Because one can’t talk about porta-potties enough, yes, I have another story involving a porta-potty. Yup. Don’t read during a meal or directly following having anything to eat. It’s one of those. You have been warned.
I have mentioned my dear Grandma Dorothy before. She has passed, but not a single family get-together goes by that we do not fondly recall her crazy antics or reminisce about her depression-era perseverance. She is still a very important part of our lives, she just lives on through our favorite repeated stories.
After my mother read my “Porta Poop” post, she insisted I had to write about my grandmother’s experience with a porta-potty. It it one of our favorite stories, so I have to share it.
Disclaimer: My grandmother suffered from dementia. She was disoriented 99% of the time and I, in no way, condone laughing at someone suffering such a cruel disease. Why my family finds this particular event humorous is simply due to it being fucking funny, and because, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. We knew she would have preferred we spent her last years laughing, rather than crying. She loved to laugh, and thus we did.
Before my grandmother got really bad, before she attempted to eat her false teeth, and before we sadly had to move her into a home, my mother and aunt would take her on day-long car trips. Even after her dementia settled in for good, she could point out her favorite make and model of car. She loved to ride for hours just looking, watching.
While adventuring to God-knows-where and for God-knows how long, a pit stop was in order. Because my family is the type to use a random porta-poop, they didn’t even think twice about doing their business in one on the side of the road in BFE.
They got Grams to go in and insisted it was a safe place (I still think that was a cruel, cruel lie), so she entered without too much complaint.
After what seemed an exponentially long amount of time, my aunt knocked on the blue door to see how Grams was getting on.
Grandma’s response: “I’m washing my hands and I just can’t seem to get this soap to lather”.
I can only imagine how my aunt’s expression changed from confusion to complete horror.
Aunt Dana: “Ma, you must be mistaken, there is no sink in there”. I’m sure she was praying hard that she just misheard.
No. She did not mishear.
Grandma: “Yes, there’s this nice, little sink in here, with this pretty pink soap. It just won’t get soapy”.
In case you haven’t caught on:
SHE WAS “WASHING” HER HANDS IN A URINAL, WITH A URINAL CAKE.
I still can’t even. I’m gagging right now.
In utter panic mode, my aunt attempted to coax Gramdma out of the porta-potty with as calm a voice as possible.
My mom was waiting in the car and suddenly saw a blur of Grandma and Dana, reeling down the hill from porta-hell. My aunt had my grandma by her wrists and she was holding her arms as far from her as humanly possible. She was yelling as if someone just got murdered. My mom opened the door and all she heard was:
“URINAL CAKE! WIPES! URINAL CAKE! GOOD GOD, LORD ALMIGHTY!”
After they wiped every square inch of my grandmother off with wipes, Grams says: “I don’t understand what the fuss was about. It was a perfectly good sink. And perfectly good soap!”
That day, we were glad she had dementia. I don’t think anyone would recover from learning they had gotten down to business with a urinal cake.
Sometimes dementia is good, but only when it involves porta-potties, urinals and “special” soap.
Tag: lifestyle
Daddy
He’s slow as molasses (unless someone says, “Cake!”) and selectively deaf (he somehow always hears when we are talking about him two rooms away, with the door shut, yet he can’t hear directions when you’re screaming them over the phone).
Somehow, over night it seems, he’s become an old man. He has the telltale wrinkles in front of his ears, and he has a tiredness behind his eyes that only comes with age, experience, and years of a life full of happiness and pain.
He wears black socks with his white Velcro shoes, the type of shoes he swore he would never, ever wear. His faded jeans sag in the behind and they are far too short, revealing his ivory-white legs when he sits.
He’s stubborn as a mule, and will only have things his way. The TV remote, vacuum cleaner, and his trusty handheld poker game are practically appendages, and don’t you dare try to touch them.
Usually we tease him mercilessly, and like a champ, he just responds with, “Har Har” or a disgusting, inappropriate joke. He’s obsessive about having a clean floor and he’s said, “Rinse your dish” to me about 98,456,742 times.
