who asked, I pretty much would finish my story, then laugh in their face about how gullible they were. (Which is hypocritical of me because I’m the most gullible person there ever was.  Just yesterday, my brother told me a dude’s name was Fletcher with a ‘ph’ and I totally believed him.)

Anyway, throughout the rest of college, most people understood that I just had a crazy obsession with Canada and mooses, and I eventually let the Canadian story drop.  However, the correlation between Canada and me never faded, and one friend, David, even nicknamed me Canada.  He NEVER referred to me as Erica, and I honestly doubt he even knew what my real name was.  After I graduated college, I went back to visit my youngest brother (who also happened to attend ULV) and I ran into David.  Instinctively, he said, “Hey Canada! Long time no see.”  We shared formalities until someone asked him, “Why do you call her Canada?” To which he responded, “Because that’s where she’s from.”  Someone around started laughing and quickly informed him that I was not, in fact, Canadian.  The look of incredulity on his face cannot be wiped from my memory.

Despite the fact that I felt horrible, and kept professing that I thought he knew it was a joke, I’m pretty sure David took it to be the ultimate betrayal.  And even though I still feel guilty about it, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say that it also felt pretty good: someone really thought I was Canadian.       

Pill Sandwich

Greg and I decided to do a 7-day Body Cleanse using a package of pills and powder from GNC.  It appealed to me because all the pills appear to be made from natural ingredients, it only takes a week, and it’s not one of those starvation cleanses (which I’d never be able to do because I love food too much).  All you have to do is mix a tasty fiber powder with your morning juice and take some pills with your breakfast and dinner.  Easy peasy.

When we were halfway through our dinner, I decided it was time to take my pills, and I wanted to offer them to Greg as well.  I asked him, “Do you want to sandwich your pills between your food and take them now?”

To which he blinked up at me and replied, “Is that how you think this works?  That your pills will sit sandwiched in your stomach between your layers of food?”

“Yes,” I answered as I swallowed my pills and took a big bite of my baguette.  “I imagine this bread will make a flowery, doughy blanket to cover my pills.”

He then went on to describe to me how the stomach works, but I still like to believe that if I take my pills in the middle of a meal, that they will be churning away and dissolving inside a cloud of food, cushioned safely away from my delicate stomach lining.  Is anyone else with me?

This is all there is to it! (minus the Hydroxycut which I’m just trying out for a few weeks)    

Drink Water At Your Own Risk

“For someone with no sense of taste, you have a lot of opinions on water.”

Kevin told me that a while back, and he’s absolutely right.  As you all know, I would rather remain parched than fill up a cup with water.  But on those rare occasions that I do partake in the liquid that gives me life, I tend to be picky.  I pretty much hate the taste of bottled water, but if I have to grab a bottle to go, I usually choose Arrowhead.  Most people that drink bottled water regularly tend to despise Arrowhead, and I think it’s because it tastes like tap water—which I personally like.  Tap water is free, as tasty as water can be to me, and is better for the environment than plastic bottles.  But don’t think I just turn on the tap and start drinking.  No.  My other demand for drinking water is that it be ice cold.  I’m talking about a minimum of four ice cubes per 8 ounces of water.  If it’s warmer than that, it burns my throat.

That said, a few months ago, as I was getting out of bed, I pinched a nerve in my back.  (I guess this is the sort of stuff that happens when you’re in your 30’s.)  In any case, it hurt tremendously, and I could barely move.  Internet research said to drink tons of water throughout the day.  Fortunately, Greg was home with me, and he gladly filled my reusable purple bottle with large amounts of ice and water.

In less than an hour’s time, I had finished 66 ounces of ice-cold water. (FYI: 64 oz is the daily recommendation, so I was feeling very proud of myself.)  While finishing my last gulps, I noticed that I was getting cold, but didn’t think much of it.  When I got up to smugly show Greg my empty bottle, I began to realize that I was extremely cold.  I decided I would quickly use the restroom to pee out the toxins this water was supposedly washing out of me, and then sit myself back down on the couch under a warm blanket.  While washing my hands, I noticed that my fingernails were so purple that it almost looked like I was wearing nail polish.  Looking up at myself in the mirror, it was clear that my lips matched my nails.  That’s when my teeth began chattering uncontrollably…something I thought was only done in cartoons and the movies.

I suddenly realized that I had given myself hypothermia by drinking water!!

But don’t worry; I survived.  Greg quickly got me wrapped up in thicker blankets and immediately made me a giant cup of hot tea, which totally defrosted me by the time I finished drinking it.  For the rest of that day, I swore off stupid water and stuck with tea--which I found to be an absolutely wonderful alternative.    

