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.


No wear

This Thanksgiving I felt like Macaulay Culkin’s character in “Home Alone.” Only, I was left behind on purpose. It’s alright though, while my mom snapped pictures of the Arc de Triomphe, I stole her car, packed it with booze and friends and took it to the Black Eyed Peas concert. It’s only fair.

Traditionally, I don’t spend Thanksgiving with my mom anyway. I don’t know why that is. Maybe it’s because she always ends up crying all over the turkey – making it moist, but way too salty. Instead, I have dinner with my in-laws who chuck the turkey all together and serve honey ham and roasted pork with the most delicious congri rice. Which is perfect.

So, I travelled to Hialeah, my birth city, and chowed on all the parts of a pig dressed as a turkey, once again.

My mother-in-law made me pose for pictures, while my grandfather-in-law threatened to throw me in a pot and the Cowboys were playing, so my father-in-law just wanted me out of the way of the television. My grandmother-in-law was in the shower and missed the whole thing.

My grams-in-law misses out on a lot of things. Like reality. She is increasingly confused and forgetful, which makes me sad. We’ve always had a sort of contentious relationship and now that she’s frail I can’t properly banter with her about the petty things we would fight about, like not calling her abuela and why I don’t spend more time with her.

It’s true. Our biggest fights were about me not giving her enough kisses. And I, instead of puckering up, would run and hide in the bathroom until she went away.

After dinner, I sat across my nemesis and chatted her up – being cautious not to upset her or end up upset myself. Surprisingly, I found her charming and delightful. She was formulating thoughts that made sense and remembered a story from when we first met. And, for a small moment, I thought she was better. But that hope disappeared when I noticed she had forgotten to put on underwear.

Perhaps this could be the new thing we fight about.

Grand momma said

A few days ago my grandmother and I got to talking about life, work and Kamikaze shots.

I like the talks we have. She has so much wisdom to offer the world…of fifty years ago. As awful as her story-telling and advice-giving is, I encourage her to share and invite her to give me advice on any mundane subject I can think of.

I feel like she’s my own personal life coach that is humorously out of touch. She has a permanently happy disposition, like a skinny Buddha with excessive plastic surgery. And, she speaks in parables, like Jesus.

For instance, I remember a while back I was having some trouble confronting a professional problem and couldn’t come to a decision. I mentioned this to my grandmother and her response was (and this is a direct translation of what she said), “Why grab a dog by the ears when you have to lick its ass?”

I know. I don’t know what that means either!

Recently she told me the story of when she was young and wild in her late fifties (that’s her age and not the decade), she and two friends went on a cruise. One of them had ongoing, steamy affair with the Captain of this particular ship (and sometimes the Chief Engineer) and, therefore, cruised quite often. Apparently her sea legs came with crabs – at least that’s what my grandmother alluded to. The other friend, who we’ll call The Nose, was quite the opposite. She had serious equilibrium issues and no tolerance for alcohol.

By the way, I started sketching the pilot to this TV show already. It’s a perfect fit for Telemundo: Las Muchachas Doradas. And it’s a total rip off of Golden Girls.

One night, my grandmother, the Captain’s lover and The Nose where having a wonderful time, enjoying their free drinks, when they decided to try Kamikaze shots. I can only imagine this was sparked by the house band’s lively interpretation of Lionel Richie’s All Night Long. In case you didn’t know, in the early eighties that song was the equivalent of LMFAO’s “Shots”.

Well, out came the shots and down they went. Making my grandmother shake in her chair and making the Captain’s Lover stick out her herpes-filled tongue. And, making The Nose have a violently different reaction.

A few seconds after The Nose threw back her Kamikaze shot, she projectile-vomited it back out – you guessed it – her nose. Like a drunk dragon. Only instead of fire, it was vodka, triple sec and lime juice. It must’ve burned just the same.

After a few seconds of sheer horror and mortification, the ladies laughed and laughed. And ordered more and more Kamikaze shots. And The Nose had the exact reaction every time.

I stopped the story right there.

Not because I have a weak stomach, but because I didn’t care about how many more shots they made The Nose endure or how long before they had to call housekeeping. I didn’t care. I just wanted to memorize the moment. The moment where my grandmother was illustrating the intense flow of regurgitated alcohol by pulling on the flaps of her own enormous nose.

“Seriously? Is this just happening now?” I thought.

While taking my mental snap shot of her making her best Kamikaze face, I didn’t laugh. I don’t think I blinked. I just tried to remember that moment.

I analyzed her hair, which has been the same color’s as Ronald McDonald since the inception of the fast food chain. I looked at her eyes and remembered that she was the first one in my family to get tattooed. She started with her eyebrows and progressed to her lips and threw in some eye make-up.

Then, the memories of our life together took over her physical image. I remembered how she looked on her wedding day when she married a man ten years younger, but still made him look like he was twenty years her elder. I remembered how she would take Flamenco dancing lessons and had to drag me along when she was “baby-sitting.” I remembered how she taught me to fish and how she put make-up on my arm to cover up a dog bite.

I remembered that she was the only one I let pull my teeth. And I remember biting down on her finger when I wasn’t ready.

I remembered that she has worked hard her entire life and has traveled the world because of it. Only now she hangs out at the beach, living the life she’s always wanted. With her super young/old husband.

My grams loved me from the moment she met me. And I never did anything to deserve it.

I am so very lucky to be able to pick up the phone and call her. Even if it’s to ask when it is exactly that beer is okay before liquor.

Beer before liquor?