Oh, office toilet stall, how I love thee.
You’re secluded and quiet and
When I need a secret place to poo, you’re always there for me

You’re warm burnt ember colored stall soothes me on spicier days.
And your prolonged flush when I hold down the button is just what I need when things are party rocking down there in the house tonight.

Your walls may be thin but when I hear a guy in the men’s room giving three or four curtesy flushes, it’s eases my mind. I know that I, too, should flush one down.

When my time is up, the journey is not yet over. You automatically give me a red light wink and a smile, and flush her down one more time, just to make sure. Even your lighting makes my cheek bones look good in that slimming mirror.
I leave for you now, but you know…. You know I will be back ten minutes after my next meal. Until then, I bid you ado, my love.

The earth has opened up and spewed all of its broken, mismatched, and unwanted household items onto the curbs of suburbia. On the curb in front of once cluttered homes you can find beautiful blossoms of broken down grills, old kitchen chairs, oodles of moving boxes, and war-ravaged children’s toys. This event, the most perfect embodiment of the saying, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” is called Scrub Day where I come from.

The purpose of Scrub Day is, of course, spring cleaning. For no extra charge, the city will come once a year and pick up all the trash you can squeeze into the space between the sidewalk and the street. But the real excitement happens after suburban mom’s have the go ahead to start piling their trash on the curb. It’s a quiet buzz at first, but you can’t miss the swarm of loaded down, beat up trucks appearing early in the morning. I first saw this exotic phenomenon while walking my pet capuchin monkey, Cappuccino, early one weekday morning. The treasure hunters made pit stops at each new trash pile, jumped out of the cab, and excitedly examined all the tantalizing items to see if they can turn a profit off of something. If they found an item worth the while, they would load it into the bed of their truck. Which reminds me, engineers should really start studying how these treasure hunters pack that much crap into one truck bed. Their bungee cords defied the laws of gravity. And, the intricate weaving of chairs into grills, into kids’ play things, into half mangled bikes creates a wonderful piece of art that would sell for thousands if it were sitting at an art show in an uppity New York suburb.  

While I myself was mesmerized, Cappuccino was not a fan of these treasure hunters. Every time one would jump out within ten feet of us, Cappy would swing and hiss at the man as if to say “I am King of this mountain-o-trash. Go find your own, Hussy!”  So I thought it best to take Cappy down a quieter street with only one pile of lonely trash.  The pile was in front of a small, secluded house and consisted of a couple mattresses and set of beat up throw pillows. It had been raining for three weeks now, so no treasure hunter in their right mind would waste gas to come check out this pile of rain soaked fabric. Cappy and I were strolling by the pile when all of a sudden a flash of something shiny caught my eye. It must have caught Cappy’s eye too because he ran towards the pile of throw pillows and CLUNK! Cappy ran right into a solid object, bounced backwards, and sat up looking dazed and confused. He hit the object so hard the throw pillows flew off onto the sidewalk, revealing a magnificent mahogany desk.

The desk was amazing! My days of watching Antique Roadshow finally paid off as I determined the desk to be a neoclassical early 20th century tulipwood Louis XVI writing table with black triple-section tooled leather top surmounted by a substantial beveled bronze border over a paneled frieze containing a narrow center drawer flanked by deeper side drawers with false drawers on the opposite side. What an exciting find! So naturally, I run home and grab my radio flyer wagon to haul this piece of work back to my house. It took some doing and teaching from fellow, albeit less aggressive, treasure hunters to bungee my way to a successful rescue of this priceless artifact.

Once I got home, it was time to search for hidden treasure inside the desk. The first drawer was a total bust. All I found was dust and an odd looking stain that resembled interlocking male and female sex symbols. It was kind of weird but also reminded me of a story my mom told me about when she was pregnant with me. My mom and dad were sure that I was going to pop out as a boy. They even had a cool boy’s name, like Magnum Diesel, picked out for me. But then when I came out a girl everyone was surprised. My four year old sister was so shocked by both the fact that I was a girl and the realization that she was no longer the only child that she promptly told the doctor to put me back where I came from. Apparently, he decided against that and there I stood, 28.5 years later, shutting the dusty and stained drawer.

