Dressing room floors: why the 5 second rule does not apply.

Last winter, while visiting Sister, we went shopping at the Houston Galleria.  Niece loves the teat about as much as I love saying fuck; dressing room, therefore = nursing station.  I figure we should make the most of things and end up trying on clothes while she suckles.

Also, speaking of peeing:  I’m like a toddler.  I hate taking potty breaks; I fear that while I’m gone, I’m missing epic fun and games.  Same goes for sleeping.  So anyway, I tend to wait until the last minute to pee.  This serves me well normally (and by serves me well, I mean I make a lot of people laugh pacing and crossing my legs in the bathroom line at bars, and enjoy the warmth from pee trickling down my leg when I’m wearing a dress and it’s cold), but when Sister and I are together, it’s a different story.

She makes me laugh.  A lot.  I tried to warn her that it wasn’t funny, and to stop whatever funny thing she was doing.  She did not listen.  I had just put on a little black dress, and was crossing my legs and squatting to keep from wetting myself.  Nostrils flaring, I shook my finger in Sister’s face.  ”Shhh!  Stop!  Stop it, dammit, I’m going to pee myself!”  Nothing but laughs and reciprocal nostril flaring from Sister.

What I’m trying to say is that I peed on the dressing room floor.  It was a gradual thing; first, a drop, and then, as if to laugh in the face of all my kegel exercises at red lights, all of it.  The whole bladder’s worth.

What you may or may not know is that Huggies are fantastically absorbent.  Thanks, Niece, for providing something with which to mop up your incontinent Aunt’s dressing room pee.  Thanks a really lot.

Thanks, also, for the shitshow you provided during day after Christmas shopping this year.

5:45 pm – Sister, Niece and I decide to hit the mall for some quick sale scouting.

6:00 pm  - Realize that the parking lot is an assortment crazyfucks; rethink decision.

6:03 pm – Niece “wants pizza!” and to be out of her car seat.  (She slept through dinner.)

6:05 pm – After increasingly squeal-like demands from the toddler terrorist, I take her inside for mall pizza while Sister parks the car.

6:12 pm – Niece, cheese pizza slice in hand and asking for noodle topping, is happy.  Cute words are spoken.  Bread is broken.  Life seems good. 

It was the calm before the storm.

6:22 pm – Niece has devoured aforementioned pizza in linebacker style and would now like to watch the ice skaters.  Sister joins us.

6:31 pm – Hello Kitty store.  If you haven’t been around a little girl in a Hello Kitty store, allow me to paint you a picture.  Noise.  Music.  Things that flash, sparkle, and are stupid.  Lots of dumb things with a dumb looking cat wearing pink; rain boots, slippers, pencils, stickers, makeup, stuffed things – you name it.  Niece is skipping – nay, galloping, through the store in a pair of pre-worn store slippers and her princess dress.  Squeals are ear piercing.  Toy debris follows her around as she tears things from the shelf, then casts them aside.  Given a straight jacket, I would assume she had escaped from a mental institution based on her incoherent babbling.  I stand in the corner, eyes the size of silver dollars.  I consider the fetal position/overdosing on Hello Kitty gumdrops as a viable escape.

6:40 pm – Intending to give the small child a souvenir from her glorious run as a crazy person, Sister digs through her purse to find her wallet, which has gone missing.  Panic ensues – from Sister in concern for her cash and cards, and from Niece in concern for the impending loss of her pieceofshittoywithdumblookingcat souvenir.

6:40:30 pm – Kicking and screaming child in tow, we trek across the GIANT mall to the car.  Given the circumstances, Niece is in fairly good spirits, but is unrelenting in her quest for “Mommy milk” and insists upon exposing Sister’s nipple to the world.

7:05:  Arrive at car.  Find wallet.  Niece immediately and gleefully latches onto Sisternipple.

7:20 pm – Back in the mall.  Shop briefly; Niece announces her thirst.  We get in the Starbucks line.

7:32 pm – Niece is pissed.  Where, exactly, is her tea?  She alternately threatens to blow up the mall and take shoppers as hostages and demands Mommy milk, removing an entire breast from Sister’s shirt with each plea.  Onlookers are horrified.  I am horrified.  Ledge overlooking ice rink looks increasingly appealing.

7:55 pm – Mystical tea arrives.  Niece is happy again.  Entire mall collectively sighs in relief.

7:56 pm – Sister and I spot one of those rental strollers shaped like a car.  Thankfully, Niece is dying to commandeer it.  We strap her in and tear ass across giant mall.

