Flushed Out

Those who know me well know that I am not afraid to do my business in a public restroom. This holds true at work, where I am quite comfy dropping an occasional afternoon deuce.

The maintenance woman usually comes around twice a day. In the last year or so, on more than one occasion, my bowels have scheduled a conference call with the City of Pittsburgh’s plumbing RIGHT before this poor unfortunate soul arrives. She rolls in with the cart and typically goes about her business regardless of any stalls that may be occupied, but on this particular day she must’ve had a bug up her ass.

Ahem, sorry. I meant stick up her ass. HEYWAITAMINUTE…

So, back to me. I’m sitting in the second stall, going about my biznasty and expecting her to finish up any minute now. I see her sneakers shuffle into the stall on my left and she flushes the toilet. She then bounces to the stall on my right and flushes there, too. Then she waltzes back to stall number one where she flushes again. Then back over to stall three for more flushing.

Aaaaaaand back to the first stall. Flush. Third stall. Flush. Left again, flush. Right again, flush. Left, flush. Right, flush. Left flush. Right flush. ONE FLUSH TWO FLUSH RED FLUSH BLUE FLUSH HEY DO YOU WANT ME TO JUST COME BACK LATER TO FINISH UP WITH THIS COMPLETELY NECESSARY BODILY FUNCTION? K NO PROBLEM BYEEEEEEE.

I became so weirded out by the whole thing that I got my shit together (SO TO SPEAK) and got the hell outta there.

Which was fine because I also kinda had the feeling I was being watched, y’know?

Your turn! Tell me all about how much you love public restrooms because nothing weird ever happens there.

Gravy Training

Despite her children being in their 30′s, our mom is constantly dishing out the kind of advice that should be reserved for kindergarteners. This habit combined with the her being the meekest among us makes her an easy target for teasing. That is, until she becomes a moving target.

Every year at Thanksgiving dinner, we have delicious homemade gravy. And every year, Mom pours that gravy into a lovely white gravy boat on a lovely white gravy boat plate. And every year, when she picks up the plate to pass it to the person next to her, she reminds us to be careful because the gravy boat is not attached. And it’s the same for the next person. And the next person. And the person after that. And the dog. And the neighbors. And the mayor. And THE GRAVY BOAT IS NOT. FRICKING. ATTACHED. YOU GUYS.

Like any loving family should, we tease her mercilessly over this. Nowadays, we beat her to the punch, loudly and repeatedly reminding the table that the gravy boat is NOT ATTACHED, no matter who is doing the passing or receiving. But do you wanna know the funny thing? Regardless of who is doing the reminding, the effect is the same: we know to handle that boat with care.

By Thanksgiving Day of 2011, the dining room tables had turned. The gravy hardly got passed even once before Mom suddenly burst out giggling. When she finally caught her breath, she proudly explained that she had just pranked us — by using sticky tack to ATTACH THE GRAVY BOAT TO THE GRAVY BOAT PLATE.

Turns out? Sticky tack melts under gravy-serving temperature, which ultimately taught Mom a tougher, gummier lesson than the rest of us when it came time to do the dishes. I’d like to say the joke was on her, but let’s be honest: the rest of us learned a lesson that day, and it was one we will never, ever forget.

And that? That’s something I’m thankful for.

Double Exposure Debacle

Remember that time I put on a perfectly nice dress in the morning and by the time I got to work it had shifted so far down my front that if not for the fluffy scarf I blissfully and ignorantly threw on, probably while whistling, I would have revealed not only too much cleavage but my ENTIRE RACK at my place of work and probably would have gotten arrested for indecent exposure and (let’s face it, with these puppies) public endangerment?

Oh, you don’t remember that? Funny, because it JUST. HAPPENED. YESTERDAY.

But don’t worry, I’m what Erykah Badu would call a bag lady (though I’m not sure someone who changed their last name to BAH-DOO on purpose really gets to call OTHER PEOPLE names) so I carry a work bag fully stocked with all sorts of contraptions for corralling my gazongas when they try to escape. Within 5 minutes of recognizing the problem, I was well on my way to solving it with these five easy steps:

  1. Curse fashion.
  2. Remember you keep a small tin of fashion tape in your work bag, because sometimes you’re a genius.
  3. Stop congratulating yourself and APPLY THE DAMN FASHION TAPE ALREADY.
  4. Hope and pray that no one saw you doing this at your desk just now because whoops.
  5. Periodically check the adhesive throughout the day to ensure that it remains intact.

SPOILER ALERT: It does. Crisis averted. This time.

How To Be Cool On A First Date With Your Future Husband

I met my husband on the internet. We had a few acquaintances in common, but not nearly enough to keep him from murdering me when we first met if he really wanted to.

That photo is so unrealistic!
He definitely would’ve just strangled me instead.

By the time we had our “official” first date (read: we finally spent money to see each other!), the butterflies were hovering closer to an 8 than a 10. But this was still a very new boy with some very real potential to be THE ONE, so I was dressing to impress. I didn’t wear crazy heels that night — instead I slipped on some fuchsia patent leather one-inchers.