While I feel I usually have to defend my motives for not drinking water, hypothermia is no joke.  I’d say I have a valid reason now.  I mean, why would I want to risk my life over something as horrible as water?  It’s not worth it when there’s perfectly good orange juice in the fridge.

Quirky Blogger

“Most bloggers are emotionally unstable and are often awkward in social situations, which is why so many of us turned to blogging in the first place.” –Jenny Lawson Let’s Pretend This Never Happened: A Mostly True Memoir

While I don’t believe I’m emotionally unstable, I do attest to being quirky (the nice word for weird) and slightly uncomfortable in social situations; especially with people I don’t know well.  So yes, I couldn’t help but laugh and kind of relate as I read that line last night. 

I totally turned to blogging because I have stories I want to share, but I hate telling long stories in front of people.  Besides the fact that I turn beet red and start stumbling over words whenever I notice undivided attention turned on me, I also tend to get cut off every time I begin talking, and I immediately assume it’s because people aren’t interested in what I have to say (part of my very mild self-diagnosed OCD that I’ll get to soon).  When I’m in a big group of people, once I get cut off, I can usually just trail off and am luckily forgotten about.  But if I’m one-on-one and get cut off, I feel like I need to follow through with what I began, so I’ll usually just cut to the chase, leaving out all the entertaining parts and ending with a lame ass story that not even I was interested in hearing, which then leaves me blushing and ashamed that I opened my mouth again. 

Like I mentioned earlier, I’m pretty sure I have a very mild case of OCD.  If anyone else got cut off while talking, they’d brush it aside and continue on with their story or leave their tale for another day.  But not me.  I sit there thinking how dumb I was to have even started talking, and put myself down for even thinking people would want to listen to what I have to say.  I begin to wonder if others are secretly laughing at me and privately glad that I was shut up.  I seriously obsess about this for the next minute or so, completely ignoring the other conversation around me, but putting on a fake smile and nod so that I can hopefully fit in while I calm my ass down.  That’s the tip of the iceberg to my social awkwardness, and the showcase to my quirkiness.

When I was a kid, my hands always had to be equal; and a lot of the times, this equality revolved around the staircase in my house.  If my right hand lightly slapped the banister, my left hand had to slap it as well.  Sometimes, I’d even go back up the few stairs so that I could hit the banister in the approximate same place.  We also had a light switch at the top and foot of our stairs that controlled the same overhead light.  If I flipped the switch upstairs, then I had to flip it downstairs with my opposite hand.  This worked well if the light was off, because ultimately, the light would end up off again.  It led to issues when the light was on, however.  I would flip the switch off upstairs, then switch it back on downstairs, which would leave me with a sense of guilt for leaving a light on in an area I wasn’t going to be in, so I’d flip that same switch back off (with the opposite hand of course), then be left with two uncomfortable options: leave the light alone and walk away with my other hand feeling left out, or let equality prevail at the expense of running electricity.  I usually chose the latter; assuming one of my brothers would save the world’s energy problem for me.

For some reason, I grew out of that; maybe it was moving out of the house for college.  Nowadays, my OCD is mostly manifested in my placement of objects.  If an array of items is in front of me, I’ll usually line them up neat and tidy.  Everything on the desk of my classroom had a specific place that I would fix constantly throughout the day.  Just last week, as I was eating a clam dinner, Greg noticed me carefully stacking my empty shells off to the side of my plate.  After he knocked them over, I wanted to stack them back up, but instead, I stubbornly settled on making the fallen towers more spread out equally across my plate.  One of the shells that used to be on top was sadly layered by another shell, and as much as I told myself to let it go, I had to pinch it from the bottom of the plate and set it delicately on the top: it’s rightful place among it’s fellow shells.

I’ve been delighted reading the above-mentioned book, and pouring over her blog.  Jenny Lawson has not only given me the renewed energy I needed to get my own blog up and running again, but she’s validated the reasons I write, and makes me feel not so alone in my weirdness.  I actually feel pretty normal compared to her, though after this entry, many of you might disagree. 

Got Milk?

Living on campus while attending college forced me to overcome my shyness and opened me up to a ton of new experiences.  Dorm life, in itself, was a separate way of living that I still fondly look back on.  When I wasn’t in class, I was at the dorms either walking up and down the hall looking for friends, or sitting on my bed with the door open waiting for friends to find me.  Once a few of us would gather, we’d come up with ways to entertain ourselves.  While blaring and singing Wheatus’s rendition of “A Little Respect” at the top of our lungs (and I mean TOP OF OUR LUNGS) was a fun way to pass time, it did get tiring on the throat, and other alternatives were needed. 