8:20 pm – Finally arrive at destination store.  Niece needs to go potty.  Find potty.

8:30 pm – I try on boots (which, of course, do not fit my elephant sized calves, sonofabitchdammitmotherfucker).  First announcements are made about 9pm store closing.

8:35 pm – We all three slip into a dressing room to try on clothes.  Niece is squealing with delight when I find a blue dress to buy for New Year’s Eve.  I turn around to find her disrobed and trying to get into my dress.  We finally get her dressed again and head to the register.

8:40 pm – Whackjob in front of me is, no shit, behind the register showing the cashier how to enter her address.  She is applying for a store credit card, and informs the entire line that she has saved $200 by getting the card.  She tells me that I should find another register; she plans to be a while.  BITCH.

8:41 pm – I arrive at another register and wait in line, only to be told I have to go back to the department from which my merchandise came.

8:47 pm – I feel the uncontrollable urge to bludgeon the bitch in front of me, who is still playing boss of the world and annoying the fuck out of the rest of us.  Store closing announcement #2 is made.

8:52 pm – Niece has wedged herself in the stroller car, backwards.  Even in the Hello Kitty store, I have never heard such squeals.  She is stuck.  Sister freaks out, I freak out, nice lady in front of us calmly talks to Niece.  We consider calling the fire department to dissemble the plastic car.  Whackjob continues to be caught up in her sales.

8:57 pm – Niece has been freed.  She nurses in the corner to recover.  Sister and I have now collectively had 2 aneurysms and 14 heart attacks in the last 3 hours.

8:59 pm – I get to the front of the line.  One of my dresses doesn’t have a tag on it.  Final store closing announcement is made, lights go off.  I consider ending it all, but nice cashier finds a way to ring me up and sends us on our way.

We walked to the car in mostly silence.  Niece rode in the car, steering the whole way, facing forward.  She reminded us that she “got stuck”, but was shockingly undamaged.

Next time?  Babysitter.  Never a dull moment with my family.

(I feel the need to say that Niece is a very sweet little girl.  She just provides endless…entertainment.)

A little blog love.

I had forgotten how much I love A Little Pregnant.  Don’t be turned off because you don’t like mommy blogs.  Julie is hilarious.

Age is relative.

BCSABF came by my office today to tell me goodbye; he’s headed to Chile to spend Christmas and New Years with his extended family.  In the ten minutes that we spent walking to Starbucks and saying our goodbyes, he fit in the following dickface comments:

- “I’ll be gone for 11 days, and I don’t have international cell service, so I can’t call you, and I’ll be freeeee!”

- “Why are you wearing those pants?  You know it’s winter, right?”

- “Those earrings are weird and make you look gothic.”

- “Are you not wearing any makeup today?  Your face looks…weird.”

- “Looks like your lips are still fucked up.  Do you have any chapstick?”

Then, when we kissed goodbye, there was some static.

- “Was that static, or did you forget to shave today?”

I think I might actually hate him.  I tried to break up with him the other night, but I can’t shake the feeling that, I don’t know, WE’RE NOT EVEN IN A RELATIONSHIP.  This has to be the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced, next to drinking poopjuice.

Let’s talk about sex, baby.

I went out with Manchild last night - date #4, technically.  We had a fantastic time.  He may barely be 23, but he is a grown up, and a fun grown up at that.  He makes me laugh.  A quick run down of our four dates:

#1:  Drinks.  Great conversation, great time.  He wore a suit, and I wanted to die from his hotness.  He walked me back to my apartment, asked if he could see me again, and very sweetly kissed me goodnight.

#2:  Movie and wine at my place.  We were clearly both super nervous.  Some innocent kissing on the couch, and he didn’t leave till 2 am, but nothing else.

#3:  Football watching at his team’s bar.  Us, his roommates, CS.  That and drinking, of course.  I ended up going back to his place in Hoboken and staying the night.  BUT NOTHING HAPPENED.  Kissing only.

#4:  Knicks game.  We met for a beer, went to the game (great game, they won), ate White Castle (it’s his favorite, and I had never been and requested it), then went back to my place.  He laid in bed with me and snuggled me, all to a Food Network backdrop, until 2:30 am, when he had to go home (he had to be at work at 5).  We tried to send him home in vain for an hour.  The kissing was more suggestive this time, and there was some touching, but absolutely no clothes were removed, AND NOTHING HAPPENED.  When he left, he must have turned around 5 times to kiss me goodnight again.

