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Stinkie Etiquette [At Work]
Let me just preface by saying I have about three blogs going on in my head right now. So as not to outdo myself or overload my readers – you know, all TWO of you – I’ll try to pace myself and start off with lesser, yet most disgusting, of the three evils.
I work for a company with three bathrooms. One for each sex, and one that’s unisex. From time to time, these stalls tend to get a bit ripe with the goings-on of the human body. In my youth, it was always believed that men were far less sanitary than women. This theory was completely thrown out the window when, in the late nineties whilst a resident at my all-girls college dorm (affectionately named the “Virgin Vault” as it was the only one of its kind on campus), a few of the inmates decided they’d take a dump in the washing machine of the laundry room after a late night of underage binging. Mind you… all girls dorm. No men to blame in this equation. Foul broads. FOUL! I did not envy the maintenance worker who had to clean that. I’m sure he or she quit when told their assignment that day.
Everyone has to stinkie. You can call it what you like – poop, stinkie, #2, crap, pinching a loaf… whatever – but, it’s necessary. It’s waste. Get it out of you. But, there’s a time and a place for everything. Certainly not in a washing machine, but that should go without saying. I am a reformed prude. I think I was seventeen before I allowed my mother to talk to me about making whoopie. The thought alone repulsed me, and to hear it explained by a parent horrified me. The fact that she was completely and utterly fine with talking about it made it no better. When it comes to bodily functions, my family is just as open (the ones that raised me, not the ones I inherited through marriage). My grandmother used to poop with the bathroom door open, and often ask me if my bowels were functioning properly and regularly. Any time I’d make a trek to the bathroom, the following question from her would accompany it: You gotta make stink? Needless to say, I was beyond mortified at this point. So much that I have a rare condition that causes my bowels to lock at the faintest noise, hence forcing me to run water from a nearby sink just to drown out what I think is someone coming to the door to ask me about my poop, or laugh at me if I fart too loudly.
Fast forward to my parenting years, and Mooter has inherited this same stage fright. I can’t blame the girl. I later learned we both inherited it from my mother. I’ll run water at home when I know I have to poop. I run it at work. I run it in public restrooms in restaurants. I run it in rest stops along the highway. I’m pretty regular… but all of Ohio doesn’t have to know that.
My co-workers, on the other hand, aren’t quite so delicate in the issues of poop. Like I said, everyone has to do it. And, of course, there are some faux pas commited. Some forget to courtesy flush (a MUST if you’re going to drop a load in a public place), some forget to spray air freshener – I’m not quite sure how, but they do. If I can smell it, you can smell it. Some leave streakers in the bowl which makes me take mental note of whose house I won’t attend for the next summer company picnic, or whose baked goods I won’t eat when brought in from home. Then, there are those hoity-toity falootey pants who act as if they’ve never had to stinkie in their entire lives, or who wait to stinkie when a) no one’s in the office yet, b) wait until the end of the day when most everyone has gone home, or, my personal favorite, c) blame it on someone else.
Dude. He who smelt it, dealt it. It’s the oldest rule to stinkie (and fart) etiquette. Spray your Febreze or Lysol (which smells like SICK poop, but whatever), flush twice, and get over it.
Conversations With Mooter
For her safety and my sanity, I don’t say the real name of my eldest daughter when I talk about her in my blogs. Instead, I use one of her many nicknames – Mooter. Given to her by her father at birth since she outweighed he and I by two pounds once delivered, he dubbed her “Moose” (eg. as big as a…). Moose soon graduated into Mooter since she was also quite gassy as a baby, and “tooted” often. There are times when she prefers you call her the nickname, and is disgusted if called her government name. It’s almost like watching the children’s version of “In The Heat of the Night”. Instead of “Call me Mr. Tibbs!”, we have “Call me Mooter!”
Mooter is what I like to call high maintenance, high drama. Every conversation is a casting call for her next big break. She loses a shoe. “Oh, MOM-MA! I LOST my SHOE! I don’t know where to FIND IT! I can’t go to the SCHOOL! Everyone will LAUGH AT ME!” And, yes. Those caps represent the emphasis on each… and every… syllable. Her father and I wonder where she came from since neither one of us are that way. We’re especially baffled by all the professional doctors who claim to be experts on child behavior, who swear these types of tendencies don’t occur until teenage years. These doctors obviously haven’t been to my house.
