So you thought YOUR Monday was bad?

16 Nov

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I was working from home, sitting in the living room, immersed in a project on my laptop. Curiously, down the hall it suddenly sounded like my shower was running. But with much more water pressure than usual.

After a split second pause in which my thought bubble would’ve said, “Does. Not. Compute,” I hopped up, ran down the hall and turned on the light – just in time to see water pouring through my bathroom fan and on to my toilet. Um.

I raced upstairs and pounded on my neighbor’s (of Mr. Stompy fame) door. As soon as he saw me he said, “We have it under control,” before I could even tell him I had water coming through my ceiling. Then he said, “I’ll be right down.”

I nodded and left. [When telling Alan this story he suggested that I should’ve said, “Control? Your definition of control involves water pouring through my fan? I think we need to revisit your grasp of the word.”]

When I got back downstairs, I was glad to see that the flow had reduced to a trickle, so I started mopping up the water. But although it was clear, it had a certain, suspicious eau de parfum to it that made me think of sewage.

When this dawned on me, I froze and stared at my hands, simultaneously kicking myself for not being the type of person to use yellow rubber cleaning gloves and wondering how scalding I’d have to make the water to feel my hands had been adequately cleaned. About this time, there was a knock on my door.

I opened it and my neighbor came in. “Let me see what’s happening,” he asked, moving  toward my bathroom without waiting for an invitation. “So what happened,” he explained, “Is that Jude clogged the toilet. But he doesn’t understand how things work – I’m the fixer in this relationship – so he freaked out and tried to plunge it but then flushed before it had worked.”

I stared up in horror. “So this is an overflowed toilet?”

Michael nodded, taking it in stride. “Yeah. We just need to give it a minute and let it go back down before we plunge it. This toilet is so finicky. I could flush a BRICK down my other one – and sometimes I practically do – but this one? Not a chance!”

I was still looking at the ceiling, trying to understand how something overflowed so dramatically into my bathroom. And trying to process that I had, in fact, been sopping up my neighbor’s fecal water.

Apparently Michael thought I was staring at the ceiling because of the incessant squeaking come from the floorboards. “I need to get back up there – I can hear Jude pacing,” he gestured. “This has him really upset.”

Really upset? Upset that he doesn’t know how to work a plunger? Or upset that he essentially took a shit in my bathroom? Because I’d be willing to let him feel better if he wants to come down and scrub this joint.

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Call me Edison. Thomas Edison.

11 Nov

I’ve come up with another invention that is genius. I just don’t know how large the audience is for it, so I’m not going to waste any time developing prototypes until I do a bit of market research. By which I mean: writing this post and seeing if anyone says, “Dude. I NEED one of those.”

So here’s the invention: A garbage disposal for your bathtub.

Admittedly, I first came up with this idea many, MANY years ago when I witnessed someone barfing in a bathtub. Initially I cringed when I thought of the clean up, and then – problem solver that I am – a lightbulb went off above my head and I thought: If only bathtubs had garbage disposals.

Imagine a world where the switch next to the tub was NOT for jacuzzi jets, but instead a disposal. Tempting, no?

Perhaps you’re struggling to see the application for any audience other than the drunken college crowd. Then clearly you haven’t used a luxurious bath bomb lately.

Bath bombs – if you’re unfamiliar – look like snowballs. Except they’re made of powdered bubble bath and they typically fizz and make your water smell nice when you drop them in a bathtub.

They’re fabulous. Except that the makers like to press things – like flower petals or grass – into them. I mean, it looks pretty, and it’s really quite novel to be taking a lemongrass soak surrounded by grass – or a rose water infusion that swims in rose petals.

But when I drain the water, it looks like I just hosed off the pruning shears in the bathtub. This, my friends, is the moment when a bathtub disposal would come in handy.

Am I onto something? Is this the next Big Thing in home design? Like wine fridges, warming drawers and soft-close drawer glides were 10 years ago?

Or am I – yet again – simply ahead of my time? It’s all right – you can tell me I’m a visionary. I won’t be offended.

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This might be when you decide to unsubscribe.

28 Oct

There is a time, I will admit, when I thought a touch of illness would be *just the thing* to launch my motivational speaking career. Nothing lasting, mind you. Just something that would allow me to grab the microphone and tell an inspirational story of triumph that would make folks’ eyes well up.

(Disclosure: I’m not exactly sure what disease I thought would fit that bill – I always kind of fuzzed over that part. I just remember looking at people and shaking my head, thinking, “Should’ve been me. I could *totally* turn that into a lecture circuit before I was healed.)

Well so, the lesson here is: Careful what you ask for. Apparently I sent out some sort of subconscious plea to the universe, and it was answered – by a universe that has an ironic sense of humor. Tuesday’s colonoscopy resulted in a diagnosis of Crohn’s.

If you’re not familiar with Crohn’s, let me start by telling you: It is probably the LEAST sexiest disease ever. If you want proof, try googling, “Celebrities with Crohn’s.” You’ll find exactly 11 people willing to admit they have it, and you won’t know who ten of them are.

The one you *might* recognize is Shannen Doherty of 90210 fame, and you’ll be like, “Wow. So this disease totally f*cks with your eyes so they’re on two different planes?”

But no: that’s just the result of her scowling so much because she had to dress like she was from Minnesota for an entire season. But that’s a different story. Ask Doherty about Crohn’s and she’ll only say, “I don’t think it’s sexy to talk about going to the bathroom.”