Despite the annoyances, his obsessive-compulsiveness and stubbornness, he’s my dad. He’s the one who taught me how to ride my bike for the first time (promptly into a rose bush) and he’s the one who says he loves me every time he asks me if I checked my oil.
My dad may not hang on my every word and he may not always ask me how my day was, but he was the one who never gave up teaching me how to count money when I was in 2nd grade. After weeks of late nights inaccurately counting nickels and dimes, I finally did it correctly. He was so elated (and relieved) he feigned fainting, and actually fell over and pretended he was really out of it due to shock (he probably hurt himself and couldn’t get up, but still).
My dad may not play golf anymore, and he may have lost most of his muscle mass over the years, but he’s still the kind of man who will stand up for his family. A few months ago, a man was digging in my parents’ recycling and crushing cans loudly in the wee hours of the morning. After my father asked the man to take the cans and kindly move on, the vagrant threw slurs at my dad. That old man stood up straight, looked the punk in the eye, and told him to “git”. That was that.
My dad is the kind of man who will hang up his suit and tie, swallow his pride, and take a job as a janitor for the sake of his family. He’s the kind of man who will tell a creep on my bus to leave me alone, or he will come for him. He was always our savior, our protection.
He’s not perfect, but he’s my father and dammit, that’s just all that matters.
My dad doesn’t read blogs (he still thinks the Internet is some kind of cellphone), and I’m not sure he even reads anymore, but this is for him.
I’m pretty sure my dad was a badass.
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Thought Overload
Am I the only one whose mind wanders during yoga? Please tell me I’m not the only person incapable of thinking solely of their rounded and backward breathing (I didn’t even know there were other types of breathing. Am I the only one who simply breathes in and out??) I just worry I’m crazy, or I will never learn the art of not thinking, constantly, obsessively.
This morning, I got up early and attended Yin Yoga. Let me repeat that: I got up early. To do fitness. I really felt a tiara, or a certificate of achievement was deserved, but no one seemed impressed my happy ass was there bright and early, with my unwashed hair.
I had never heard of Yin Yoga, but that’s really not surprising, as I know really nothing about any kind of yoga. All I cared to ask the instructor was, “Will this likely kill a newbie?” She laughed and said, “Get a blanket, two blocks, and a bolster. You will be fine. Oh, and we will be positioned in a circle”.
Ugh.
I am not fond of facing others during fitness, because it means they will look at me. They will have front row seats to my ineptness. Why a circle? I wanted to ask, “Can I just sit outside the classroom? It’ll be fine. I’ll hear your instructions and I’ll peek in a few times”. I knew it wouldn’t go over well, so I just placed my mat as far away as possible, while still being somewhat a part of the circle of shame.
Let me make it clear that I am 100% open to having a yoga mind. I want to be able to focus on my third eye (especially when my third eye isn’t being referred to as an especially nasty zit, which is what I thought a third eye was). I want to be able to connect to my breath, but it’s HARD.
My brain does not shut off. Ever. I’m usually thinking/worrying/planning several different things at the same time. I have incredibly vivid dreams. I have been known to “sleep plan” lessons. Obviously, I’m an over-thinker. The mental exercise of yoga is far harder than the physical element. I’m mentally weak. I’m struggling, friends. For your reading pleasure, I would like to share actual thoughts I had during yoga today. I’m weird. Beware.
I should have blown my nose before class.
OMG. I legit almost blew a booger out of my nostril. Mouth breathing it is.
She wants me to put my left leg behind my ass and then lay down? Is she seeing my body?
I wonder if the guy with the speedo on could breathe any louder. He’s brag breathing.
Why is it that the men are always almost naked and the women are practically wearing their entire closet. Why is that?
Thank GOD I’m the fattest one in here. Said no one ever.
Wow. I had no idea my heel would ever meet my belly button. I should introduce them to each other. Katie, you’re fucking mental.
