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February 23, 2006
The smell even OUST couldn't oust
For nearly four years of my professional life, I worked in many nursing homes in our area. Into the third year, I became pregnant with Drama Diva, our first child. Some women say that their sense of smell heightens with pregnancy, but I have a feeling that even if I hadn't been pregnant at the time, the stench from Miss Tiny's room could not have been ignored.
Miss Tiny was just that, a tiny black woman who never removed her pink or aqua turban. I don't know if she even had hair, that's how much she wore them. The traditional housecoat, a requirement for any nursing home female resident, and a pair of pink fleece lined houseshoes completed her ensemble. Instead of walking, she peddled a wheelchair all over the place. It was not uncommon for Miss Tiny to run over your feet trying to get to the dinner table.
Miss Tiny loved everyone and blessed them repeatedly with sweet prayers. She loved to touch people's faces and rub their hair, singing an old hymn. She told stories about her life and always invited people to her room to see her artwork.
If you've never been in a nursing home, there are single rooms and double rooms. Many have their own heaters, which are turned up 365 days a year. Miss Tiny had a single room, and soon I would learn why. She wasn't a wealthy woman, so I had always wondered how she rated the private room.
During my last trimester, curiosity got the better of me and I followed Miss Tiny to her room to inspect her 'artwork' she so often bragged about. Her bed was made perfectly with a handmade quilt, a solid oak rocking chair with an similarly colored afghan sat in the corner, and the nightstand was bare. Within 30 seconds of being in the room, my nostrils detected that not all was right in Denmark, There was a 'funk stank' that rivaled a colostomy bag bursting in an elevator.
"Here they are, my little angels!" She ushered me to the heater under the window, where sat five clay angels of various sizes. "I made them myself."
"They are beautiful, Miss Tiny." I stifled a cough filled with vomit from the growing stench.
"THISH, CAN I THEE YOU?" My tongue tied PT tech hurried me out of the room. "Girl, what are you thinking goin' in there? Don't you know what those angelsh are?"
"I know they aren't much but she's trying."
"GIRL, THOSE ARE MADE OF HER SHITH!"
Uh, come again?
"She shits in her chair, and then rollths them up into little ballsth. Puts them right on that damn heater. Can't you smell it?"
I gagged all the way back to my room and never let her touch my face again. Now, when I see clay figurines in stores and the various truck stops, I hear Miss Tiny's bragging and almost smell her dried feces... and smile without gagging.
Posted by Tish at February 23, 2006 07:11 PM
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Comments
And there I am, left to wonder how a human came to be Miss Tiny. Somewhere in that small package sitting above our shoulders her firing or misfiring neurons told her it was alright, even artistic to do that. What awaits us?
Still, that nursing home was pretty liberal with health requirements, don't you think? Oh, by the way, were they nice? :)
Posted by: Paul of York at February 23, 2006 08:26 PM
All I can say is...are you serious? Quite a story! (and told very well, I might add.) By the way, that's a great photo collage at the top of your blog.
p.s. I look forward to using those three extra days I've earned. :-)
Posted by: Angie at February 23, 2006 08:44 PM
Oh my freakin' god.
Well, it is creative....I guess....
Eeeewwwwwww
Posted by: Keely at February 24, 2006 12:08 AM
Oh gross out! I gotta agree with Keely - "Eeeewwwwwww"!
Posted by: Stegbeetle at February 24, 2006 03:38 AM
LOL...an individual of extensive chronology and advancing loss of comprehension once chose to use an ashtray as an impromptu dunny at work, wiping her hands on the elevator walls. Fortunately, she didn't carry her artistry beyond 'The Screaming Elevator'...
Posted by: Skunkfeathers at February 24, 2006 08:37 AM
Yes, for Pete's sake. Didn't you see those little undigested kernels of corn?
Posted by: old horsetail snake at February 24, 2006 10:40 AM
Oh. My.
What an introduction to your blog. Came over from basil's this morning, anticipating...something...
Newsflash - I found it.
And I'll be back.
Posted by: The Random Yak at February 24, 2006 12:07 PM
My comment destined for this post is on the post before this one. Sorry.
Posted by: Paul N. at February 24, 2006 12:55 PM
Some of the inmates where I work have been known to make whole chess sets out of the same...uh...material.
lew (formerly lejnd)
Posted by: lew at February 24, 2006 01:05 PM
Oh. My. God. Wowee. What an introduction to your blog! I love it.
I think Miss Tiny would enjoy my dog, who also fashions tchotckes from her own feces.
Posted by: Jess at February 24, 2006 01:44 PM
C'mon, you know artists can be a little eccentric. And think how thrifty she was. Never run out of art supplies as long as she has access to x-lax.
Posted by: pennyhalston at February 24, 2006 05:07 PM
Ha Tish....and you thought our careers were SOOOOOOO different! Must be something there, though...I've had inmates make whole families (and the pets!!) out of their poop.
Posted by: Celeste at February 24, 2006 07:11 PM
Tish, looks like you've got a bunch of new fans. You deserve it. You write so well.
Posted by: Patrick Joubert Conlon at February 24, 2006 09:16 PM
Your stories from work can make a person laugh, cry and gag all at the same time. Truly a fertile ground for your site. Glad I had a chance to catch up this weekend. Great stuff! But...too bad you had to go through what you did to write it.
Posted by: Peaches at February 26, 2006 12:30 AM
I went looking on the Southern blog ring for new blogs to read, and found you with this story...
Wow..is all I can say! You're quite a writer!
Posted by: Beth at February 26, 2006 10:12 AM