Slippery when wet

Dear toilet seat squatters,

Hi. How are you? That’s nice. How am I doing? Well, not so great. You see, you have sprayed urine all over the toilet seat and didn’t have the wherewithal to wipe it down before you exited the stall. Thanks for asking.


Now that we’re on the subject…why it is that you squat?

Did your grandmother sell you a lie that you would catch membrionic cataclistical bacterium* by somehow allowing your bare butt to touch the toilet seat of an office building?

You must be wondering how I know so much about your grandmother. Well, it’s because I too have a grandmother, and she tried to convince of the dangers of toilet seat sharing. Whenever we were out and about town and nature called, I had to hear her Don’t Sit, speech from the moment I asked to pee to the point when I was done washing my hands. As annoying as this was, it wasn’t as stressful and difficult as actually being stripped down and lifted onto an adult toilet to then be coached into streaming my body’s warm Mountain Dew into the bowl and not down my leg, where it inevitably went anyway.


I eventually gave up going to the bathroom to avoid this whole ordeal. I would hold it as tight as Chase holds my deposits. This plan worked, except for that one time she took me to see a Cantinflas movie and I over-zealously drank an entire Sprite. Yet, I opted to pee through my pants and into the seat**, rather than ask for her to take me to the bathroom. My grandmother was not pleased. And neither was I until I was old enough to go into a stall on my own…then it was ass-to-seat all-the-time.

Screen Shot 2015-05-31 at 1.15.34 PM
Her legs were made for squatting, not yours.

Years later, while reminiscing about this whole bathroom squatting ordeal with my gramms, she explained that peeing like this was something that came easy to her because she spent her youth peeing into a hole in the ground.

So there you have it toilet seat squatters, if you haven’t spent the greater part of your life training at the Outhouse Olympics, you will never master the proper hover. More importantly, you’re not preventing catching any sort of disease by peeing all over the seat. Many disease-causing organisms can survive for only a short time on the surface of the seat and the only way to get them into your blood stream is to rub your snatch all around the bowl. And even if you tried that, you would probably slide right off because the fucking seat is sprinkled with pee.

So, in conclusion, sit down or lift the God-damned seat. That’s right. The seat actually comes up, giving you an extra two inches all around the bowl to help you make it in. Consider it like bowling with those bumpers that cover the gutters, it won’t guarantee a strike, but it will block your ball from spilling over the side.

Thanks for your attention to this matter. And, also, get off fucking phone. I mean, honestly.


Mari, the sitter.

*This disease is as real as the kind you will catch from sitting on the toilet.

**I apologize to that poor person who sat down in that movie theater seat after I “used” it. As a matter of fact, I apologize to anyone that has ever sank into a cushioned seat to discover, a few seconds later, that they sat in old pee.


Don’t speak: Reading between the lines of your emails

Email rage is the new road rage, only our laptops do not come equipped with horns to blow when a sender suddenly swerves into your lane of sanity. And even if you do virtually flick them off in your reply, you can’t drive off and hope to never see them again because they have your email address.

Of course, emails can be fun. Especially if they are peppered with hilarious typos and grammar miscarriages. But in general, they tend to be infuriating because senders never say what they really feel and receivers are left to read between the lines.

Don’t worry about a thing…

marleyIf you reply “No worries.” to an apology email, you know you’re still secretly mad about it. I mean what does that even mean? Who’s no longer worried? Me or you? The person said they were sorry, not worried. If you were truly cool with whatever it was, your reply would most likely be something like, “Aw, it’s cool man, things happen. I know you didn’t intentionally forget to send me an invite to Joshua’s super fun birthday lunch where you got to order wine. While you guys were out, I totally spruced up our super awesome spreadsheets by highlighting the rows in orange.”

Let me ask you something…

If you end your emails with “Let me know if you have any questions,” you are most likely a long-winded person that speaks in circles, yet, you can’t figure out why co-workers have a difficult time understanding you. If you don’t fit into that first category, then you are in the category of people who secretly hope you won’t ask any questions because you won’t beemoji able to answer any of them without checking in with your jerk of a boss.

On the policy of truth…

If you begin a sentence with “To be honest with you,” that means you were lying during the whole first half of the email chain and that you should never be trusted with any confidential information.

Because I’m happy…

If you litter your sentences with happy faces –   🙂  – you are being passive aggressive and are trying to distract the reader with an emoji. A message of: “Hey, I really appreciate you getting that report to me today. 🙂 ”  is best replied to with: “Not gonna happen. 🙂


Girls, I do adore…

If you open your email with “Hi Ladies,” you are gross, regardless of your gender. Most likely, you’re making this terrible mistake because at one point in your life you participated in a team sport where a coach addressed you as a group of “ladies” to remind you of your place in the sports world, which is in a shitty stadium 10 blocks off campus.