When was the last time they washed the cover to this bolster? What if someone had their poorly-wiped ass on it right before this class? I’m laying my face on this thing. I’ll get pink eye! I might get E. coli! I might die!
Further, do they mop this floor? What if they don’t? What if? Should I ask?
Am I the only one who sneaks looks at the other people when our eyes are supposed to be closed?
That girl has a hole in the crotch of her pants. How embarrassing. Wait, so do I!! OMG, who saw??
EVERYONE. Because we’re in a CIRCLE.
Could I get away with a small toot? Probably not.
Obviously I need help. HELP.
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Blanket Yoga
Guys, I just discovered Restorative Yoga, and it is the best thing ever. EVER.
A few days ago, my aunt and I were discussing my new yoga journey. I was trying to express to her how hot and challenging my yoga sessions have been. How do you, in speaking words, explain a hot that is suffocating? How do you adequately explain to someone that during your yoga-ing, you wish you were never born? How do you do this, and at the same time express that you love it in a very masochistic way? I think that she is still worried for my safety and well-being. I guess I did not explain myself properly.
So, this was how she invited me to be a part of her yoga experience. Let me just quote her:
“It is all very calming. When I leave, I feel like I just had a massage. You lay down the whole time and they cover you with blankets…”
Blankets.
All I heard was “blankets”.
I asked her, “Do you mean to tell me, when you do yoga you get to lay down the whole time? You get blankets?”
SHUT.THE.FRONT.DOOR.
I truly thought she had to be lying. Who has ever heard of “Blanket Yoga”? I was intrigued, and thus, I attended with her yesterday.
I would like to make it clear, and to absolve my aunt of all assumptions made about her character, by saying, “BLANKETS”.
No shit, during restorative yoga, you practice your breath and lay down. The whole time. It was better than any exercise or health class I have ever taken. I did not expel one drip of sweat. I did not have to spray down my mat with a hose after, and I did not have to wash my hair. It was beautiful.
At one point, we made ourselves a makeshift lay-down chair with blankets, and enjoyed just relaxing for a good 20 minutes. During, the instructor came around and gently laid eye pillows, scented with lavender on our closed eyelids, and then she covered us with blankets. She tucked me in.
I cannot fully express my love of this yoga session thoroughly. I do not have the literary skill.
All I can say is that I will be attending “Blanket Yoga” from here on out, for all eternity.
Thank you, Auntie Dana, GOD BLESS YOU.
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Toot Toot
Ladies, why do we feel the need to not graciously accept compliments? Why do we feel guilty for admitting when we look fierce? Why do we feel we are bragging when asked to list our achievements on resumes and college applications? What is this overly-humble bullshit about? Ya’ll know what I’m talking about. If you aren’t guilty of it lately, you have been at one point or another. We all have. We have all said, “Oh, this old thing?”, when given a compliment. Don’t lie.
Recently I was at a school district training. The trainer was the kookiest woman I have ever met. She was spunky, loud, and pretty much the most hilarious woman I’ve ever met coming out of our district (that’s really saying something, because usually education sucks the life out of you). At one point she started going off on a tangent. She asked us women to make it out goal to never poo-poo a compliment again. The class was on poverty, but someone how she got the topic of self-deprecation in. Pretty amusing. Well, she really got me thinking. She also got me paying more attention to how I respond to compliments.
I guess I should admit that the way I respond, depends on the person. If my boyfriend pays me a compliment, I flutter my lashes, smile pretty, and coyly say, “Oh yeah? You think I’m pretty? What else?” Pretty much this is why my boyfriend is annoyed with me 99% of the time. Compliments from men turn me into the worst version of myself ever. I’m the annoying insecure, attention-seeking psycho all men attempt to avoid. I hate that me.
With literally everyone else, I vehemently deny my pants are nice, and “No, I didn’t do anything new with my hair”- stop looking at me.