One such alternative was The Gallon Milk Challenge.  I was hanging out with Delarie, Denisse, and Chrissy one day during my junior year, and somehow, the conversation turned to a fact someone had heard:  it was impossible to drink a gallon of milk in an hour.  Being the overoptimistic college students we were, we felt we could easily prove that theory wrong.  Seriously, how hard could it be to drink a gallon of milk?

We packed into my van to buy 4 gallons of milk and a jar of peanut butter to keep our quench going throughout our endeavor.  Upon returning, and clothed in comfy pajama pants (aka regular college attire), we sat circled around the peanut butter in Chrissy’s room, having a great time, and quickly downing that milk.  We were having so much fun and were so confident of our success, that we used my mini polaroid camera to take pictures of ourselves chugging our ice cold gallons.  I can’t remember how far we got, or who was able to drink the most, but after at least finishing half our gallons, we were way too full and our tummies not too happy. 

Soon enough, most (if not all) of us had to traverse across the hall to the restroom where we stood stall-to-stall puking every last bit of our milk into those toilets.  I, for one, was amused and laughing in between vomits because the milk was still cold!!  In case you’ve never had the opportunity, puking up cold liquids is actually not so horrible.

So, lesson learned, we never tried that again.  However, I can’t help but still be curious if anyone has ever been able to achieve such a feat.  If you’re up for the challenge and accomplish it, lemme know, yeah?

Mr. Schatz's Daughter

A week or so before school started, I was asking my youngest cousin how she felt about beginning 6^th grade at a middle school.  She was so nonchalant about it despite the fact that she had missed orientation, had no idea what classes she would be taking, and knew she’d be changing middle schools this year or next.  I marveled at her relaxed demeanor because the summer before I entered junior high as a 7^th grader, I was a wreck!

The newness and uncertainty of what I would encounter at Fleming Jr. High stressed the shit out of me!  Nowadays, they acclimate kids to switching teachers and classrooms.  Back then, my classmates and I went from a self-contained K-6 education to being thrown into a three building, multi-storied school with six different periods for each of our classes, all fit between passing periods with tardy bells. Not to mention I would have to learn how to open a locker; which was the scariest part for me.

I would work myself into a fit of tears over the stress of owning a locker.  I was extremely short for my age, so I was concerned I’d be assigned a top locker and not be able to see the combination lock.  And oh man was the combination lock a whole other mess in itself!  Being the nerd that I am, I was super stressed that I wouldn’t be able to master the complex task of working a combo lock.  Thus came Daddy to the rescue!

My dad was, and still is, the highly respected Athletic Director for San Pedro High School.  Besides bestowing upon my brothers and me the love of sports and athleticism, he also would come home with all sorts of fun sports and school related paraphernalia, and for this tragic time in my life, he brought me home a few combination locks to practice on.  After mastering those locks, I felt way more secure about using a locker at school, and a huge chunk of my worries dissipated.

I don’t remember where my first locker was situated, but I do recall that I was tall enough to see the dial clearly, and with my summer of practice, was able to open it easily.  Since I came from Lomita Magnet and qualified for Honors courses, I had elementary school friends in every single one of my classes.  And to make everything even better, due to the fortunate proximity of my classrooms, there was plenty of time during the passing periods to get from one class to the next.  That is, unless you’re a shy, awkward, scatterbrained nerd; like me.

After giving us newbies a week or so of free passes to being tardy, the school started implementing the Tardy Sweep.  If you didn’t make it to class by the time the tardy bell rang, you were required to sit in a detention room all period.  Of course, even though I knew I had more than enough time to get to each of my classes, I still felt nervous about this new rule and would pack up quickly, never lingering to chat with friends at the end of class to make sure I was not caught in that sweep. 

One day after 3^rd period English, it took me longer than usual to put the papers away in my notebook and I noticed that my friend Carrie left for 4^th period History without me.  I was a bit bummed, but understood, since I, myself, got nervous waiting for slow friends to pack up their belongings between periods.  I quickly gathered my things and rushed out the door to catch up.  I saw her and a few other friends ahead of me, but they were walking in an unfamiliar direction.  I figured our teacher must’ve moved class for the day and I missed the announcement the day before.  Being shy, awkward, and embarrassed to approach them, I just kept a few paces behind them instead of jumping in and inquiring where they were going.  I followed them all the way across the campus right into a class with a teacher I had never seen before, and classmates I didn’t know.  That’s when it dawned on me that it wasn’t time for History!  My 4^th period was Leadership, which was located directly downstairs from my 3^rd period room and ALL the way back across campus.

