In Life Observations on June 15, 2010 at 7:59 pm
Per usual, my phone conversation this morning with BFF Christina Bouvier devolved into talk of bodily functions. Today’s topic: the proper way to wipe one’s ass.
There is no more hotly contested debate in our home than the one my hubby and I have over wet butt wipes. Dave is against them. I am for them. My argument–and it’s a sound one–is that no one uses dry toilet paper to wipe the ass of a baby. Why on earth should that change when we become adults and there’s even more ass crack real estate to divide and conquer?
Dave’s biggest gripe is that I have influenced our son, who flat-out refuses to poop away from home unless he knows that wet wipes are awaiting him. This sends Dave non-linear. I say hey, it’s not like he’s asking for wipes moistened in unicorn tears! Pick your battles! (I have the same issue about pooping away from home, but that’s because my ass knows when it’s sitting on its own toilet. I’m not alone in this– traveler’s constipation is the #1 complaint amongst my friends. Every girl’s-only vacation, this gets discussed ad nauseum.)
My friend Julcia confided one day that her neighbor is the true Bree Van De Kamp of Butt Crack Maintenance. Julcia’s neighbor gives her ass the Silkwood Treatment every time she poops, literally spraying rubbing alcohol onto her toilet paper. I find people’s quirks downright fascinating. The quirkier, the better. Her MacBeth-like obsession is giving “Out, damned spot!” a whole new perspective.
In Life Observations on June 4, 2010 at 5:28 pm
One night I was on Ooovoo.com, doing a live Webcast on the topic of “What I’d Do Differently” with 5 other women. My business phone rang in the background, so I ducked out of the Webcam shot for a moment to answer it. Reporting in were my Kotex Mafia, BFF Christina Bouvier, and our old Texan tennis drinkin’ buddy, Misty. They two of them had been imbibing–which is usually when they came up with these rock solid ideas–and decided we needed to start our own secret society. In the meantime, my image online looked like the opening graphic to The Brady Bunch, with my talking head missing in action.
I ducked back into the Webcam shot, while still trying to speak to them out the side of my mouth like a ventriloquist. The electronic feedback gave me away, disrupting the Webcast. In 30 seconds’ time, I helped them “brand” the club, which is what I do regularly for clients, so the hard part was done. I christened us the S.H.I.T.S. (Shenanigans, Hijinks, Immaturity and Tomfoolery Society). It was official. (I was never asked again to do a Webcast with that group of 5 woman, so my disappearing act must have created some discord.)
The first S.H.I.T. Tuesday meeting was just us…three kindred spirits. We jammed out to a competitive game of Rock Band and we wrote our S.H.I.T. S. Magna Carta. That evening, as part of her hazing, Misty shared a personally embarrassing story. It certainly made me rethink any desire I once might have had to take up running. You see, Misty runs long distance every morning before sun up. Invariably, this agitates her bowels like gym shoes in a dryer. One morning she was just two houses away from home when she realized she could no longer hold it. She pulled one ass cheek of her silky micro running shorts aside and let that steaming missile drop like a WWII bomb over Dresden. Within a day, her husband was reporting that the neighborhood was abuzz with rumors of a potential coyote, wolf or bear who left its calling card in the neighbor’s front lawn.
So…lesson learned. If my flat feet are preventing me from plopping biohazardous material in my neighbors’ yards, it’s likely for the best.