I’ve noticed that the compliments I’ve had the hardest time accepting come from other women. Far too often, we are pitted against one another in a competition of wits, and of who has the best, basically, everything. Yet, when it comes down to admitting we have “won” a tiny battle and we’ve been noticed, we deny ever making any effort made on ourselves.
Ladies, as I’m a fellow lady (well, sometimes), I can honestly admit we find it annoying when our fellow woman plays dumb when being paid a compliment. We know it comes from a deep sense of insecurity and the inability to celebrate ourselves, but this bullshit needs to stop! We are all smart, beautiful, and accomplished in some way (unless you’re not, and in that case-get your act together). If a friend, or even a complete stranger tells you they like your lip color, don’t suck your lips into your mouth like a self-conscious vacuum, and passionately regret trying a different color, SMILE and know your teeth look über white. Know you’re hot and others see it too.
The inspiration came to write on this topic when I was emailing a woman from the graduate admissions department at Sierra Nevada College. I was inquiring about the letter of recommendation that was required. Her email response let me know that the letter wouldn’t be required if I have an undergraduate GPA of 3.0 or higher. I felt elated, and was happily typing, “That won’t be a problem, I graduated with honors,” Then, as I hastily tapped, ‘delete, delete, delete…’, I said aloud, “NO, NO, NO! Imma toot my own horn a little bit, dammit”.
“Toot toot.”
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Bad Cupcakes!
Yesterday was the last day of school (Schools…out…for…SUMMER). I have exactly 58 Saturday’s ahead of me (more about that blessed dilemma later). I started my summer vacation off in a very positive, good-Samaritan way. Let me explain.
Naturally, one of my students brought cupcakes to celebrate the last day of school (I’m not only known as a cupcake-lover on my blog). As it was the last day, my students were leaving early left and right. When we finally had our room cleaned up, things packed, and I finally participated in a Just Dance video for my students’ amusement (more on that later, too…), it was Cupcake Time. The 24 cupcakes were more than enough, there were 8 left. Of course, the student who brought them was fully planning on taking them home. I would like to make it amply clear that I would never stoop so low as to beg a nine-year-old for their leftover cupcakes. I’m not that far gone.
The mad rush to collect all of their precious end-of-year goodies and give me hug after hug, coupled with their desire to get the hell out of school, made for a whirlwind ‘goodbye’ with my students. Yearbooks were left. Data folders, that they would have trashed anyways, were left. Their had-to-have, homemade letters from their friends were left. And, the cupcakes. They were left. Two, almost empty, boxes of vanilla cupcakes were left. I figured she would be back. I waited a few, anxious minutes. Guilt-ridden, I went outside, hopefully, albeit reluctantly, to try to find her. 3 minutes after the bell had rung, and it was a ghost town outside. “Lost” report cards, confetti, and papers littered the ground. All was still, but for a tumbleweed that blew across in the breeze. She was gone. They were mine.
I felt a sudden internal glee that only fat people, who have an unhealthy love for baked goods, ever feel. I knew it was bad news that I now possessed 8 entire cupcakes, cupcakes topped with the sweetest confection of sugar ever created, but my unhealthy addiction and glee overwhelmed my sense of good judgement.
If anyone saw me leaving school with all of my treasures, they surely videotaped it and uploaded it onto YouTube with the heading, “Watch Fatty Teacher Leave School and Almost Drop Two Boxes of Cupcakes Exactly 32 Times”. I can just see the comment section now: “Damn, she dropped her phone, purse, bag of whatever, and her keys, but she didn’t drop the cupcakes-no words”. That would have been the nicest thing said.
When I finally got home, lugged in all of my shit, along with my prize, I felt victorious. I made it home, and not one cupcake was injured.
My boyfriend was aghast that I brought two boxes of cupcakes home, as he shares my love (and obvious addiction) of anything remotely sweet. He, too, envisioned us sitting on the couch, in our fat pants, devouring them all. All he had to say was, “Babe…” and it all became clear. I have serious problems. We did NOT need 8 cupcakes, like at all. The cherry on top: my boyfriend then asked me, “Why didn’t you put them all in one box?” Good God. Not only am I fat, I’m a fucking genius too.