The next drawer I looked in had more to offer than the first. There was a little soccer ball key chain attached to a Toyota car key. Oddly enough, with this find came another memory.  When I was two years old my parents took my sister and I with them while car shopping. We ended up at the Toyota dealership looking at shiny new Novas. I had to go potty real bad and so my mom had my sister take me to the restroom. Apparently, I was somewhat of an independent child, as less than five minutes later there I went running across the Toyota showroom with my undies and pants around my ankles screaming about how I could go potty like a big girl and I didn’t need any help from big sis. Obviously, my parents purchased the car and got the hell out of there. I’m pretty sure my parents we too traumatized to take us back to another dealership and we ended up keeping the Nova until it died ten years later.  I take pride in the fact that I was the first two year old to be banned from a Toyota dealership for indecent exposure. Later in life, it helped me relate to Pee Wee Herman on more than a childish entertainment level.

Feeling a little creeped out by this point, I shut the second drawer and hesitated moving on to the third drawer. Perhaps it was time to break for lunch.

To be continued….

What if I threw red Kool-Aid on people who wear Tevas with light wash jeans, claiming they’re “murdering our youth’s fashion sense”?

What if I opened up a bake sale tent at the farmer’s market and sold “Low-fat, low-calorie” brownies for gas money? Only my secret ingredient is a dash of deceit followed by a pinch of reality… cause these brownies are right outta the box, son.

Why does Elton John have to look so gay?

Why isn’t their more adult clothing with penguins on it? I want a pair of jeans with purple penguins dancing up the side. Better yet, athletic shorts with a big purple penguin on one ass cheek.

What the hell does Kraft put in their mac and cheese to make me twitch in withdrawal after not eating it for a week or two?

Why am I suddenly a Spaniard, needing a siesta everyday at 2pm? Is it the change in my hormones? Am I also going to start rolling my Rrrrrrrrr’s? Cause I’d be okay with that.

Why aren’t we taking more cues from India? These people invented the KAMA SUTRA for Pete’s sake?

What is it about Pete that makes us want to do everything for his sake anyways?

Why hasn’t someone written a book on the history of tampons? Or dildos? Two books which I probably would purchase online, anonymously.

Why do people still use the expression “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades”? No one knows what horse shoe rules are. Just say, “Close only counts in atomic warfare and whoever smelt it dealt it”.

Is it wrong that I wake up in a sweat everyday and then use that as my ‘workout’ to justify getting ice cream every night?

Why do companies still send spam to my inbox? It doesn’t make me want to use your product; it makes me HATE YOUR COMPANY.

Who created the word blog? It makes me think of a clogged toilet…. Am I right?!?! Think about it.

Why is it that about 95% of the decisions in my life are based on whether I like the colors of something, if it is pretty, or if it smells good? Favorite teams, food, clothing, cars, house, significant other, books, movies, kid I adopt… I could go on listing the remaining items that compromise 95% of my life but you get the point.

Three men were sitting together bragging about how they had given their new wives duties.

The first man had married a secretary and had told her that she was going to do dishes and house cleaning. It took a couple days, but on the third day he came home to a clean house and dishes washed and dinner cooked.

The second man had married a school teacher . He had given his wife orders that she was to do all the cleaning, dishes, and the cooking. The first day he didn’t see any results, but the next day he saw it was better. By the third day, he saw his house was clean, the dishes were done, and there was a huge dinner on the table.

The third man had married a rollergirl. He told her that her duties were to keep the house clean, dishes washed, lawn mowed, laundry washed and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn’t see anything, the second day he didn’t see anything, but by the third day some of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye, enough to fix himself a bite to eat and load the dishwasher.