In my conversations with Mooter, I usually come away laughing unintentionally. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to be funny – I mean, honestly, what does a five-year-old know about comedic timing – but, it always ends up that way. My mother tells me I embodied this same gift. Somehow, my unintentional humor turned into bitter teenage angst and snarky sarcasm. It is a trait I still hold to this day, and a badge I wear with honor.
This week’s conversation was about the spicy hoo-hoo. Let me explain. Mooter is mastering the art of wiping herself after using the bathroom, a feat many kids never really grasp as evidenced in their streaked underoos. I realized my kid fell into this category when, upon disrobing for her bath, I thought I’d walked into the Fisherman’s Wharf. Mix that with the heat of a 90-degree summer day, and… well. Once I finally got her into the tub and removed my gas mask to ward off the horrid smell, she remembers: I gotta go pee-pee, momma. This angers momma who constantly tells Mooter to say whether or not she’s gotta go before we get in the nice, sudsy water. What can I say? Alzheimer’s apparently reaches the younger demographic as well. I was not aware.
Naked and covered in fluffy wet suds, Mooter takes to the commode which must have been shooting invisible flames from its bowels, unbeknown to me, since she jumps from the pot like a Mexican jumping bean. “What’s wrong?” I say.
“My hoo-hoo is spicy!” she cries.
“Why is your hoo-hoo spicy? Do you mean it burns?”
“No! I mean it’s SPI-CY!” she emphasizes, because obviously my hearing aid isn’t up loud enough and she must enunciate for her poor, retarded mother who did not hear her the first time.
“Honey, hoo-hoo’s don’t get spicy. Food is spicy. Is your hoo-hoo burning?”
“No! It’s spicy like HOT! It hurts when I pee-pee!”
Of course, here’s where I rationalize with her. “Well, if you would wipe your hoo-hoo like you’re supposed to, maybe it wouldn’t be so spicy!” By this time, she’s holding the hoo-hoo, doing the spicy hoo-hoo dance, hopping from the left to right foot as if calling on the rains of the Sioux tribe. Again, I rationalize (remember, she’s five… you remember, because obviously I didn’t). “Maybe if you pee-pee really fast, it won’t burn. Sit back down and pee-pee again to make the spicy go away.” She does. I brace her legs against the seat with my body weight, of course knowing it’s going to burn, but having visions of pee-pee all over the seat and bathroom rug send me into a frenzy. I make a split decision. I must hold her and salvage my bathroom. I strain my ear, listening for the first trickle. The hot, invisible commode flames attack her again.
“IT’S SO SPICY, MOMMA!” Now she’s crying. I’m extra irritated.
“Young lady! You are going to SIT on this POT, and PEE-PEE! DO YOU HEAR ME?! Don’t you GET UP until you DO! Now PEE-PEE!”
My pep talk gets her going – in tears – but going. She has the I hate you, momma look on her face that I know will become relevant when she’s older. But, right now, she’s five. With a crazy mother that made her conquer the spicy hoo-hoo. She’ll thank me later.
And, I still don’t know where she gets that drama from.
Big Things Poppin’
June 26, 2007 by NaysWay · Leave a Comment
Remember when being an entertainer meant singing and dancing for your supper? Whatever happened to those days? You cut a demo. Fate made sure it got into the right hands. You inked a deal. You recorded an album. You shot a video. You went on tour… You found out you signed your soul away. Your manager steals all your money from you. Your record label wants you to make the same album that you brought you success with the first album while you want to spread your creative wings. You want out of your contract. You realize your contract was signed in blood therefore binding you for all eternity. You leave the business just as broke as when you started. Some times there’s a drug overdose here. A drunk driving conviction there. See?! The good ol’ days. They just don’t make the business like they used to.
