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.

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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.


Paper jam

I have this terrible fear of peeing in my pants. I think maybe because it used to happen so often. As a kid, of course.

I remember, in kindergarten, being inside the bathroom stall, unable to unbuckle the circa 1980’s belt my mom used to adorn my hot pink pants. I, like I still do today, held my pee until the last possible second and by the time I made it into the stall, undoubtedly with my hand on my crotch and bent at the knees, there was no time for a wardrobe malfunction. Out went the pee, all over my pink pants and into my long-term memory forever.

As a result of this traumatic experience, one that I recite in vivid detail to my mother whenever I feel she needs to be tormented with latent guilt, I do not wear belts. I still, however, hold my pee.

Sure, I’ve had some close calls. Super close calls, actually. On more than one occasion, I’ve left work without using the little girl’s room only to then regret my decision while stuck, holding my crotch, in a terrible traffic jam. After a few instances of chanting, “Please don’t let me pee in the car” over and over, I make it a point to tinkle, tinkle little star before I leave for the day.

Don’t think for a second that just because I’m responsibly releasing my unwanted nutrients in liquid form that I walk in there calmly. I still run into the bathroom unbuttoning my pants and forget to close the stall door. I don’t know how to do number one any other way.

Yesterday, without exception, I ran into the bathroom for my evening pee-pee dance. I turned the corner, unzipping my pants, when a voice coming from behind a stall door slowed me down.


I kept walking toward my stall. I figured she was on the phone. Which is both annoying and gross.

“Hello! In here! I need a favor!”

My pants are completely unzipped, with my underwear completely exposed, which is like giving my bladder a green light.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked hoping she wasn’t.

“Yes. I need toilet paper. Just a little bit. I can’t get the new roll released…”

She went on while I wrapped toilet paper around my free hand, as the other was holding my crotch. I couldn’t pay attention to her entire explanation because I was too busy chanting, “Please don’t let me pee in my pants at work” over and over.

Reenactment. (Photo Courtesy of @marisascime)

Brought to you by the letter p

We all have stories. Stories we share with friends. Stories we share with family. However, there are some stories we don’t share. Some that are just too embarrassing to ever even think about, let alone repeat. Out of sight, out of mind and it never happened.

For days I’ve been kicking around the idea of sharing one of those un-repeatable stories with you. Finally, today, I’ve mustered up the courage to write it, as I’m pumped with drugs that are fighting an ear infection.

This story is brought to you by the letter p – you’ll see why in a minute.

I’ve been extremely lucky to work in some of the coolest offices throughout my career. The top spot goes to this non-profit organization based in North Miami Beach. Although we were far from the actual beach, our office was an original Miami Beach house made of coral rock. The house, originally located somewhere closer to the ocean, was going to be demolished until the community preservationists got wind of the plan. In the style of a Coke commercial only aired during the Olympics, at least fourteen different groups, from both the private and public sector, got together to save the house. They actually rolled the house on a semi-truck down the beach and plopped it down where it lives now and turned it into the headquarters of this not-for-profit, which later employed me.

The living room was our lobby. The dining room, the conference center. The kitchen stayed the same. The upstairs bedrooms were converted into offices. And I, I had the master closet as my office. Our office home was maintained by an older gentleman. A wonderful man, who I can only imagine has since passed. He took care of making sure that house looked tip-top. He also helped you if you were having car problems. He was a really nice man. Only he smelled. He smelled really, really bad. Like a dumpster. Only it wasn’t food. More like what pigeons smell like. Millions of them. If they were all living in a dumpster.

Nice guy, though.

And I was incapable of saying anything about his stench. Because he was so nice. Until one day. When the stink just got out of control. It was my fault. I should have never hugged him. But, he brought me doughnuts. How could I not?

Anyway, that day with my belly filled with sugary delights from Dunkin’ I couldn’t stop smelling him everywhere. I mentioned it to a couple of co-workers, probably with chocolate frosting on the side of my mouth, and they agreed that in fact, he was a bit of a stinker. Yet, they were reluctant to confirm that he was particularly stinkier that day. “Maybe we’re just used to it already,” one of my co-workers hypothesized.

My work day ended and I returned home. To my real home. Not made of coral. Where I’m greeted by hugs and kisses from non-stinky people, including my, at the time, brand new puppy. The puppy we were training. The fucking puppy.

“Iris, smell me,” I said.

She proceeded to sniff my hair and my face unfazed. Until she got to a section of my jacket.

“Oh my God. That’s…” and she interrupted herself. I saw the panic in her eyes. The quick thought process of how she going to cover up that the smell on my jacket was indeed puppy piss.  Afraid of what I could be capable of doing to the dog, she continued, “…That’s weird. What is that?”

It was Chilli pee, of course. And it was on my jacket. The jacket I wore all day. The jacket I hugged that sweet old man with, when he brought me doughnuts. The jacket I kept on when I asked my co-workers if they smelled anything funny.

I ended up burning the jacket. And, for revenge, I peed on the dog.