Friday, December 11, 2009

A-C0MMODE-A-DATING


CLASSIC STARBUCKS




As many of you know, and maybe two of you don't, my husband, Vild, has been spending a lot of time in China. Suffice it to say, he built a thing, the thing broke, he fixed the thing, the thing became many things and then all those things needed tweaking. Apparently he is the only engineer on the planet who can make the thing work and the Chinese people stop talking to their lawyers at the same time. So there have been many trips, all of them dusted in a nice powdery coating of Chinese anger and doodie-sprinkles, because apparently they don't use toilet paper over there.  In fact, he tells me, via one line text messages in the middle of the night, the executive bathroom is distinguished from the general populous' by virtue of the fact that its a single hole, and not a trench.  The Execs get a trickle of dirty water to rinse with too, but no soap, no paper. These same people wear masks at the market to prevent swine flu and take your temperature upon entering the country.
***
Today the pipes froze at The Upholstery shop. The building was originally a carriage repair shop, circa 1880, so the plumbing is sort of an add-on, and hangs stupidly below, and in some places outside, the building. We treat these pipes like the legs of a fine stallion, wrapping them in warm towels, bandaging them and leaving a heater on in the stall - but even so, I had to go to Starbucks to use their trench, which is, in every way, nicer than my bathroom at home.  Theirs are always clean and lovely, and replete with papers of every weight and dimension. For nose, bum and hands. With low light and a clean sink, I often stay a little longer than is considerate, admiring their choice of vinyl moldings and textured paints.

We at home, have two bathrooms. One for the four human members of the family and one for the cat box.  I am the only creature under this roof who goes with the door closed.  And Kitty, at least, will toss some sand over her doot.  The rest of these people have no shame, and borderline flushing skills.  Its only because I love and respect you so much that I have not made posts to the Daily Ick (R.I.P.) illustrating their inferior flushing skills.

The only reason I'm not more jealous of my cat, and her private pissoir, is because that downstairs bathroom dwells in the land that time forgot. Its both hideous and there's not enough of it. Its about 4x5 feet, which is workable, if a reality show came and waxed my throne, turning it into something wee but with a waterfall.  But mine is the ultimate 'before' bathroom. It will never get asked to the prom without being humiliated under a vat of pig's blood.

It has a drop ceiling that is missing a whole tile, revealing a lot of plumbing and weird cold air returns. Sometimes the condensation on those pipes is so severe that it makes a small puddle on the floor. The floor, which is the most egregious kind of bulk ceramic tile,  in a very off terra cotta color, a color I call, Tanning Booth Brown.  It's so cold underfoot, that it even makes my balls shrink. The tiny shower stall, fiberglass, is the smallest they make and is comparable in size to the bathroom on a Boeing 737. You can shampoo your hair, but with only one elbow flexed at a time.  The other arm is mercilessly pinned to your side.

There is a cabinet in there that holds only smell. And not just one smell. Smells of years gone by. Tonics and acne cleansers, cat litter and lotions and cleaning products. You could keep a few seniors from the community college busy for an afternoon doing a forensics work up on that cabinet.

The sink is pedastal, with a wide, too shallow basin. The tiny, plasticy medicine cabinet is pure 80's bachelor. It is flanked by inverted petal sconces with corrugated glass domes.

Sometimes late at night I go in there a blow a tiny, pathetic hit of pot into the outtake vent.  With cat litter grains crunching under foot, I really know how to get down.

When guests come to use our crappy office as a guest room, I can turn that crumpled can of a bathroom into something vaguely accommodating, using fresh towels, candles and ample use of bath rugs. I put little soaps and shampoos in there to trick my guests into feeling that its not the most hideous place on earth. But lets face it. If I forced my guests into a naked pyramid and snapped a few photos, they might stand a chance at better accommodations. But they indulge me, my beloved enemy combatants, because I make a nice stew, and will toast marshmallows with them around a campfire on a summer night. On those balmy nights they can pee outside, or, I know a really nice bathroom in town they can use.






Thursday, December 3, 2009

Not Drowning, Just Waving




If there are any of you out there reading this, after this long absense, well, thanks for being there. I've been up to my ass in alligators.

Louis went deaf there for a minute, my vagina exploded, the kid and I both had surgery, my shop has gone nova with new business, Vildy has been sold into slavery in China, and we topped the whole thing off with turkey in California, a visit to Disneyland and a return home to well-water that smelled like an egg fertilized by the rancid seed of a satanic rooster and left to warm on a freeway overpass above the Jersey Turnpike. Oh, and I overzealously ate a slice of pizza along the way and tore my lower gum doing it. So, that hurts.

A  note to say that, as it turns out, the scariest ride at Disney is losing your child in the crowd for five minutes. I finally got up the sack to ride the smallest and most old-fashioned coaster in the USA and when its done, and I'm radiant with pride, my phone rings and its my sister asking me if Lou is with me.  Adrenal flop sweats and a squirt of urine in my undies later, sprinting with my niece's hand in mine, my sister repeating into my cell phone, "Schickel, don't freak out. Don't freak out", Louis runs up behind us, literally chasing us as we are running away to find him.  He came to where he last saw me. Smart, and very, very unauthorized. Now that's a ride.

I think there's a whole theme park concept in there somewhere. Sort of like those vile Halloween spook houses sponsored by Christian youth groups where the horrors of sin are acted out by teens who pray to one day have the opportunity to commit one.

Nightmare parenting scenarios- in Omni-Max! Ride in a police chopper over Los Angeles as you desperately search back alleys for your missing child. Splash down into your own damp unders. Wait in impossible lines that double back on themselves into infinity to attend the kindergarten Christmas show. Pay nine dollars for a churro, only to discover that you've bought  Donkey's breaded cock. Toy Story- the recall! Where gift shop bits of Woody fall off and become choking hazzards and Mr. Potato Head's trap door can sever a small finger. Look out Mouse, I'm coming with my snap-trap! Maybe a visit with a bullying Mini Mouse who derides your children mercilously for sexting a pervy Captain Hook, who himself remains publicly taintless because he cannot hit the send button with his metal deformity. Fast pass indeed.

Oh readers, ride again with me. Ride!