Archive for the ‘TMI Thursday’ Category

TMI Thursday: The Toilet, The Tub And Bionic Kitty

March 26, 2009

Several weeks ago, I noticed my loo wouldn’t stop running. The thing was installed around the time Madonna danced in non-ironic jelly shoes and a tutu, so in toilet years, it’s older than Methuselah. As with all geriatric plumbing, there are sometimes problems. Most of my toilet’s can be remedied by jiggling the handle a few times. Occasionally, I have to play operation in the toilet tank or be liberal in the use of Drano. But it’s always something my non-handy self can conquer. So on that particular Sunday night, when the toilet kept running, I went through my usual diagnostic: wiggle handle, check toilet tank, kick base, call Dad.

Placing an SOS call to my father is my version of a do-it-yourself white flag. The frequency with which I call is the entire reason I plan to rent until I move into the Happy Trails Extended Care Home. But not everybody agrees with my pro-renting stance. Despite the bajillions of homeownership pitfalls I outlined and every “and then the entire place flooded” horror story I could think of, Little Sister recently bought a condo. Predictably, she too has become a believer in calling for Fatherly Reinforcements. A few weeks ago, when she was putting up a towel bar, Little Sister apparently logged six Dad Dials. Her particular situation was complicated by a lack of appropriate tools. Men magically acquire things like soldering irons and wrenches. Women, on the other hand, get shoes. If it can’t be fixed with a wedge heel and a butter knife, chances are, it’s not being repaired in an estrogen-heavy environment. True to form, Little Sister tried to knock a bolt loose with everything from a cutting board to sheer willpower but nothing worked. Eventually, after my father suggested she heat the darn thing up, Little Sister got her fireplace lighter and stood around warming the bolt ala MacGyver. It worked and I give her snaps for dedication, but that’s more effort than I ever want to put into anything home repair. If I can’t remedy a household problem via extensive googling, some cursing and/or ignoring the situation for a reasonable period of time, then I call Dad. If he can’t walk me through a fix in five minutes or less, I speed dial my landlord.

So, when I called Dad about my toilet mystery and he suggested the break was at the Toilet Tank Flap Thingie (you know, the jobbie that keeps the water in the tank and pulls up on that thin chain doohickey when you flush), I double checked. As it had when I poked around earlier, everything appeared fine with the Thingie. By this time, the toilet had been running for at least half an hour. It was close to overflowing and not wanting a Great Flood Of 2008 repeat, I decided to turn off the water and forgo my pre-bed pee. Instead, I composed a gem-of-an-email titled, “PLEASE FIX THE TOILET NOW, OR SO HELP ME GOD…” sent it off to Landlord, and went to sleep. In the morning, there was a response. Landlord had arranged for the Official Building Plumber to visit sometime between 8:15 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. I would have to be around to supervise the work but he promised I would have a functioning toilet by sunset.

I was thrilled to have an excuse for a Personal Day. It was gonna be me, my comfy PJs, and the torrid happenings of Season Three of The O.C. In preparation for some quality couch time, I grabbed the first of my four morning Diet Cokes. And that’s when I realized I hadn’t engaged in any bladder relieving activities since approximately 3:00 the day before. In that 17 hour period, I’d downed a margarita, at least four glasses of water, and assorted Diet beverages. I was amply hydrated. And now I had to use The Ladies’.


As I saw it, my options were:

  1. Tackling my bed head, switching out my bunny slippers for Hot Pink Crocs, going down four floors to the Chez Apartment Lobby and using the public restroom.
  2. Peeing off my balcony.
  3. Delaying as long as humanly possible in order to maximize the amount of excess fluid expelled from my bladder, and then going with Option A.
  4. Repurposing the kitty litter.
  5. Squatting over the edge of the bathtub.

After rejecting Options One through Four on grounds of “that would involve a bra, which is the antithesis of Lazy Couch Day,” or “Eww, gross,” I went with Option Five.

There are certain aerodynamical pee principles which the vaginaed set deal with. First, aim isn’t always guaranteed; if you hover, stray spray generally lands on the seat. Second, utilizing a cup in cases of dire emergency does not end well. And then there’s the Three Drinks Rule: always sit after three, or on your leg you will pee. Knowing these things, I’m not sure why I went with Option Five. It broke the First Law Of Girly Peeing and due to my beverage intake the day before, I needed to follow the Three Drinks Rule. But I managed to justify my decision on the grounds that Option Five was straightforward, simple, and the least time consuming choice. So, I made my way to the bathroom, dropped trow, and squatted over the edge of the tub.