Let’s talk about the letter “H”. I am not particularly fond of this letter. Did this dislike originate in my youth? Perhaps as a result of a poorly planned or particularly bland episode of Sesame Street featuring the letter H? Does it have something to do with the sound of the letter? Or the painful facial expression one has to make when sounding it out?

Let us discuss.

This dislike must have come in my youth because, for as long as I can remember, H has been in my “ugly letters” group. This group also includes B, O, P and occasionally D. Does the dislike have something to do with my last name? Heck… the good version of Hell. How many times have I repeated that in my life?! But I don’t have a problem with E, C, or K. Did it have to do with learning how to write the letter H? I can see 5 year old me drawing the two vertical lines. Then teacher says, “Now draw an intersecting line!” And me wanting to just keep writing parallel lines, because let’s face it - I’m on a roll here, it’s pretty and it isn’t slow me down to keep making vertical lines. I don’t want to gooooo back, put my pencil down oooon the paper, think about it, and then have to draaaaaw a line across two other lines. I could fill this paper with short vertical lines in under a minute if teach would just let me do my thing. But nope, I have to interrupt this beautiful flow of marking to go back and start all over again.

Then there’s the phonetics. Just saying “aitch” puts an instant grimace on one’s face; a sort of painful, surprised look with slightly squinted eyes. If you work the eyebrows into it, you might even be flirting with ‘horrified’. But, it’s not just the expressive pronunciation that bothers me. Even the ancient version of “H” doesn’t sit well. The Phoenician symbol for H looks like a rectangle, halved horizontally. Or in other words, a square butt turned sideways. Two building blocks stacked on one another. Two cells dividing, if cells were square.   Or, a Lego window…. A Lego window! I hated Lego windows! I always had to precisely plan the walls so that the bricks lined up just right to squeeze in the window. And then, after all that work, I always miscalculated and ran out of bricks to completely encompass the window in the wall. So, of course, all my pretty little houses were converted to fortresses, with the staggered wall tops. Dumb. I really hated Lego windows. “Hated”… Starts with an H.  

I also don’t understand the frivolity of H. Silent H’s? We put this letter into words where it serves no other purpose but to extend words? That just pisses me off more.  I have a friend named Meghan. The pronunciation is meg-an. Not meg-han. She told me it’s the Scottish spelling. I get that. So really the H is significant in that it represents her Scottish heritage. Which leads me to think - are silent H’s more than simple letters? Do they are bear the linage of words and people and things? Do they teach me about an object or person’s history through that one symbol?

Great. Now H is fucking with my head.

About two months ago I went to the exotic pet store and picked me up one of those Capuchin monkeys. After a lengthy debate with my roommates, two extra large farm cats, I decided to name him Cappuccino. I figured this was an appropriate name since I had plans of making him my servant monkey and he’d probably be getting me a lot of those.

Our relationship is actually turning out to be more of a mutually beneficial kind of thing. See, I make him cute monkey outfits so he isn’t cold in the winter and he follows my commands pretty well. Like, “Monkey! Go fetch my Diet Mountain Dew, please.” And off he goes, hoping and dancing his way to the fridge where he grabs a soda. Then he pulls open the drawer to get my, “Not now, I’m watching the game,” beer koozie cause he knows how mama likes it. I feed and play with him. He cleans the tub. I walk him and he vacuums. We also cuddle at night sometimes. I think it’s good to form the mother-monkey bond, ya know? Although, this recently backfired after we ate some pastrami sandwiches last week. I had to wash the sheets after that.

Lately, I have been training him how to wash and fold laundry. I told him that for every piece of laundry he washes and folds, he gets a treat. I don’t know if he understood because one day I came home and he was wearing my underwear and riding one of the cats. Then it got kind of awkward when I noticed he had my computer on and the xtube website was up. So I told him no more laundry, I could probably take care of that. I also found he had aggressively colored on all my Curious George books. Guess Monkeys get jealous, too.