Something happened when we officially said goodbye to 1999, and ushered in the new millenium. Music artists became bigger than professional athletes. Kobe gets a shoe deal. Jay-Z gets a shoe deal. Charles Barkley and Dwyane Wade promote cell phones. Beyonce promotes cell phones. Michael Jordan gets a sports clothing line. Diddy gets a sports clothing line… and cologne… and casual wear… and formal wear. OK, so Diddy basically runs the world. Who’s playing?
When did singing a song get you an endorsement? When did it become the norm to go from MC
Hammer and Michael Jackson singing and dancing for their Pepsi, to Cheryl Crow emphasizing the wonders of hair coloring? Who told Pharell Williams it was acceptable to sweep his hands across a screen and magically abracadabra a Hewlett-Packard computer into existence?
I’ve never seen a Jordan Nike tennis shoe go out of style. In fact, the more they bring them back, the more inclined people are to pay hundreds of dollars just to complete their collection. But, how many people remember Kris Kross and their backwards clothes? Or, how about Jessica Simpson and her Dessert beauty line? Maybe Jennifer Lopez and her Glo by J.Lo perfume? How about someone sing for me instead of shoving their restaurant idea in my face for a change?
What happened to talent? Last time I checked, they didn’t sell it at Sephora.
Infected
Enough already. I’m tired of hearing about it. Really. Stop!
OK, I lied. Keep it coming. Tell me more. Make me drive to an Apple store and go into anaphylactic shock – if that’s even possible – with your overpriced, high quality, NVIDIA graphic-loving products. Make me drool and swoon like a little girl. Turn me on with your gadgetry. Make my daughter master your easy-to-use systems, giving her five-year-old mind the false sense of a future profession in photography.
You are a pimp, Apple. You give new meaning to squeezing blood from a turnip. I have college funds, private schools, and dental hygienic bills of two children eating into my retirement. Yet here you are. Looking at me. Forcing me to reconfigure a budget that has no wherewithal to meander, YES! You cripple me. I am paraplegic to your Intel Core 2 Duo processors and LCD screens. Your loveliness can’t feed my family. Can’t pay for tuitions or clothe my children. But, you don’t care, do you? My love for you is blind, still I am not the only one who shares this blind rage of death. I am but a ripple in the sea of millions who foam at the mouths over your latest invention (release date June 29th).
You had me at “hello”, Apple… You had me at “hello”. Bastards.
Singin’ The Same Song
Black cinema is a dying genre. The film producers, directors, actors and actresses are scratching their heads in wonderment as to where the culture is going. Why aren’t audiences flocking in droves to catch the latest in noir cinemateque? Could it be that not enough stories are being told? Maybe they can’t find the right director? Maybe the budget is too large and the production company has shut it down (a la “American Gangster“)?
Or, could it be that Black actors and actresses are being put in the same Black movies? (Yes.) Are they getting typecast? (Yes.) Are the stories becoming too predictable? (Oh, my goodness, yes.) Is the formula too formulaic? (Yes.) If I can go see a film touted as specially designed with the African-American in mind, I can guarantee you of the following:
- There will be dancing.
- Someone will get shot (sometimes… okay, mostly killed).
- A kid will be from the wrong side of the tracks.
- There will be sex.
- There will be Megan Goode as the token, smart Black chick with big boobs.
- There will be rap songs in the score.
- There will be a message as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face.
- There will be some type of moral to the story, and the previously noted kid from the wrong side of the tracks will be reformed.
Don’t believe me? In the past three weeks, I’ve seen two Black films. Freedom Writers and Stomp The Yard. Let’s examine the first film, shall we?
Still not convinced? Alright. Let’s try it again…
Who am I to criticize? I have yet to pen my first novel, let alone attempt to draft a screenplay, or act in anything – stage or screen. But, I am a paying customer. It would be wrong of me to want my money back after seeing this on the big screen. Or downloading it at home to keep from renting or buying the DVD. If I’d be wrong for that, should filmmakers be held accountable for giving us reheated leftovers? The popular hip-hop rag, XXL, has a section for MC’s who spit weak lyrics called “Step Your [Rap] Game Up”. I think Black Hollywood should take the hint as well.
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