I mean, the kid likes me.  I’m crazy about him.  And hear me when I say that he is fucking hot.  He’s like Ashton Kutcher on hot drugs.  We have a “Saw VI and an entire night of snuggling” date scheduled for when I get back from Texas next week.  True story.

So my question is, what’s the deal?  I don’t want to be the cougar who pounces on sweet, innocent Manchild.  Is he a virgin?  Virgins don’t look like this guy.  Nope.  Do I have a third nipple?  I mean, he wouldn’t have even seen it yet if I did.  Maybe it’s been too long (HSBF maybe?) since I’ve dated someone in the traditional sense – dates, holding hands, and kissing before anything really goes on.

I’m not generally one to say that people should wait until they’ve been on X number of dates before they hop in the sack (or head that way), but I have to say this is a somewhat refreshing change.  So I’m not going to worry with the whens and whys, and just enjoy the (non-literal) ride.

True story:  I never knew I had big boobs until Dad pointed it out to me.

I don’t remember the exact details, but I do remember that I came downstairs ready to leave the house for something, that he called them knockers, and he was basically asking where they came from.  They did kind of show up overnight.  Anyway, he’s totally not a creeper.  We’re tight.

Mom told him about my 23 year old.  Turns out, he only turned 23 a couple of weeks ago.  Dad called me a cougar.  That was Saturday.

Today, I asked him what I should wear to the Knicks game Tuesday night (with the 23 year old).  When I told him I didn’t have a Knicks jersey, he threw out another suggestion:

“If you want to be on TV, wear jeans, heels and something low cut.”  – Dad

So yeah.  In the last 48 hours, my father has called me a cougar and told me to wear something low cut.  My family is a lot of things, but ordinary is not one of them.

(Speaking of the 23 year old, let’s go ahead and name him – I have a feeling he’s going to be around for a while.  Manchild sounds good, though hopefully not offensive, because from the looks of it, he is really very mature.  Manchild it is.)

Clearly, I’m friends with too many people who pee the bed.

While doing laundry on Wednesday night, I noticed that I was missing a towel. Here was my actual thought process:

Where’s my other white towel?

Oh god, I lost a white towel.

My room is clean. Where could it be?

LG must have peed somewhere in my apartment, cleaned it up with the towel, and taken the evidence to launder.

Yes, I realize that this is irrational.  In my defense, it is entirely possible – perhaps even likely.

My first roommate in Atlanta peed EVERY time she drank.  We used to joke that you weren’t really friends with M until she had peed on you.  We hadn’t lived in Atlanta very long when I was introduced to her little habit.  See, we were poor as flight attendants.  We went to Target (big spenders) one night to buy clothes for going out that we couldn’t really afford.  Top, pants, shoes.  We wore said clothes to the bar, and M peed her pants in her sleep.  The next morning, she returned everything to Target.  After another night at the bar, she and our other roommate, B, came home hungry.  They took a frozen pizza to the vacant apartment across the hall (I still have no idea how they got in there – or why), ate, and passed out on the floor.  M peed on that floor.

I’ll spare you the details of LG’s best peeing story, but only because I don’t want her to kick my ass. Suffice it to say that it includes a friend’s couch and a cushion that has been turned pee side down ever since, with zero mention on the incident.

CS once walked to her roommate’s bed, pull down her PJs, and peed on the corner of the mattress.

So see? I’m not a complete whack job. It’s just that my friends, for adults, aren’t very potty trained.

A PSA: Restroom Etiquette

Allow me to preface this post by saying that I am not a fan of bathroom humor.  I get this from Mom, whose only diversion from the no-poo-humor rule in our house was to call Sister and me “farts* in a skillet” when we were acting as such.  Occasionally, Sister and I reminisce about those moments and wonder: exactly what does a fart in a skillet do?  Bounce around, we decide, and move on.

Though I’ve already touched on the wretched habits of womankind in the restroom, I feel the need to follow up with a few more, shall we say, suggestions.  You know how I love a list.

1. Pubic hair.

If you have enough hair in your nether region to leave a stray on the toilet seat, I have two things to say to you. One, it’s called wax. Or a razor. Or fire. Anything to trim it down or get rid of it. Two, please pick up your stray pubes. Otherwise, the rest of us must resort to techniques like Blowing From A Distance, Fanning, or (god forbid) Removing It With Wadded Toilet Paper. I trust that expanding on this issue is not necessary. (Also, you’re welcome. There’s a chance that you won’t KO your only chance at getting laid in this lifetime with your freed bush if you heed my advice.)