By now I feel like Hunky Monkey, my cute little nickname for him, probably needs more to do during the day. So, I put an ad on Craigslist for his breeding services. The phone won’t stop ringing. He has had day dates every single day this week! I drop him off at the little lady’s home on my way to work, get a call at lunch with updates, and go pick him up after work. He is basically Ghengis Khan’ing all of central Iowa. Within the next three years, every young Capuchin Monkey around here will hold his DNA. That’s great and all but I’m just happy he passes out as soon as we get home. Then mama has all night to herself. I don’t like distractions while I’m watching CSI and Hunky Monkey really knew how to push my buttons.

Cappuccino has a really promising future. We’ve already discussed our plans to open up an exotic pet store/fake front for a brothel. It’ll be called Monkey ‘N Me. The secret saying to get in the back is, “pork n beans,” and then Monkey takes the patron to the back where they can do whatever they want. Monkey said it would be an extra $25 if he is to participate. Anyways, I have to take this call. It’s one of lil Man’s regular lady friends. I will write more later.

Love,

Your Daughter

So, for the past four months or so, my body has taken a beating. Roller Derby has introduced a never ending cycle of purple bruises to the fattier parts of my body. My spleen is in overdrive trying to accommodate the loss of blood to my epidermis. But, I love the sport and I love my temporary battle scars. I will call them battle sc’rs since they aren’t real scars. This ideology is similar to vegetarian “chicken” named chik’n.

Producing a vast array of mosaics on my thighs, hip and arms, these sc’rs are now a source of pride and motivation for me. “Get better and you’ll have less sc’rs. Get better and people won’t scream every time you drop trou.” But then I got to thinking about the pretty patterns this rogue life blood makes under my skin. It’s always something different. Shaded here, lighter there, yellow over there? I’ve come to the conclusion that eventually, given enough opportunity, the laws of physics and chance will give rise to the face of Jesus in one of my battle sc’rs. There is no doubt in my mind. If it can happen to cinnamon rolls, trees, and some famous shroud then it can happen in a bruise. And why not mine? I feel somewhat connected to a man who walked on water. I mean, I used to row, for Christ’s sake. So what then? What happens when I get a bruise with the face of Jesus in it? Do I email MSNBC.com? Perhaps start local? Do I cover myself in white cloth, draped strategically, to allow the masses to come view the Holy relic in my thigh fat? What happens when the bruise fades? Do I keep pounding the flesh to extend His stay?

The way I see it, only time and enough booty blocks will tell.

Conky, my concussion, has a great story to share with everyone this afternoon.

It was a cloudy, rainy day that Wednesday afternoon. I was just getting ready to leave the office when I thought, “Op! I’d better make a pit stop in the ladies room!” Fade scene, enter ladies room. Walking into the first stall, I performed all the routine checks; toilet paper, no droplets on the seat, no extra goodies in the toilet, etc, etc. After getting the all clear, I decided to take a seat and get to busi-:::GASP::: “What IS that?!?” with my derrière two centimeters from touch down I notice a long, black hair weaving itself over the left prong of the toilet seat. “What are you going to do?? THINK!” I frantically review the situation. Option 1. I can stand back up! “No, way too close to touch down!” Option 2. I could claw my way to a frantic stop. “Do you really want to scrape your fingernails down the side of a bathroom stall and risk ripping out the toilet paper dispenser? Which could equal a horrific skin-meets-metal disaster. Or better yet, have it clang noisily on the toilet, then ground, and have five coworkers sprinting to the bathroom to see what happened?!”
“Ugh! Neither option is working! Just do what comes natural!”

And I landed that graceful fall, one cheeked and leaning like the Tower of Pisa. Rode that rim like a Dukes Of Hazard car on only it’s right set of tires. Success.

Side note- 17th time THIS MONTH I have found a black hair lazily draped over the toilet seat. Debating on which passive aggressive move to make next. Email with instructions on how to groom loose hair out at home or leaving a furminator on the desk of every employee with a black mane.