Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #16

Tags

blue hair, covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, hair, home, humour, toilets

Dear Diary – It’s week “Sweet 16” and I feel like there should be cake!

This week I started my course on Writing Humour (becaue Hubby says I need some)! I was really nervous and really excited. I mean, it’s being taught by a celebrity from the Arrogant Worms. I fixed my hair, put on make-up and laid out my pen and pad in plenty of time. I took a pic with my computer (which was terrible so I took another one on my ipad).

Ready to learn

When I went to join in, my keypad wouldn’t work. I couldn’t log in, shutdown or open the directory to find out why. I yelled for Hubby, but he had gone for a walk. So I did a hard shutdown and made tea…

Hubby set up his laptop for me but I missed the first 10 minutes. As for my laptop, Microsoft decided to delete the driver for the keypad so I have to use a mouse. I hate it!

I loved the class though. After brief introductions, we collaborated on a silly song about Apps. Trevor, our instructor, added a tune and by the end of the night, we were singing along. Our homework is to write down funny things that we notice during the week, something I do naturally because coming up with blog material, particularly during covid lockdown, is pretty darn hard to come by!

It didn’t hurt that our chronic lazy toilet issue is back with a vengeance. Instead of running slow once every few weeks, it’s almost a daily thing. One afternoon, I heard Little Guy struggling so I took on the challenge. I couldn’t get it! Hubby couldn’t get it! After 9 buckets of warm soapy water, I tried again. I will not be bested by a toilet!

After my success, Hubby made the comment that when it came to all of us trying to clear the toilet with a plunger, “Mom is the queen”. Without skipping a beat, I replied, “Yup! I’m Queen of the Latrine”.

I ran with the idea and started my own country song/poem:

1) A man’s home is his castle and the toilet is his throne
His children are all grown now but he is not alone
His wife, she is a beauty, and to him, she is a dream
Because this lovely lady is the Queen of his latrine.

chorus:
When the water slows to a trickle or the flappy thing is broke
When the methane gas is arisin’ and it’s not safe to smoke
Armed only with a plunger, oh! the nightmarish things she’s seen
She’ll conquer, that’s why he’s thankful
‘cuz she’s the Queen of his latrine

2) His wife is smart and pretty, her figure is the charm
But cookin’s never been her strength and that may cause the harm
To thinning pipes he’s addin’ beef and pork and beans
But he knows that she loves him ‘cuz she’s the Queen of his latrine.

Bridge: Logs and bogs and meadow muffins,
Drops and plops or squirts
Whatever’s left behind him, she’s cut out for her work

3) Maybe it’s the plumbing, the house is getting old
The bathroom paint is peeling and the stains are growing bold
But their love’s forever, though their match is strange it seems
Faithful to the end, she is the Queen of his latrine

What do you think? Maybe I should stick to my day job…

Dear Diary -This weekend we woke up to 10 cars in the driveway of our neighbour across the street. And people wonder why there are hundreds of new covid cases in our region every day? Way to social distance. Please…stay at home.

Dear Diary – If the sun shines when it’s raining, we get a rainbow. What do we get when the sun shines and it’s snowing???

Dear Diary – Last night, Hubby was scowling and looking at the bottom of the laundry basket. He turned it upside down and shook it. I told him everything would be ok. In a few days, the basket would be full again, with clean clothes, as if by magic.

Dear Diary – This week I finally coloured my hair. But, I was lazy and my arms were really tired so I didn’t comb it out or dry it before I stuck it in a bun on the top of my head. Now I have “Muppet Hair Syndrome”. It’s been 3 days since and whenever I let my hair out, I look like a female Grover who was struck by lightning. All I’m missing is the smoke!

As if that wasn’t frightening enough, last night, when I leaned forward to turn off the light, my hair was apparently tangled in the wrought iron headboard. I’ve had my hair caught in my zipper before, and a car window, the seatbelt, and the fridge door…my hairbrush, my necklace and my curling iron…but this was a new one for me. I’m scared to look in the mirror because there might just be a bald spot!

If this lockdown lasts too long, I’m going to become this…

…ONLY BLUE!

but I’m not crazy I’m just a little unwell
I know right now you can’t tell
but stay awhile and maybe then you’ll see
a different side of me

Matchbox 20, I’m not crazy

Close Call

Tags

embarrassing moments, humour, toilets

Recently, a new study came out listing the Top 40 Signs You’re Getting Old. Among them were simple things like forgetting names, losing hair (or growing it in unwelcome places), and misplacing everyday items. There was a nod to complaining about new aches and pains, and moaning about ailments. As I kid, I clearly remember asking about moaning from my grandparents’ friends. It’s frightening to think that I’m now the age they were when I asked my innocent questions.