From: Me
Sent: Tuesday, March 24, 2015 12:00 PM
To: You
Subject: Thoughts

When sending your next email, keep these things in mind, because, to be honest, I’m judging you ladies the whole time 🙂 . But if you slip up, no worries. Let me know if you have any questions.

Dr. Feelgood

There was a dog in the doctor’s office.

And I like dogs. I even let one live in my house and heart, rent free. But being that this was the first time in five years I had been to a primary care physician, I expected something a bit more sobering, more somber, more sterile.

It’s like when you’ve spent a considerable amount of time adhering to a strict diet and then reward yourself with a delicious treat – only to find that the caramel pecan bun you have been craving is hard, moldy and worm infested.

In no way am I confirming that this dog had parasites. I mean, it appeared healthy. But, I’m certainly thinking it. As a matter of fact, I can’t stop thinking it. I also can’t stop thinking of the circumstances that landed me in the doctor’s office with said dog.

With the exception of my brief stint in academia, I’ve worked at companies that publicly offer health insurance, but secretly look down on you when you take time to visit a doctor. Your boss inadvertently becomes the keeper of your medical history and dental records with every, “I have to get blood work done” or “This tooth is really bothering me, I’m going to go check it out” or “I’m having irregular periods, I need to go see my gynecologist.” And if that wasn’t awkward enough, you can always count on experiencing intense guilt associated with being out. I mean, God forbid you were to take a full day, so instead you subject yourself to driving all over town at ridiculous speeds, stressing out when the doctor is behind schedule and developing an eye twitch when the same boss that knows you are at an appointment sends you four urgent emails and calls you while your doctor is listening for a heart murmur.

So, to avoid all of that I resorted to going to Minute Clinics and Urgent Care Centers when I had anything from a case of the sniffles to a torn meniscus. At the very least they would give me a prescription for cherry Robitussin and at the very worst they would refer me to an orthopedic surgeon – all done on the evening or weekend of my choosing and far, far away from the purview of a boss.

However, for the first time in my career, I’m enjoying a certain level of autonomy. Having full control of my schedule and workload, I decided to do the “adult thing” and schedule a visit with the medical professional I had designated as my primary care physician. But…

There was a small dog in the doctor’s office.

Was this also a veterinarian’s office, I thought. Or perhaps this was a service dog of some kind and I was being judgmental and inconsiderate. The bewildered look on my face must have caught the attention of the physician’s assistant, because she felt compelled to clarify that the four-legged furry beast was the doctor’s dog. She tells me this while recording my weight, but I can’t break my gaze from the dog, as it is now sniffing in front of the closed door of an examination room. In one graceful head butt, the dog opened the door to reveal a patient sitting up on the exam table and the voice of the doctor letting out a stern, “No.” She suddenly appeared in the doorway to wag her finger at the dog and close the door once again.

I finally broke my gaze of the dog and found the face of a very young physician’s assistant. “She opens doors,” she said between giggles.

She led me to my private examination room, a path cushioned by colorful and fluffy Crate and Barrel carpet runners. I too line my apartment floors with runners – not for decoration, but so my dog won’t slide across the wood floors. Upon further inspection, however, these runners were on top of commercial carpet at which point I convinced myself they were hiding poop stains. As the physician’s assistant fitted me with the blood pressure cuff, I could feel my pulse racing and the warmth of the blood that had now rushed to my cheeks.

I searched my mind for a calming image of the ocean, but all that came to mind was the trash and seaweed at the dog beach in Key Biscayne. Because…

There was a small, white dog in the doctor’s office.

My blood pressure came in at 117 over 76 and the physician’s assistant was pleased. However, my normal pressure is on the low side, like really low. So, this meant I was having a heart attack. Normally, I would’ve been relieved that I was already in a doctor’s office if I was in fact having symptoms of cardiac arrest, but, as I mentioned…

There was a small, white dog of one of those conjoined breed names that end in Poo or Doodle in the God damn doctor’s office.

I held the center of my forehead with the tips of my fingers as the physician’s assistant drew blood.

“It won’t hurt,” she said.

“I’m not worried about it.” I replied.

Of course not. I was worried about other things. Like the whereabouts of the dog. I hadn’t seen it in a while and wondered if it was opening doors of storage closets and licking blood samples or marking his territory on urine samples. And, most of all, I began to worry about my own examination, because, as this was to be my first visit, I requested a full physical and, being a woman, that includes a pap smear. As if this exam doesn’t already have a host of unpleasantness associated with it – medieval instruments, a witness, an exam table that can’t properly accommodate you, excessive amounts of KY Jelly – now there’s a looming threat of a dog head-butting the door for her own amusement – and finding the gates of my amusement park wide open.

There was a dog in the doctor’s office.

And I didn’t have a single urgent email, nor one inappropriately-timed phone call to save me from this horrible experience.