I quickly bolted from that room and walked as fast as I could to my class (running was against the rules).  The tardy bell rang when I was only few doors away from my class.  Despite the bell, I walked in the doorway, pausing to face my teacher who was sitting across the room at her desk, and I explained, “I thought it was a different period and I walked to the wrong class.”  To which she replied, “Sorry Erica, but you’re tardy.  You need to go to Detention.”  Knot in my throat and tears welling in my eyes, I swallowed, blinked away those tears, and began my walk of doom to the detention room.  Halfway there, I ran into our Vice Principal who questioned my being out of class.  I explained my situation and then he asked me my name. 

“Schatz?” he asked with a sense of familiarity.  “Any relation to Bob Schatz at San Pedro?”

“Yes, he’s my dad,” I meekly answered.

“I know your father,” he retorted.  “Good guy.  Come on, I’ll take care of this.”

That man accompanied me back to my classroom where, without an explanation, insisted my teacher let me stay in class despite my tardiness.  As I took my seat, she shot me a dirty look, as if I went running to tattle on her and got her in trouble.  I couldn’t help but smile sheepishly all the while turning a deep crimson. 

After those first few weeks of Junior High School, I was comfortable and accustomed to the new routine, and I loved every bit of my time there.  I was glad to know being Bob Schatz’s daughter gave me some leverage, but I never had to use it again.  Besides having the perks of my dad’s status throughout my school years, he was, and still is, a great father.  From something as small and touching as bringing home combination locks, to being a non-judging, unconditionally loving rock of support when I finally found the courage to end a six year abusive relationship, he has given me so much of the confidence that I have today.  Having Mr. Schatz as my dad may have saved me in Junior High, but him just being my daddy really has saved me in life.   

Water...yuck!

This week, as I donated money to a friend’s charity for clean water in Ethiopia, I started to feel a little guilty.  Someone feeling guilt over making a donation to help drill for water in Africa may seem strange, but it’s perfectly normal when that person despises drinking water herself! 

I should be grateful that I could turn on a faucet and get a sip of clean water whenever I want, but to be honest, I’m not as appreciative as I should be.  I usually prefer thirst to drinking a glass of water.  It has absolutely no taste to it, and it rarely satisfies me (unless I’m outdoors in 90° plus weather, the water is ice cold, and there is no available option of anything else to drink). 

Plus, water burns my throat.  Everyone laughs or gives me quizzical stares when I tell them this, but it’s the truth!  It doesn’t happen all the time, but it especially happens when the water is room temperature!  Now, it doesn’t burn right away; it’s more of an “after-burn” that sets a minute or two after taking a drink.  It’s similar to the feeling one gets when the beginnings of a sore throat kicks in.  The pain is felt in the very back and extends up towards the nasal passage.  I’ve no idea how long it lasts, but evidently it lasts long enough for me to know that I don’t like to take the risk of having it happen again. 

In an attempt to be healthier and drop a few pounds around the waist, a few years ago, I started bringing a water bottle to work that I refilled throughout the day.  Every once and a while, I’d finish my desired 64 oz, but usually, I failed.  This was mostly due in part to the fact that my ice would melt after my first bottleful, and after filling it with lukewarm tap water, it would sit untouched the rest of the day.  However, the excuse I like to go with is my lack of potty breaks while teaching. 

Being able to pee anytime is a luxury that teachers do not get.  As a middle school teacher, I only had 2 chances to pee during school hours: morning break and lunch.  Usually, my morning break was filled with helping students with academic questions and/or life mentoring, so really, I had one shot at lunch to relieve myself.  During my 64oz days, I’d have no choice but to shoo the kids out during break and get rid of the water I’d been downing.  In extreme circumstances, during instructional time, I’d have to open the connecting doors to my team teacher’s room and ask that they watch my class.  Since I disliked water anyway, I found that it was much easier not to drink water altogether.  A win-win situation.

Now that I’m unemployed, there really is no good reason for me not to drink 8 glasses a day.  Especially now that I’ve been reminded of the many people who die of diseases from unhealthy drinking water.  I’ll certainly start being more grateful for the access I have to my water, but I already know, there’s no way I’m ever going to enjoy the tasteless, burning feeling that water gives me. 

**If you want to help get clean water to those in need, you can donate and assist my friend in reaching her goal by clicking HERE.  (Donations can be made anonymously.)