I quickly realized my plan was logistically flawed. If I kept my feet on the bathroom floor and attempted to squat over the tub edge, it appeared I was too short to project my flow into the tub itself. Not wanting to inadvertently miss and spray my Ikea bathmat, I revamped the plan. For Attempt Take Two, I climbed into the bathtub itself, squatted facing the faucet, and intended to let loose with the bladder. But, just before bladder release, I realized there was a high probability of runoff touching my feet. So, I turned around. This way, I figured things would flow away from me, toward the drain. Hygiene would be maintained, my feet would remain pee-free, and all would be right in my germaphobe world. Except then I remembered my bathtub has a slow drain and water tends to collect where I was standing. In essence, if I squatted in the tub, I would be wadding in a pool of my own urine. That was a bit too Ick for my A-type Sensibilities, so I reevaluated.

For awhile, I contemplated going back to Option One. It was a solid alternative and putting on a bra was an eensy weensy sacrifice to make for a hygienic, accident-free peeing experience. But that part of me that’s stubborn to the Nth degree? That will bite my nose to spite my face? That’s essentially a sucker? Well, it prevailed.

So, I climbed onto the edge and assumed the Horny Baboon Stance: knees bent, butt thrust as far over the tub as it would go. My left hand was planted on the wall, counteracting my horrendous balance. In the other was a wad of toilet paper. Should my aerodynamic calculations be off and stray sprays occur, I was armed and ready to wipe them up. Being as prepared as I could possibly be, I let loose. Two blessed minutes later, Operation Makeshift Toilet was a success. My bladder was empty and I was about to climb off the tub edge. I let go of the wall, took one foot off the tub ledge and at that exact second, Bionic Kitty charged in. She is fascinated by all bathroom functions, especially the tub-centric variety. This was a previously unseen activity and she was determined to investigate.

There is only so much width on a tub ledge and my teetering Midwestern Sexy bum was taking up most of it. When 21 pounds of Bionicness jumped into the mix, something had to give. Predictably, it was me. Bionic Kitty landed on the tub edge and with a yelp, I plunged backwards, ankles over head, until I landed spread eagle in the slow-draining pee puddle. Because God is merciful, I managed not to break my neck or hurt myself badly enough that I had to lay in my own pee until the plumber arrived. But still, my tailbone was in agony. And then, because it wasn’t bad enough, Bionic Kitty joined me in the tub.

At first, she just sniffed and splashed at the urine. But something must have clicked in the Bionic Brain: the pee puddle was something to be consumed. Just like the poinsettia or the bouncy glitter ball or my fish or the millions of other things she’s ingested. Nothing is ever safe from the Jaws Of Death. I was disgusted but I let her slurp away. At least this culinary adventure wasn’t going to cost me elevenity kajillion dollars in vet bills. Worst case, if Bionic got sick, I figured I would lock her in the bathroom and deal with the oceans of kitty puke before the plumber arrived. In the meantime, my priorities were figuring out if my throbbing tailbone was broken, extracting myself from the wedged-into-the-tub-spread-eagle position and showering. So, it took me a moment to realize the vigorous slurping sounds had stopped. I tried to look around the Bionic Mass sitting on my stomach, but I couldn’t see from my crammed-in angle. I assumed there was no more urine for the cat to drink but really, her focus had simply shifted. Instead of drinking the pee pool, she began licking my exposed private parts.

And Sweet Mother Mary, I was in such shell shock, I just laid there for a minute. Suddenly it registered that my cat was molesting me; that I was the inadvertent victim of Bionic Bestiality. Horror filled me. Tailbone be damned. With newfound purpose, I un-stuck myself from the tub, and chased Bionic Kitty from the bathroom. My pajama pants were still around one ankle, my pee-drenched backside was still exposed and I had bed head. But whatever. My cat had violated me and I was going to make clear that my vajayjay was a No Fly Zone for cat tongue.

