Monday, December 19, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
This letter is not about your shoes, although god knows your choice of footwear merits its own Open Letter. Because really. Are those things rubber? And turquoise? Common sense tells me that you can either wear rubber shoes or you can wear turquoise shoes but you just simply cannot wear rubber turquoise shoes. Especially after Labor Day. Color me conventional but there, I said it. However, I am not writing this letter to address your shoes; this letter is to address your shit. You see, you have violated some of the long-held universal tenants of office pooping and I am here to school you. Draw those flip flops up to your chest lady. You can (have the) run(s) but you can’t hide (in that stall forever)--things are about to get a bit grotty in this here workspace. Ah, yeah. I'm going there.
For most of my life I only pooped at home. No matter if I was on a long weekend getaway or at work. I held it and held out and to all the world I had no butthole. Life was good (if a little crampy). Then one day things changed. I had to go. Like, really. I had to go. I’m still not sure if this is a positive side effect of aging: you get more comfortable with the fact that you are human and thus poop. Or a negative effect of aging: You physically cannot hold it in anymore for days on end. So now I poop. I poop at restaurants. At other people’s houses. I poop in Port-a-Potties if things are unfortunately dire and I also poop at work.As a seasoned everywhere pooper I have done my homework on best practice of poop. This is what I know: the fourth stall is the best. It’s farthest away from other paying customers. It’s got a modicum of privacy. If someone is in the fourth stall you let them be. How do you know someone might be in the fourth stall, you ask? Well, a fourth stall occupant might choose to employ one of two moves: the Astaire, a subtle toe-tap, or a Camo-Cough, a phony clearing of the throat to alert all entrants to the bathroom that someone is in the fourth stall. If you hear either one of these moves then proper poop protocol clearly states that you leave the bathroom immediately so the pooper can poop in peace. You don’t rattle the handle like you did, Dear Turquoise Sandal Lady, and when a meek voice calls out someone’s in here! you don’t sigh as if someone stole your parking space. Because that, my friend, is called being a Turd Burgler. And clearly I was there first.Number two (pun intended; poop puns are just funny): You don’t then go into the third stall. No. The third stall is dead space, a divider between the worlds of pee and poop, a taint, if you will, of the public restroom. The third stall does not get used, particularly when the fourth stall is clearly occupado and the other stalls are vacant. Got that, Turquoise Sandal Lady? No. Third. Stall. And yet there you were, your rubber turquoise sandals practically toe to goddamn toe with my ballet flats.Then there’s this: you don’t trump somebody else’s poop. Because that’s what you did to me. You sat there in the third stall and tried to out-wait me. Oh, I toe-tapped and coughed and even rustled my jeans a little, a move I made up there on the fly out of desperation, but clearly you would not budge. So I was the bigger person Turquoise Sandal Lady, and I packed it up. I puckered and I packed, washed my hands (of nothing!) and left. Face Off. Turquoise Sandal Lady: 1 (#2). Susannah: zip.I went back to my desk and I did some work. I gave you 10 minutes and then I did a quick Fly By (the act of scouting out a bathroom before pooping) but still you were there. I let 15 more minutes pass. But remember Dear Turquoise Sandal Lady I am now 36 goddamn years old. Too young for Depends but too old for a long weekend of nothing or a long morning with a venti chai and a bran muffin. Things were coming to a head and I didn’t want to have to walk around Crop Dusting (which is completely unacceptable, btw, no matter the situation).So yes, I returned to the bathroom. And yes, those damn Turquoise Sandals were still there peeking out from beneath the third stall. And yes, I probably should have left. But I didn’t. I returned to my rightful throne in the fourth stall and set up shop. And so there we sat, two coworkers not two feet away from each other pooping. And that is just not okay. Because TSL? I feel I can call you that now, can’t I? After all, we’ve shit together, holding hands practically. TSL, my compadre of the can, I have a friend I’d like you to meet. Her name is Courtesy Flush. She is the act of flushing the instant your poop hits the water, thus reducing the amount of time the poop has to stink up the bathroom. Courtesy Flush, meet Turquoise Sandal Lady. Please meet her, greet her and use her liberally. Public pooping is not the time to worry about water conservation.And last but certainly not least, there’s this. I finished first. What can I say? You were in there for a total of 35 minutes. Clearly you ate some bad fish tacos the night before or something but I had work to do so I finished first. Proper Poopiquette says that you wait there in your precious little third Turd-Burgled stall and wait for me to wash my hands and exit the bathroom altogether. But nooooo. You’re quite the renegade of the restrooms, aren’t you TSL? A defector of the defecation treatise. Because you chose the exact moment I was at the sink to come out of your stall. Dear Turquoise Sandal Lady, I have a vague notion that your hair is blonde but that’s about it. You forced me to do the Walk of Shame, both of us really, standing there side by side washing our hands in a cloud of colonic stench. I could not look you in the eye, could not meet my own eyes in the mirror, really, and now I am left with just this: the image of those goddamn heinously ugly rubber turquoise sandals.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Good night readers. May you enjoy the ginger flavored ones more than I did.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
By Fifi Homemaker Cleaver (of Pleasantville). Cause I'm going crazy.
(this is a copy paste from a facebook page I read). Enjoy
Why men should work outside the home full time:
First of all, people should not spend ALL of their time together. Nate and Aria and I have been together 24 hours a day for the last two weeks with the exception of Saturday. The man should go to work every day because otherwise his wife and child will go crazy.
Also, having food on the table and gas in the car makes for far less fights. A certain man I know needs to step up and work more to support his puking pregnant fiance and their growing daughter. :)
Men tend to become irritated faster with children than women do. To avoid tantrums and brat moments... simply go to work.
Why women should be stay at home moms (or only work part time):
The children are less likely to become irritated with mom (notice Nate and Aria fighting like children all day long today).
Also, pregnancy is exhausting and trying to get the motivation to get out of bed in the first trimester is hard enough let alone trying to work through exhaustion, breast pain, back pain, and morning sickness. Would you like vomit on your popcorn? That'll be 50 cents extra.
Mom's can clean the house when they feel like it not when husband (who wouldn't pick up the mess he made with the children earlier in the day when you asked) DEMANDS that you help him clean when you're reading or watching the Disney Channel with your child. Also, women tend to understand the concept of Deep Cleaning better than men do. Men understand picking up clutter, not that the ring around the bathtub is gross.
Men expect their woman to look beautiful for them, even if she's been throwing up all morning and trying to wrangle the kids and clean the house all evening. If a woman stays at home while her significant other is at work, she can make herself look beautiful right before he comes home, when the kids are calm and the house is clean.
Men don't enjoy PBS Kids or the Disney Channel. Women do. It's one of those ingrained mommy things.
Miscellaneous Reasons the 50s Were Better:
Pearls, high heels, and a good sundress make (almost) every woman look beautiful without trying.
Children were allowed to go outside and play while mom cleaned the house. Nowadays you're pretty much evil if you're not doing tummy time and creative play constantly (seriously, you'd think most mothers would stop with this stuff by the time their child turns 9 or 10).
Instead of the Jonas brothers we had the Cleaver brothers.
The cars were cooler!
The music was amazing.
Divorce rates were much lower.
Codeine was available over the counter. (You know, just in case, someone hurts themselves or something... not at all for mom to mix with her cocktail during dinner.)