After reviewing this list, ticking off several boxes along the way, I noticed a glaring omission, at least one that surfaces in all of the circles I’m in – toileting issues. I am not referring to that stage in life when you’re negotiating with a toddler terrorist who refuses to poop in the potty. I’m referring to the war stories we trade like Pokemon cards. These stories range from simple oopsies (like a shart in the lineup at Walmart) to full blown Def-con 1 situations! This is one such story…

A few weeks ago, I woke up with an uncomfortable sensation low in my gut, long before my alarm started blaring. It was early because I had to be at a church “up north” by 9 a.m. to help lead worship. I managed to dress and grab a bite to eat in between 3 “rest stops” in 30 minutes. By 8:20, I was still feeling uncomfortable, so I popped another pepto and with my Bible in one hand and a change of clothes in a bag in the other, Little Guy and I headed out the door.

We stopped at the gas station five minutes later.

Once we hit the highway and the seat warmer was toasty, we sailed happily along. And then we got off the highway… and ended up lost on a windy, hilly country road in the middle of nowhere. I don’t just mean a place where there weren’t Tim Horton’s on every corner. I’m talking fields. Empty, snow-covered fields alarmingly absent of trees. I know this because I was scouting out an escape route.

With pressure mounting and prayer intensifying, we pulled over to check the map again. We were so close. Tears of relief wet my lids. When I pulled beside the little blue car in the parking lot, I did a double-fist-pump in the air. Then I realized the driver in the other car was not my colleague for the morning, but a rather pasty-faced, startled young man. I smiled and looked away.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing stirred, except my digestive track.  I started to feel a chill running up to my shoulders, so I  tried to distract myself by reviewing what I had eaten the day before. The only suspect was one little homemade star-shaped cookie, filled with strawberry jam and lightly iced with a vanilla glaze. I hadn’t eaten sugary treats for over a month.

The inevitable wave of panic was still growing when my colleague arrived in his van. With his family – young, innocent babes who were going to witness a terrible tragedy if a keyholder didn’t show up soon. Deep breaths.

Another painfully long 5 minutes passed before he did.

Not knowing if he was a keyholder, I let my colleague and his son walk in first. I waited, debating whether I should text him. I knew that once I moved from this seat, the legions in my body would unfurl their wings and my chance of making it would be small. I wasn’t prepared to move an inch until I was certain.

I finally bolted from the car and down the driveway with as much dignity and lady-likeness I could muster in this precarious predicament. I rushed ahead of Big Guy and my colleague’s wife and daughter, who, upon seeing the wild look in my eyes and the beaded sweat on my brown, warned her daughter to let me go ahead (she’s a great Mom)!

I went straight to the loo. I would visit that sanctuary at least twice during the rehearsal. But I feared what would transpire once the service began. You see, the piano was on the far left side of the platform, the door to the loo in back right corner. The aisles were narrow; the room small. There would be no escaping without everyone seeing me. I popped another pepto!

I survived rehearsal, but as the counter on the screen hit 3 minutes, the demon inside me started to writhe. “Sorry!” I blurted as I hustled from the room. By now I had sweat through my clothes.

The pastors were praying when I returned, so I sat in the chairs behind them. When they finished, they glared hard at the back door, evidently wondering if I was coming back. I don’t know how much my colleague shared with the pastor but just before he headed up to start the service, he whispered sweetly, “We prayed for you”.

Fortunately, God answers prayer! I made it home.

I’m heading to my folks this weekend, and praying for an uneventful trip!

Happy Weekend!

How I Roll…

Tags

bathrooms, embarrassing moments, fashion, humour, toilets

Toilet paper always comes to the rescue…even in a fashion emergency.

Like today.

Today, I had my annual appointment with the eye doctor. He has curly blonde hair and stunning blue eyes, and looks like he’s 12. Naturally, I want to make an effort to NOT look like I just rolled out of bed on my day off, so I took some time to look my best. I took time to wash the crust from my eyelashes and to brush my teeth. I touched up the curls leftover from yesterday braided updo and slathered on a liberal amount of antiperspirant. Finally, I carefully chose nice but modest clothing that flattered my figure: black pants, brown boots, red knit top. I’m not a creep…I just want to look better than this!

Photo courtesy of http://images.wisegeek.com

I arrived early for my appointment, slipped off my coat and sat down. As I sat down, I folded my coat in front of me and glanced down at my lap. And froze. I was staring at my own belly button.

You see, my top…my beautiful red knit top, has a band of battenburg lace running in a 2″ vertical stripe down the front…and I had forgotten to put on a camisole. My eyes swept upwards from my stark, lily white stomach to my flesh-coloured bra with…gasp…my ample bosom spilling out the top toward a perfect “y” – my cleavage. I clutched my coat to my chest, feeling a warmth spreading up my neck and engulfing my cheeks in flames.