2. Aunt Flo

It happens to us all. In fact, barring a designer birth control pill, anorexia, or some kind of reproductive issues, it happens once every.single.month. Given that we are all at least 22 around here, we’ve had several years to get used to it. I can’t for the life of me figure out how the blood spray happens. Creepy, I know, but I picture someone buck naked in the stall, knees bent slightly and pelvis thrust forward, hips moving left to right exactly like a machine gun in a movie. I know how offensive this is. Still, I am offended more when a perfectly useful toilet seat is tainted with another woman’s blood.

3. Praying

Old people like to refer to throwing up as kneeling at the porcelain throne, or praying to the porcelain gods. Others toss ‘hope everything comes out alright’ to everyone who heads to the restroom, but I never considered that people might actually pray for poo; however, there is a lady in our office who actually does this. Or at least that’s my best guess. She is perpetually in there, as evidenced by her contorted feet in ugly shoes under the stall, stinking things up and generally causing a ruckus. She’s whispering something. Maybe she’s friends with the real Mr. Hanky; who’s to say? All I know is that I hear her in there, assume she’s praying, and make a beeline for the opposite side of the office. If that’s what IBS is like, please don’t sign me up.

Sadly, this will probably not be my last post about the office ladies’ room. A real shame.

*The F word in our house was not fuck; it was fart. For those of you who don’t think children can be molded, let me assure you that you are wrong. It pains me to even type that word. I could drop the fuck bomb all day, but the minute I tossed toot in favor of the F word, I’d get The Look. Mom, of course, was exempt if Sister and I were acting like Fs in a skillet.

Hopeless.

Last week at our office party, I was talking with a financial advisor I had never met before. We were giving each other Cliffs Notes of our lives – he’s old and fairly interesting, and had lots of questions about my aspirations. I mentioned that I never anticipated how difficult it would be to get people to take me seriously, having started on the support side of the business.

He leaned in toward me and whispered, “Well, being beautiful never hurts.”

Siiiiiiigh. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the compliment, but really? No one gets it.

Love lost.

I may never understand how a feeling that seems so solid can, in fact, be fleeting.  If I believed in a specific god and an afterlife that allowed for a stop at the golden gates for questioning, it would be the second one I asked.

How could I have gone from longing so intensely for his comforting embrace to sleeping next to him without so much as a touch?  I’ve cried until it seems like my tears have run out, and then I’ve cried more.  I told C before I left last night that I felt like we were divorcing all over again.  (No, we weren’t married, but living with someone for nearly three years makes it more than a breakup in my book; things are so hard to untangle.)

Of course, we had a wonderful time together.  He is my soft, snuggly comfort blanket, and it is always good to be near him.  But the pull isn’t there.  It somehow slipped away – a fear that crept in long before it was reality.  In fact, this is the very thing people are afraid of when they break up; that they’ll want it back, and it will be gone.  Only this time, it’s not one person asking the other for another chance – it’s both of us conceding that something that was at our fingertips – a certain kind of home - has been lost.  I’m not sure which is worse.  I just feel such a tangible loss, and I’m grieving.

It’s confusing, too, because I don’t think that any romance is sunshine and roses all the time.  My friend’s brother, who has been happily married for a long time, said something to her once that has always stuck with me.  It was something along the lines of, ‘Marriage is challenging.  Sometimes you wake up next to your best friend.  Sometimes you live with someone you can’t stand.  And sometimes, you come home to a beautiful stranger.’   I love it – it seems true.  Relationships and commitment are about taking a leap, and rolling with the punches to make it work.  I don’t doubt that C and I could make it work, but the timing is just off.  We waited too long.  For a long distance relationship to work, two people have to want it, and want to work at it.  It’s just not there right now.

I think it’s unfair that some people just happen to stay in the same relationship until they get married, or have a baby, or decide that the next step is clear.  It makes things so simple. I know it’s better this way; I couldn’t imagine waking up in ten years and wanting a way out that I couldn’t find.  Still, part of me is jealous that people who get married young, or quickly, don’t have to think through every facet of what they’re doing.

I haven’t lost C completely.  We will always be friends, and I can take comfort in that.  I just have this selfish, unfounded feeling that I can love him best – no one will ever do it the same way.  That’s completely unfair, and untrue.  He is an amazing person, and as much as I hate the idea, someone is going to take care of his heart the right way.  I want that for him.  Above all else, I want us both to be happy.

It’s just a ho-hum kind of day.

Seriously, wow.

All I have to say about last night is WOW.  That guy is positively gorgeous.  Great time, second and third dates tentatively scheduled.

He is 23.  I am 27.  I do not care.

Beautiful.