So, to address how I began my summer vacation in a Good Samaritan way, I put all 8 cupcakes (in two boxes) out by the dumpsters in the alley, for the bums. Almost daily, we have homeless people digging in the dumpsters. All they ever find is moldy spaghetti leftovers and black bananas. Last night, one lucky vagrant came upon a gold mine. I’m such a saint. You’re welcome.
Here is the proof:
And, the proof that our local homeless people have more smarts than a teacher. Whomever took the cupcakes likely transferred them all to one box. Doh!
So, there you have it. I have started off my summer on a positive, healthy note (I won’t mention that I attended our school’s happy hour, devoured a food truck Philly cheesesteak, and ended the night with a Double Caramel Magnum-I can only give up so much!)
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Swamp Ass
This is what I want summer to represent:
The warm breeze tickles my toes as I lay beneath a swaying palm tree. With eyes closed, I can feel the coolness of the shade, and then the warmth of the sun on my eyelids as the palm’s branches dance with the sky. The air smells of pineapples and Coppertone sunscreen. A wave lazily laps the shore, and the repetitive sound soothes my soul, and calms my mind. I lazily fall in and out of sleep, unaware of time or reality. My toes find their way deep into the sand, where it’s cool and damp. I slowly make my way to the sea, through sand soft and white. My sun-kissed skin feels renewed as I plunge into the cool salt water. I float on my back and watch the clouds pass, as my life stands still.
But, I am not rich and I can’t “summer” in some luxurious tropical paradise.
So, this is my summer existence:
The sun’s rays beat down on me, without mercy. It’s 95 degrees, with zero humidity, but it feels like I am in a steam sauna located in the pits of hell. There is zero breeze, zero reprieve for even a second from heat so hot it feels like a wet blanket smothering me. Even in the shade, the heat harasses me, relentlessly. The AC in the car takes the entire ride home to cool my fresh-out-of-the-oven-baked-potato-on-wheels. The beater air conditioning unit in my apartment groans as it hesitantly puts out room-temperature air. Every fan is on, but they just idiotically blow hot air, and dust balls onto my damn Popsicle. I have been sweaty since exiting the shower, and I have asked myself every day, “Why even try to feel clean? Why shower?” The only moment I get a break from the repressive heat is during that glorious 2 hour span of time between 3:00 and 5:00 AM. I finally feel dry and slightly cool, and half human again, but it doesn’t last, the relief is never long enough. The sun is up again, without fail, and it’s the same unbearable existence as the day before, with no end in sight.
Over-dramatic much? Yup. The AC in my classroom isn’t working, and for the better part of the day it was a balmy 82 degrees inside. I pretty much can kiss any semblance of a dry ass ‘goodbye’ for at least 3 months. For anyone who knows me personally, knows I run hot, and I hate the heat. Hate is not a strong enough word, but my brain is too overheated to come up with a better one.
I know summer means all those cutesy things in every lame “meme” we are inundated with the second it stops snowing, but usually summer just means swamp ass to me. Unlike the rest of the world, coming into summer, I am not looking forward to the heat. A couple glorious months away from my classroom, I am elated about, but the hot part of summer really blows.
I hate how my seat belt in my car is unusable after an hour in the sun. That little metal piece of shit is deadly. And the steering wheel? I’ve had to learn to steer without touching the bastard. I hate how I start sweating immediately after showering. I hate the feeling of a sweaty scalp and sweaty underboob. I hate how it’s too hot to even walk to the mailbox at 11 at night. How people run, or wear beanies in the summer make me wonder if aliens are already among us. If I could spend my summers in Antarctica, I would be happy.
Despite the intense dislike I have for the sweltering temperature of summer, I do eventually accept that I will be sweaty and uncomfortable 24/7, and I start to enjoy the perks of lazy summer days. It just takes me a little to come around. After enjoying the first few days of freedom from my job, the heat seems like a pretty fair bargain.