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.


What it feels like for a girl

When I was in college, I frequently foisted my idea to re-purpose the dentist’s saliva ejector as a vaginal vacuum cleaner to speed up the menstrual process.

Insert in the other end.
Insert in the other end.

Unfortunately, no one ever took me seriously. Not the engineering majors. Nor the bio/pre-med majors. Not even the women’s studies minors.

After a solid semester of pitching my (possibly drug-inspired) idea and receiving negative feedback that ranged from a benign side glance to an hour-long lecture on the reproductive system that devolved into an anatomy lesson with the assistance of a T.A., I decided to give up on talking to people about it and, instead, to apply the principles of The Secret and just wish it to be true.

I was content to never to speak of this again, until, very recently, my in-laws introduced me to a show called Shark Tank. 

I had heard of the show prior to that evening and understood its premise to be entrepreneurs pitching their businesses to a group of millionaires in the hopes of receiving advice and/or money – but I had never seen it with my own eyes. My father-in-law shushed me and pointed at the TV where, in all of their HD glory, two men in cheap suites, one pudgy and short, the other tall and skinny, pitched their barbecue sauce to a panel of men wearing diamond-encrusted watches and one overly-pearled woman.

As I watched, that old idea came back to me. Maybe because they were talking about barbecue sauce. Maybe because the show is called shark tank. Or maybe because I was bleeding profusely from my private part. After the show ended with one of the sharks purchasing the sauce, my mother-in-law turned to me and suggested that I try to get on the show with one of my many interesting ideas. And then it happened. Out of my mouth came out my entire pitch for a period suction machine, like a blood clot in the morning.

I saw their eyes open wide. My father-in-law’s eyebrows lifted well into his bald head. But I couldn’t stop myself.

Before I continue, I should note that my in-laws are not prudish or squeamish when it comes to this topic. They raised an only child, my partner, who began menstruating at the age of 9. And it was them who consoled me, when I bled all over their cloth couch one evening when my flow broke through my tampon like a New Orleans levee during Katrina. I was so mortified that they tried to make me feel better by sharing all of the times the women of the house bled on something and my father-in-law, who is never to be outdone, shared his embarrassing moments of bleeding through his pants when he suffered from explosive hemorrhoids.

Being part of a family that talks about everything is disorienting, especially when you were raised in a home that practiced deep silence. My mom’s you’re-a-woman-now talk consisted of not what was happening to my body, but how to properly hide and dispose of my feminine hygiene materials. “Your dad and your brother don’t need to see that,” she said.

So, for years, I sat in my room, doubled over in pain, quietly. And coming up with my own version of what was happening in my belly. The most enduring theory (and the one I would’ve passed down my imaginary daughter) was that every 28 days the dragon that lived inside my pelvis would awaken and journey through my Fallopian tube to chew on one of my ovaries with its razor sharp teeth. Although the dragon was starved, it knew not to eat it all because when the juice runs out, the dragon would die, exploding in a fire ball and giving me semi-permanent hot flashes. So, it had to sit there, with my ovary in its mouth, like a grape, squeezing ever so slightly, only allowing a little bit of juice at a time, until it was satisfied enough to spit it out and go back to sleep.

I know this is not the case now. As I understand it, my ovaries are small chickens that lay eggs on a waterbed filled with blood. Once the egg becomes rotten, my uterus becomes a conveyor belt and releases everything into my nicest pair of panties.

So, back to in-laws’ house and my pitch that went something like this:

Women are subjected to stuffing their vaginas with cotton on a string or catching their remnants on a wing and a prayer. This doesn’t seem right. Especially in this day and age. We are the society that landed on a moving comet. We are the people that invented the Roomba. We call a medical procedure shooting a laser in your eye and sending you home with sunglasses. Honestly, we can do better than a bloody cotton ball.

And the best part is that the technology exists. All we have to do is re-purpose the dentist’s saliva sucker and rename it something catchy. We can create a home kit for those that prefer privacy or it can be done as a service (45 minute Swedish Meatball Sauce or 90 minute Steam Cleaning with Aromatherapy) done to you at one of those medical spas that do colonics and spray tans. Between the manufacturing of the machine and the training of “certified suckers” this thing will create a million jobs, at least.

After a few moments of silence, they asked me what I was going to name this machine. To which I explained I hadn’t really settled on anything. So they took out a sheet of paper and we began brainstorming:

  • Period. End of Story.
  • iSuck (possible partnership with Apple)
  • Never (in direct competition with Always)
  • Tampin
  • Tampout
  • Cunt Dracula
  • Clean Clam
  • Utetrust
  • Clean Cyclone (possible partnership with Dyson)
  • Toto-tally Clean (Spanglish version)
  • Sin Reglas (Spanish version)

We were having such a good time that for that moment, I forgot I was bleeding or had cramps. I forgot that I had a rudimentary string hanging out of my body, like a fish with broken line hooked to its lip. I was laughing so hard, I forgot I was moody from the excess estrogen rushing through my body. I forgot it all until I felt a little moisture in my underwear and I immediately got up and darted toward the bathroom in an effort to beat gravity and to save my underwear from disgrace.

But inevitably, the dragon struck again.

One day dragon, one day…







When the guy got his fingers tangled in the elaborate design of my top, I knew I had to leave.

The reason wasn’t so much that he violated my personal space, but more so that I was offended at how little game this dufus-maximus had. And, I certainly wasn’t in the mood to give a tutorial at 2 a.m. while enjoying the company of friends and Irish Car Bombs.

Now that I’m in a safe place and not wearing the equivalent of a spiderweb for a blouse, I will attempt to deconstruct where this poor guy failed – not to embarrass, but to educate.

Who am I kidding. The guy was a total douche. A perfect candidate for a penile lobotomy. And this is why:

First, Mr. Man showed up drunk. I know this is shocking, but, contrary to popular belief, slurring your name when you introduce yourself doesn’t make a woman un-snap her bra and introduce you to her girls – no matter how hard you stare.

Second, he showed up ugly. Not every man has the gift of good looks, but women give lots of points for effort if he 1. seemingly wears clean clothes, 2. appears bathed within a 24-hour period. That’s it. You don’t even have to match. You don’t even need to shave your ear hair.

Third, he didn’t get the memo. This is the hardest part for men with little game to get: Persistence only works in the movies. Girls that give you an icy response, that laugh in your face, that tell you they prefer women, and/or that walk away when you’re in mid-sentence, those girls, yeah, they are not playing hard to get. They are not even playing. Trust me, the classiest thing you could do is give them space.

Fourth, he accidentally copped a feel. I understand that when you’re at a club, concert, or sorority party, you may end up uncomfortably close to perfect strangers. But, at an empty bar? If you’re going to accidentally grab the ass of your target, at least make a scene. Fall down. Spill a drink. Don’t be that kid in the cafeteria line that pokes a girl’s butt with his tray and then blames the guy behind him.

When I pushed him over, he put his hand on my shoulder and that’s when his fingers got stuck in my blouse. He struggled for a while to free his hand. I thought about throwing a drink in his face. I thought about kicking him in his privates. I also thought about punching him in the throat. But, soberly staring at his sad existence was enough punishment for him.