I started to panic. I didn’t have a scarf. Could I borrow one from the receptionist? No, she wasn’t wearing one either. Wear my coat the whole time? No, I was already melting into my plastic seat. Then the assistant called my name and my heart leaped into my chest.

Problems are like toilet paper. You pull on one and ten more come. – Woody Allen

“Maybe”, I reasoned, “maybe it’s not as obvious as I think it is”. So I followed  the assistant into the other room for the initial tests. Once seated and facing a mirror, I realized it wasn’t as bad as I thought. It was worse. Much worse! All I wanted to do was look nice for my appointment with the nice young doctor, not pimp myself out like a cougar!

I fled from the little room to the bathroom, so I could hyperventilate in private. Since I was already there, I decided I might as well use the facilities before I confessed my fashion faux pas and clutched my Harry Potter book to my chest for the next hour.

And then I looked up…Toilet paper! If I could stretch one strip of toilet paper across my cleavage, secured by my bra cups…and if I could then stretch a long strip down the vertical stripe, and secure it between my bra and my pants, would it provide sufficient coverage to reinstate my dignity?

Yes! Yes it can! And that my friends, is how I roll!

Make your life be like toilet paper. Long and useful.
– Wolfgang Riebe, 100 Quotes to Make You Think

Urinal Scouts, Pee Petitions and Unisex Bathrooms

Tags

bathrooms, humour, shopping, toilets

During this year’s Masters golf tournament, the author, Scott Feschuk, witnessed “a massive line-up outside of a restroom…that was not for women. It was a men’s restroom. FOR MEN”. But while there are often short line-ups at sports events and stadiums, the organizers had given thought to how traumatic a large line-up could be to these guys, so they came up with a plan to keep the line moving. First, they used ropes to keep the line orderly. Second, a friendly greeter (personally I’d find mindless chit-chat too great a distraction at this crucial point in the line-up, that being the head of the line). Third, “urinal scouts” – gentlemen, like parking attendants, who let you know where to go by shouting, gesturing, or simply leading you to the next available location. Some even bantered to keep the “mood” light inside the washroom.

This is a great idea! If there were “scouts” in ladies’ rooms, the trip to the loo at the service centres (especially on holidays) would be so much more relaxing. It would reduce the number of “cuts” in the lines, the tying up of the sinks to “fix” your make-up in the mirror (you’re at a service centre on the highway…how good do you need to look in the car??), and the “potty dance” of little kids and grannies patiently (or not so patiently) waiting for their turn. Without the line-up, I can be in and out of a bathroom, including washing my hands (with soap) in minutes, and have never understood the lengthy stay of some patrons in a room with hideous lighting, and let’s face it, antiseptic smells (if we’re lucky). Personally, I think this plan was a master stroke of pure genius.

But it could be worse. Have you heard of the “Right to pee” petition? Women in Mumbai can own property and vote. They make up half the city’s civic authority, a collection of elected and unelected officials. But women can’t pee for free in public toilets. A 2009 study by the Centre for Civil Society found that Mumbai had only 132 public toilets designated for women – several of which require repair, while there are 1,534 toilets designated for men. Women often carry a bag, knows as the “flying toilet”.

I’ve only had to “pay to pee” twice in my life – once near the Coliseum in Rome (and it was an actual bathroom, and not just the rumoured hole in the ground), and once at Versailles (I think it was 5 francs; I kept the receipt). I disagree with people using the bathroom in a restaurant, even if it’s fast food, and not patronising the business. Owners incur costs for water and t.p. so the least I can do is buy a doughnut or a cup of tea on my way out the door.

Unisex bathrooms were also a new experience to me when I travelled to Europe in 1999. My shopping malls have family bathrooms, but it’s really just a large bathroom so parents with children of the opposite sex, who are too old to use the regular bathrooms, can stay together. But in a restaurant in Italy, our first night there, there was only one room – several cubicles with doors – but only one room. I ended up washing my hands next to an older man, who looked more uncomfortable than me. Same thing in Venice, but some toilets were smaller and much lower to the ground (a urinal for men?)…but when I had to “go” in a long line of women who were too embarrassed to use the mini toilet, I politely asked for permission to pass and used it anyway…I must have inspired others because when I left, the line was moving again! Pardon the vulgarity, but I just needed “a pot to piss in” and I wasn’t going to get picky!

One last word of advice: “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie, wipe the seatie”!

Photo compliments of: 13thstreetstudio.typepad.com

References: http://www2.macleans.ca/2012/04/13/another-thing-theyve-mastered-at-augusta/
http://www2.macleans.ca/tag/india/