Twenty minutes later, I was still hunting Bionic Kitty. She’d retreated into the abyss under the bed and I was crouched down with my naked ass facing the door, my head shoved under the mattress screaming, “Bad Kitty! Bad bad bad Kitty.” That’s how the Official Building Plumber found me. Apparently, I was so engrossed in obtaining vengeance that I hadn’t heard the knocking and he’d let himself in. With as much dignity as I could muster, I stood up, covered my exposed bits and asked the plumber if he could come back in half an hour, when I was decent. Stammering, he agreed. As he turned around, I shouted that I had one more request: Could I please borrow his biggest, heftiest wrench, so I could bludgeon my cat to death? He didn’t come back to fix my toilet for two days.


TMI Thursday: Where I Over Share For Your Pleasure, Vol. 5

December 11, 2008

Before gravity and rocking-the-D-cup took the perk out of my breasts, I made public exhibition of my boobies an annual event. It was never intentional; the displays just sorta spontaneously occurred with the help of my friend, vodka. While the History of My Breasteses is sordid enough to keep me out of public office, I’m actually rather proud of it.

The Boob Love kicked off sometime around freshman year in college, when I met my first drag queen. She lived in my dorm and one alcoholicy evening, she asked to feel me up. It was for investigative purposes only, but to have my rack chosen as representative of the entire tittie-wielding population? Well, it was like somebody named me Queen of Tata Land and appointed my chest the crown jewels. Later that year, after my drag queen friend had successfully upgraded her falsies, she decided to name her new silicon glories. Not wanting to be left out, I likewise christened my chest. Pride is my left and Joy’s riding shotgun on the right.

The college jug-a-thon continued when my roommate and I were playing Mine Is Bigger Than Yours. Basically, you pick something to compare. If yours is smaller, you take a shot. At some point, Roomie deludedly claimed her D-cups out sized mine. While I patiently explained that not all cups are created equal and my Ds were noticeably more full than hers, she wouldn’t accept breast inferiority. Thus began our mission to objectively compare bust size. The downstairs dormmates (aka the residents on the boy’s floor) became involved. Their suggestions of a wet t-shirt contest and a feel test were discarded as not scientific enough. After hours of drinking thinking, we settled on circumference as the determining factor in our Chest Off. With Nattie Lights in hand and the entire population of the boys floor cheering us on, we marched down to the Xerox machine, engaged in some boobagomi and copied. I won by an inch.

Then there was the night I took off my coconut bra at the Lamda Chi house. What can I say? It pinched. And don’t tell me the women of Hawaii never went topless pre-James Cook. Really, it was all about the authenticity of the Hula Girl costume. That event pre-dated the camera phone but I’m pretty sure my perky hey-day was memorialized thanks to a few point and shoots. Also, I contend I should have won Fraternity Sweetheart that year. A boob display beats cookies any day. After all, they’re toys for big boys.

But the real Bags O’ Fun Highlight was not so much a public display as a public over share. The first day of law school, the assistant dean gathered up the entire 1L class and proceeded to instill the fear of God. He warned us if there was any incident in our pasts which involved the police, public nudity and/or moral turpitude, and we hadn’t disclosed them to the school on our application, well, to paraphrase the assistant dean, we were screwed. He maintained that omission would preclude us from passing the Character and Fitness Interview, a necessary precursor to sit for the Ohio Bar. While I’ve never been arrested per se, the “general police involvement” aspect caught my attention. Throw in the public nudity and I began to get sweat. Before I mortgaged my soul with $150K in student loan debt, I wanted answers. Accordingly, I raised my hand.

Assistant Dean: Yes?

Me (kind of squeaky): Exactly how involved did the police have to be and how much skin had to be on actual display? Is there some magical flesh to coverage ratio?

Assistant Dean (mentally cataloging me under Class Idiot): Why don’t we discuss the situation?

Me (not realizing he meant later, in a setting that did not include the entire class of ‘04): So, um, a few months ago, my friends and I were driving around, drunk and started playing Truth or Dare. And obviously I took dare. Because, well, that’s just what you do. They dared me to flash the next car. Which I did. But with my shirt hiked up around my face and my bra around my neck, I failed to realize I was flashing a police officer. To make a long story short, we were taken to the station and given a stern talking to. They let us go after that. I maintain it was because my boobtacular made the officer’s night but I don’t think that’s really at issue right now. So, um, yeah. Does that need to be disclosed?

Me and my boobs? We’re popular like that.