We decided on dinner & a movie because we are such traditional motherf*ckers.

Before we go any further, you should know that my left ankle is weak from a now 15-year-old injury that may or may not have occurred while pretending to play soccer when in actuality I was staring at cute boys who… you know, in retrospect? I’m pretty sure they were actually playing soccer.

So, when Joe opened the doors to the theater for me, POP! — my ankle gave out and this b*tch went down in what you could pretty much call the opposite of a blaze of glory. It was more like… a fizzle. A fizzle of shame.

For good measure, I banged up my knee on the way down — but my face was spared and THAT’S WHAT REALLY MATTERS so we continued on to the movie.

Joe later confessed that he felt bad he couldn’t catch me — because he was busy holding the door for me LIKE A G*DDAMN F*CKING GENTLEMAN. I may have paraphrased that.

Bodily injuries and embarrassment be damned, our date was still better (and FAR more memorable) than the movie we saw that night.

STEAMY TURD THIS MOVIE IS” rrrrrrriiiiiight?


Totally Bogus

We’ve all had embarrassing public bathroom experiences. My first one happened at the tender age of 10 when I was in the fifth grade. Most other girls had done their business between classes, so there were only two of us in there when it happened. All was quiet.

Then, suddenly…

Yup. The fourth grade commentary on my fifth grade bodily functions was simply, “bogus.” Surprisingly, I was able to overcome my shame and I can still poo comfortably in public restrooms. My fart heart goes out to those who can’t.

Got any embarrassing stories of your own? Come on, I know you doo. Heh.

The Most Wonderful Time

Today I was thinking about everything I have to accomplish before Christmas and then I was like WAIT I HAVE THAT BLOG.

So, um, sorry? For neglecting you. And stuff.

It’s like, one moment you’re daydreaming about what holiday packages might be waiting on your doorstep after work, and next thing you know it’s already 3:45 and you haven’t eaten your lunch yet. So you have something delivered to your work to save time, but that totally backfires when twenty minutes later you’re calling the Jimmy John’s from right across the street feeling like a total moron for not walking the whole 40 extra feet to pick up the damn sandwich.

Point A is my desk, Point B is Jimmy Johns, and the image of my face is where I wait for the delivery because you guys, what if I walk over there only to find out I just missed the delivery guy, and I have to walk all the way back across the street without my coat on and STILL SANS SANDWICH? But I don’t want to call after only ten minutes because then they’ll be all “BLT? More like B*TCH-L-T, amiright!?” So I wait twenty minutes then call and the delivery guy magically shows up while I’m on the phone.


So I get back to my desk and promptly open the Dr. Pepper that’s been shaking around in my purse because I’ve always wondered what it would be like to spray soda all over my keyboard and off-white sweater, which now has spots of off-off-off-white, which is like off-off-off-Broadway but stickier and even less pretentious.

Then after work I walk around the corner to the USPS to mail some special packages to some special ladies but the they’ve closed an hour earlier than the internet claims they do, which is especially frustrating because I didn’t make it yesterday due to CRAY CRAY rush hour traffic.

I begin to wonder if it’s all worth it, because really Christmas has become so materialistic that maybe this year I should scrap it all and just make donations to a bunch of charities for WAIT A MINUTE THERE’S A FEDEX NEAR WHERE I PARKED.

Oh FedEx, you’re open so many hours later than the USPS which is perfect because I’ve already f*cked up two address labels and might be here until close.

But it’s all worth it because I finally get home when I see it, that old familiar view — the glorious, breathtaking Amazondotcom Mountain Range, which spans majestically across My Front Porch, Pennsylvania.

I conquered the sh*t out of that mountain and I’m expecting the book deals to come pouring in any day now. Also, I just found a Milky Way Dark in my purse.

I got to say, it was a good day.

So, what was I saying? Oh yeah, I should post more. Sorry.

The Gift Of The Magic Bullet

I have had a long time love affair with As Seen On TV products. I’ve braved the mysteries of Smooth Away and lived to recommend it. I have killed more than my fair share of spider plants despite the magic of Aqua Globes. I keep Mighty Mend it in the house because I can’t sew for sh*t.

Even Denise Huxtable is light years ahead of me.

I remember exactly where I was when I first saw the infomercial for The Magic Bullet. I almost stroked out with excitement. Did the inventors know how much I love frozen beverages? Because boy howdy, DO I. So I asked my husband, Joe, to get me one for my birthday.

My birthday rolls around and Joe hands me a bag to open. I rip into it and find exactly what I asked for. Well… sort of. He got me a magic bullet alright. Just… uh… the other kind. Y’know, the kind that’s NSFW.

I thought he was joking, so I started laughing maniacally. Turns out? He was dead f*cking serious.


Joe did eventually get me the blender, and it definitely lives up to the hype. But I would be remiss not to mention that after all that, over the years, I have by far used the other bullet more often.

It just happens to be easier to clean.