Oh Shannen, you are so coy.

She may be coy, but I’m not. So I’m going to talk about it briefly so you know what’s going on. And then I’m going to move on and get back to pithiness as usual. Consider this quick back story in case you notice more bathroom humor than usual. Or if an increasing number of my stories end with, “And then I shat myself. Literally.”

My understanding (cobbled together over the last few days) is that it’s an autoimmune disease, in which my immune system attacks my intestines. Sure, diarrhea is one of the outcomes, but (while inconvenient and potentially embarrassing) that’s not necessarily the worst part.

Granted, I’m new to the game, but thus far, it has felt like the flu (shivers, fever, aching bones, splitting headache) combined with some crazy-ass serial killer repeatedly stabbing my side. I tend to have a pretty high pain tolerance, but Thursday night it was so intense I found myself negotiating with Sweet Baby Jesus.

And we *ALL* know it’s silly to try to negotiate with a baby.

I’m currently on a course of nine pills/day (potentially forever, if they work – which would be the best case scenario) to help relieve the inflammation with the hope that it will prevent scar tissue from forming in my intestines. Scar tissue is bad because then I’d need to have surgery to remove part of my intestines/colon. Um, no thanks. Pretty sure that would put a damper on the inspirational speaking tour. 

In (barely) related news, I received a handwritten thank you note from the surgery clinic after my scope on Tuesday. Take a minute and think about that. 

Any other procedure and I’d appreciate it. But after you’ve been feet-deep up my ass, I’m thinking a thank you is, um, CREEPY.

One friend asked if the note included a keepsake action photo like they take on roller coasters. Kind of, I wanted to tell him. Except, instead of asking me to say cheese, apparently they told me to pucker up.

A different kind of log ride.

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Finally, while I’m getting all of this out of my system (so to speak), I’ll leave you with the text I received from my friend Dan, the night before my colonoscopy:

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AND NOW BACK TO OUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING…  IN WHICH FRANKENSTORM IS BEARING DOWN ON THE DC AREA!! 

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My ass – it’s killing me.

20 Oct

Oh hey! I’ve been a bit quiet lately, haven’t I? Sorry about that. For the most part, I’ve been busy with work, and –

What? How am I doing? Really? Sure you want to ask?

OK. Fine. I’ll tell you: I’m starting to get excited. On Tuesday I’ll be getting my second colonoscopy in six months. 

Admit it: you’re jealous.

As if two in a year weren’t thrilling enough, the real joy of this one is that it’s exactly a week before my birthday. Some people regain that youthful feeling with a spa day. Me, I prefer a more hard-core route. From my experience, nothing transports you right back to infancy like needing a diaper.

To each her own, I suppose. Whatever keeps you young.

Actually, I’m just happy I will be able to do the “prep” at home, in the comfort of my own bathroom, rather than in the hospital with a roommate. If you’ve never had a colonoscopy, I’ll spare you the details but this should help you get the gist: the prep (ironically branded “GoLYTEly”) ensures you will go to the bathroom over three dozen times in 12 hours – or until your stool is clear.

Let me repeat that: CLEAR.

Also: apologies for using the word stool outside of a kitchen or bar. Wholly inappropriate and kind of makes you puke in your mouth. So sorry about that.

Right. So I’m skipping the details, but I think we can all agree that when the preparation for a procedure defies nature – much like reversing the flow of a river – it can’t come without some, um, effort.

I don’t care how close I am with my parents – I’m glad they didn’t heed this advice.

By the way: If I ever have the option of inviting a dead or living celebrity to dinner, I think my money is on Katie Couric. Mainly because I want to ask the following: Katie, when you claim you had a colonoscopy on television, did you actually mean you PRETENDED to have one? Because I didn’t see any evidence of a) broken blood vessels from your face cramping up, b) shaky legs from running on zero nutrients for 48 hours, and c) terror in your eyes from the noise in your stomach.

My sister recently chatted me to tell the story of her friend’s son, who was given GoLYTEly in the ER, without the benefit of a semi-private bathroom. The poor kid had to STAND IN LINE after essentially detonating a bomb in his stomach. Again, I’ll spare you the details, but it’s safe to assume: that did not end well. Also, (just a hunch!) there may be a lawsuit related to human dignity at play.

So. I haven’t written for a while, but I think we’re pretty much caught up now. You might want to file this one under “Careful What You Ask For.”

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Yes, there are binders full of women. Most men don’t brag about them.

17 Oct

Hell yes, Mitt Romney supports women. If you doubt him, just ask to see his binder. It’s FULL of women. Women who not only are qualified to fill key jobs, but ALSO get to leave work a bit early so they can go home and cook dinner. If that doesn’t scream equality, I don’t know what does.

I mean, we want women integrated into the workforce, but it’s important that we don’t take them out of the kitchen – because that’s their first responsibility.  Kitchens without women would lead to a nutritional crisis more damaging than single parents and semi-automatic assault rifles combined.

Also – and here’s where Mitten’s corporate genius kicks in – if a woman needs to leave early to make dinner, then we can justify paying her a portion of men’s wages. Because she’s not working as much. Simply math, dummies.

So now that we know Mitt is totally pro-woman, I can’t wait for him to shatter the myth that he’s part of the Old White Boys’ Network. I mean, surely he has a black friend he can’t wait to tell us about.

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