Mar
8
March 8, 2007
We have powder rooms rather than multi-stall bathrooms at Workplace, which is usually really nice, except for when I open the door and am greeted with the Ghost of Feces Past, or worse, discover the visual evidence of someone’s digestive system turning a lazy circle in the toilet bowl.
I often wish there was some easy way of communicating to other drivers from my own car, an LED sign on a window somewhere that displays “THANK YOU” or “SUCK IT”, whichever is most appropriate for the situation at hand, and in a similar vein I’d like a sign in the bathroom that lights up once I leave and the next person comes in. It would read, “LINDA’S BUTT DID NOT DO THIS.”
You know what I mean? I hate the idea that somebody else is going to think it was me that left it smelling like a paper mill. Sure, you can spray the little can of citrus crap around, but that really just makes everything smell like someone spent a few hours in there gruntingly passing a lemon through their colon.
As for Turdzilla in the toilet, I have no explanation for this. We all hate to stand around whistling while we wait for Flush #2, if Flush #1 does not finalize the job in a satisfactory manner, but come ON. Don’t leave it for the next person to deal with. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to smell it, and I don’t want to be forced to acknowledge its presence as I gingerly reach for the handle. I especially don’t want to be haunted by its girth, and find myself idly wondering just how much fiber a person has to consume in order to produce such a kielbasa-sized cylinder of horror.
Once I moseyed into the women’s room, found a Disturbing Remnant and flushed, only to watch in utter dismay as the water rose, and rose, and rose . . . and stopped just below the rim of the lid, while Things swirled ominously. What’s a person to do in that situation? I was panicked and sweaty and all I could think was, that’s not even my turd. There’s a hysterical David Sedaris essay about his encounter with an unflushable turd in the bathroom at a friend’s party, and I remembered how he dealt with it: by breaking it into pieces with the handle of a plunger.
Which I did not try because oh my god. No. Just, no.
Instead, I exited and told the person in charge of dealing with such toilet issues, making sure to defensively state at least 295719 times that it was like that when I got there, I swear to god, I mean I can prove it because all I had for breakfast was a bowl of cereal and clearly this person had a five-course meal with COFFEE AT THE END.
I’m sure she totally believed me. Riight.
In other non-shit-related news, my petri dish of a child gave me a rotten cold, and the only medicine that actually makes me feel partially human is Sudafed, which is now a CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE and you have to show your ID and wait forty hundred thousand billion hours for the clerk to laboriously enter all your information in the secret government database in order to buy it. Suck.
Also, I’ve been washing my face with honey (rub it in, leave it for a minute, then rinse) at night for the last week and my skin feels super soft and awesome. I know it sounds weird, but you should try it out! Bee vomit is the best.
Mar
6
March 6, 2007
(Yes, another blog post. I am typing instead of doing what I really want to do, which is eat a boxcar-sized pan of brownies.)
I’ve been slowly coming to a realization, and that is this: Riley was not, in all actuality, the world’s cutest newborn. I now believe all new parents are completely drugged by their own love for the tiny, red, squishy thing they have produced, and there’s no chance of objectivity when it comes to assessing your child’s attractiveness. Until someday in the future when you look at an old photo of your precious just-hatched babe and think, my god, what the hell IS that, a lizard? In the meantime, everyone will sweetly assure you of your baby’s extreme beauty, because what else can someone say about a newborn? (“He sure is . . . um, blinky.”)
Aw, who’s a lizard? Whooshy whooshy whooshy!
(Yes, not even a month old and TOTALLY flipping us off there. I should have known we were in for it.)
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Hey, did you win Mega Millions tonight? If so, can we be the kind of friends where the really, really, really rich friend buys the other friend a pony? And a gold-plated yacht?
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Have you ever wondered how some prime Pulp Fiction dialogue and the art of typography could combine into one fan-fucking-tastic QuickTime file? Well, here you go. (Note: NSFW audio.)
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Lastly, I am only now starting to be able to move my arms and legs without shrieking in pain and scrabbling for the ibuprofen. Turbo Jam, which I did once, last Sunday, is still kicking my ass. Apparently I am not in the best of shape. And speaking of, I am doing admirably well on this WW bullshit and am feeling both proud of myself and very, VERY deprived. I ate “Tofurkey” at lunch today, people. TOFURKEY. Because the lunch menu was ravioli with creamy sauce and I’m sure one bite contained 292057 points.
By the way, Tofurkey tastes like what I assume sliced human flesh would. Mmm-MMM!
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