TMI Thursday: Where I Over Share For Your Pleasure, Vol. 4

December 4, 2008

This one’s about eCrush. Just too good not to share…

eCrush loves to shower together. He thinks it’s cute and coupley, but I pretty much hate his constant desire to achieve synchronized cleanliness. I subscribe to the Shower Time Is Solitary school. Otherwise, it’s like Gilbert and Sullivan Make A Porno. You know, topsy-turvy bathroom absurdity. Yet, despite my misgivings, I often get suckered into platonic showering. This morning was no different. When eCrush suggested we freshen up ala deux, I figured what the heck? We were both running late so it would save time, keep us from the who-gets-all-the-hot-water debate and I could stop him from dulling up my Venus Mach 87 Triple Action Gold Plated Razor on his face.

Everything was as god awful comfortable as double showering could be until I denied eCrush the water stream for too long. He started to hop in place, trying to stave off hypothermia while I took my sweet time with the loofah. I happened to glance down while he was in mid-jump. Seven Loyal Readers Who Are Male, spare yourself the indignity. Don’t jump in the shower. It does not portray your man bits in the best light. In fact, it sorta looks like a three-year-old wiggling a withered hot dog. Appalled, I promptly switched shower spots. In the process I got elbowed about 97 times. I swear, eCrush steps into the tub and he mutates into Doc Ock. Its elbows for everyone! But the best part was when I realized the light, filtered through the shower curtain, made my cellulite glow. It was horrifying; like seeing J.Lo’s junk in a bedazzled tube dress. By the time I shampooed my hair, there was a serious personal pep talk going on. “Yes, eCrush will still want to sleep with you after this. No, eCrush does not have a problem with your shiny Jell-o ass. He probably thinks it’s luminous. eCrush likes, no, loves, Jell-o. Plus he once said he’d pay you ten dollars to jump on a trampoline naked. So the butt is probably not a big deal. And dear God, please say eCrush’s man bits did not permanently shrink to the size of craisins. Ha! craisins!” Just as my ego was regaining its foothold at eCrush’s expense, he blew it all to pieces by helpfully pointing out the single stray hair that’s evaded my razor for the last six months.

eCrush (hunkering down for a better look at my upper leg): That one is long enough for a game of Double Dutch.

Me (ready to kick him in the face. Accidentally.): I think they should sell shock collars for boyfriends; like they do for dogs. The guy says something they shouldn’t and zap! Silence!

eCrush (with puppy dog eyes): Well, if it helps, your ass looks great right now. It sparkles. Like the vampires in Twilight.

Me (incredulous does not begin to describe it): WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT THE TWILIGHT MOVIE?

eCrush (realizing his mistake): Or so I hear.


Ego? Restored.

TMI Thursday: Where I Over Share For Your Pleasure, Vol. 3

November 20, 2008

The first time I got dragged into the great outdoors, it was just after college. Despite my camping innocence, I instinctively knew to inquire about the bathroom accommodations. I had visions of cleaning myself in a stream and burying my own poo so wild bears wouldn’t track me. Still, I was assured that everything was going to be fine, bears did not live in Central Ohio, and that all I would have to do was squat pee. No problem. Like every woman with a small bladder and a propensity for divey bars, I’ve had years of practice squatting and peeing when intoxicated. But it seems environment really does make a difference. In a bar, there is a toilet seat. Sit on it and you’ll probably come away with a strange ass-flesh eating disease, but at least the toilet is there, acting as a potty guide. Take away the toilet bowl, thrust me among some trees, and my squat pee ability goes to hell.

In the woods, it seems a deeper crouch is required. As I learned, if you don’t hunker close enough to the ground and you happen to have Schwarzenegger-strong pelvic muscles thanks to an inexplicable fear of incontinence that you try to stave off by doing gagillions of Kegel crunches, urine goes flying directly from you waw waw and onto your pants. Over multiple camping bathroom breaks, I’d adjust my bend height, but I never found the angle necessary to avoid potty pants. It seems my inner sense of physics is broken. No matter how much I thought about force and trajectory and wind drag, I would still end up peeing on myself. Plus, every time I would squat more deeply, I tipped over. There is no explanation for this phenomenon. It’s not my thigh muscles. They can support me fine. It just appears I am a freak with no balance. So, I’d squat, tinkle on my pants and then fall over. Yup, camping is jolly.

But wait, there’s more…I theoretically understand what poison ivy looks like. It’s pointy and my inner Girl Scout knows all about “leaves of three, let it be.” Sometimes the plants come with berries or red tips on the foliage, plus, it can grow on vines. In daylight, when I could actually see it, chances are high I would successfully identify the plant. But nobody told me to bring night vision goggles for camping. And without them, all that poison ivy awareness was worth nothing.

On my virginal camping trip, sometime during the night, I woke up with a savage need to urinate. The excessive consumption of Nattie Light had caught up to me. Sans flashlight, I tripped and lurched my way up a small hill where I found a tree I could hug for balance. Earlier in the evening, after my undies had yet again been soaked, I decided commando was the best option. So, that night it was pretty easy to hang my nekkid ass out of my pants, grab the tree, squat and do my business. The next morning, when I went to break the a.m. seal, I dropped trou again. Exposed to the air, my girly bits felt out of whack. Sort of strangely swollen and itchy. So I glanced down.

Seven Loyal Readers, I’m sure you’ve always wondered what poison ivy on the female genitals looks like. Well, let me enlighten you. It was sorta like every VD on the planet took up residence on my hoochie. Parts of me were so swollen it felt like if the Alien was forgoing chest-bursting in favor of my urinary tract. I wanted to rip off my pelvis with my bare hands. It was horrific. Times a million. And sweet God, did it itch.

So, yeah.

I. HATE. Camping.

TMI Thursday: Where I Over Share For Your Pleasure, Vol. 2

November 13, 2008

Monday night eCrush and I met in a public place for A Discussion, which is really code for having dinner at that questionable Mexican place while I rant at him for his stupidity in ruining our relationship and then insult the size of his manhood. After which eCrush continues with the Big Time Groveling and further pleads my for my gracious forgiveness, and then by un-vocalized yet still mutual decision, we adjourn to my place so we can make out like horny tenth-graders. We were happily entrenched in that last part when eCrush suddenly stopped things mid-boob feel. He stood up, paused for a moment and Jackie Joyner-Kerseed for the bathroom.

About twenty minute later, after hearing bathroom noises that I now equate to The Nuclear Bomb of Bowel Movements…

Me (tentative, being not really sure what the protocol is when your ex-boyfriend make out partner ambiguous guy thing is experiencing stomach distress in your bathroom): Um, eCrush? You OK in there? Can I get you anything?

eCrush (like a pitiful dying puppy): Go away.

You don’t have to ask me twice.

Fifteen minutes later, the noises hadn’t stopped. In fact their frequency had picked up. Plus there was moaning of the “I’m in intestinal hell” variety. Clearly eCrush was not doing well. But by that point, neither was I. Seems the questionable Mexican restaurant had gone all Montezuma’s Revenge on us…

Me (close to point of desperation): eCrush, are you going to be much longer? I need to use the toilet.

eCrush (all plaintive): I don’t think you want to come in here (moan) EVER. And I don’t think I am anywhere near done (moan).

Me (reaching Way Frantic on the Calm to Holy Freaking Jesus Scale): I don’t care how toxic it is. I have to use the toilet. Like NOW. And you’re in the only bathroom in my apartment. So get OUT!

eCrush (rather forcefully, considering): No. You have to find alternative accommodations.

Me (just this side of Dire Emergency): I don’t think so. It’s my bathroom. It’s my apartment. I pay a lot of money each month for its use. So, pull up your pants and let me in.

eCrush: NO. (which was followed by a sound that solidified his point)

Me (officially at OHMYGODPANIC stage): But I’m the giiiiiirrrrrllll. I should get the bathroom! I have to go!

eCrush (making a suggestion that in retrospect, I do not appreciate): Equality of the sexes, baby. Now go squat over a trash can or something.

Me (thinking that’s not going to do it): You are disgusting. I hope you die in there. I’ll be back.

And with that, I sprinted down four flights of stairs and two hallways, to the concierge desk, where I jumped around while Jamal the Hot Concierge took his sweet time fetching the key to the guest bathroom.

An hour later, upon my return to Chez Apartment…

eCrush: How about we never speak of this again. Pinky swear?

While I fully recognize the pinky swear as binding, eCrush never mentioned blogging.

TMI Thursday: Where I Over Share For Your Pleasure

November 6, 2008

A limerick…

There once was a girl in the loo

Going pee and going poo

She was quite alone

Except for the phone

Upon which she made calls ‘til she was through

TMI Thursday was conceived by the evil genius of LivLuv. Trademark pending. Special thanks to Jill for her continued gChat brilliance and phone pooping tolerance.