Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Bathrooms, concerts, entertainment, etiquette, health, manners, parenting, travel
We live in a society governed in part by laws of decency. They separate us from the animals and White Supremacists, and people should follow them to keep human grossness down to a tolerable level.
Which brings me to Port-O-John (POJ) etiquette.
Look, I get it – nobody wants to be in the Abyss of Nastiness, much less touch anything. I can remember having to take my kids in them and shrieking “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!” This usually ended with me holding said kid by the armpits over the hole while they tried unsuccessfully to do their business in the most awkward way possible.
The other night I was at an outdoor concert, and bless her heart, somebody (I’ll call her Chicken Little – explanation below) just did not follow what I consider to be good POJ etiquette. After waiting in the ridiculously long line for the few POJs the women were using (the men were using a POJ trough that was infinitely faster), I finally got to the front of the line and opened the door.
Now Girls, I know our Mamas told us not to touch anything and to line the toilet seat with toilet paper so we wouldn’t get some God-awful disease, or worse, pregnant, but you can’t do that shit in a POJ in the dark. First and foremost, nobody can tell if you were merely being cautious (hooray for you – Mama would be proud), or if you’re covering up something nasty. Nobody coming in after you can afford to make any assumptions, especially at a concert where there are copious amounts of drunk Millennials.
When I opened the POJ door, Chicken Little had spread a lot of toilet paper haphazardly about. Maybe she had attempted to line the seat, and thought the seat was three feet around and crawled up the wall, but there was toilet paper on the floor, on the wall and stuck to the door handle. It looked like a bunch of used Civil War bandages had gotten caught in a time machine.
No way in Hell was I going to even attempt to hover near that mess.
When I brought this up to a couple of friends, there was a surprising variety of opinions about female POJ etiquette.
My friend, I’ll call her Laura, admitted to lining the seat, AND putting extra paper down the hole to prevent splash back. That was something I hadn’t even thought of…nor have I ever been in a POJ where the contents were so full as to have that issue. So, I deem shoving TP down the hole for that reason is acceptable. Note to self: don’t travel with Laura.
Another friend asked, “But what if you aren’t physically strong enough to squat?” Well, that’s why they make the Elvis Handles – you know, the places on the door in front of you where you grab on with your hands to help you balance. Note to self: keep working on squats at the gym.
So here are my Rules for Using the POJ:
- NEVER retrieve anything that fell in the hole – seriously, no phone is worth it. Besides, how awesome would it be to call it whenever someone’s in there? Even better, get an old phone and put a funny voicemail message on it.
- Leave your phone/drink/purse outside with a friend. You don’t want to use any of them after being in that Cave of Satan.
- If you forget and bring your beer in there with you, don’t leave the bottle/cup in the urinal. Somebody’s job is to reach in and get it – do your best impression of a man cleaning up dog poo: leave it on the floor and walk away.
- If you must line the seat because you can’t squat or you’re still scared your Mama will find out, it is up to you to put the toilet paper that lined it into the hole when you’re done. Again, that’s somebody’s job.
- Toilet paper is not a sticky note – it has no place on a wall or door handle.
- Feminine products: wrap ‘em up like a bad burrito. Nobody wants to look at that.
- Banging on the POJ while a friend is in there to scare the crap out of them is perfectly acceptable.
- Banging on the POJ when a stranger is in there is still hilarious but you’d better be able to out run them.
- Tipping someone over in a POJ is NEVER okay.
- Check your shoes for toilet paper – or tell someone if it’s stuck to them (unless it’s your friend and you’re laughing to hard.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: amazon, clothing, fashion, jockey, Kohls, lingerie, Macys, Panties, shopping, Target, underwear, Victoria's Secret
Ummm…yeah…that was a question somebody asked me at work.
Lately I’ve had a few cringe-worthy moments, but the worst was a couple of weeks ago in the cube farm as I tried in vain to figure out why the underwear I had ordered from Amazon was apparently in shipping’s no-man’s land.
Wait, you ask… You ordered your underwear from Amazon?
That’s right bitches, I had to order my undies from Amazon because my regular suppliers apparently don’t carry it anymore. And no, I wasn’t trying to buy any Victoria’s Secret lacy, scratchy-but-so-sexy-he-likes-it-so-I-guess -I’ll-get floss. I just wanted to get my fave jockey string bikinis, a.k.a. my Granny Panties, and Target, Kohls and Macy’s failed me. I’m now down to 4 pairs, and each one has bare elastic at the waistband (bad enough that it’s actually irritating my skin). Even Daughter #2 recently threw a pair away while I was at work and sent me this text:
So, I finally gave in and ordered them from Amazon.
At my desk.
At work.
Let me tell you, it’s pretty embarrassing when:
- You’re shopping for underwear at work;
- The underwear you’re shopping for is cotton granny panties; and
- Your co-workers happily stop by to chat and gleefully discover what kind of underwear you wear before you can clear your screen.
But that was just the beginning. After seeing what was on the screen, co-worker Stacie asked, “Do you think maybe they didn’t send it because you’re not an 80-year-old woman?”
After I finally finished trying to justify why I was ordering underwear at work and why I like my comfy cotton Granny Panties instead of something sexier, I placed the order. Of course, it has to be delivered to the office because Holly, the most expensive “free” dog in the world, has now destroyed over $700 worth of merchandise delivered to our house, including two prom dresses (see previous blog).
The package was due to arrive at the end of June. By the middle of July, no underwear in sight.
Between UPS, Amazon and Jockey, no one seemed able to find it. I had to figure out how to stalk Jockey (the seller), which required asking my cube neighbor Lacy for help. Then Hubby walked up (he works in the same office – no judging, please), followed by another co-worker Stacie, all of whom were very interested in the status of my underwear order. So, there we were, all staring at the Amazon page displaying my pink and white Granny Panties as we tried to figure out the best way to find the package and get free stuff from Amazon.
Hubby, God Bless that man, didn’t even bother trying to persuade anyone that I wear other underwear (I do on special occasions).
I finally got my panties in a wad (c’mon, you knew I had to go there) and called Jockey, who of course didn’t have any record of receiving the order from Amazon. So, I called Amazon. All I can say is thank God it was a girl who answered. Humiliation is having to clarify what the order was for to someone who clearly had never worn Granny Panties in her whole 20-year-old life; and then have her exclaim, “Oh, well at least the vendor was Jockey and not some random dude.” Yeah sweetie – that’s where I’d choose to order my underwear from – some “random dude” on the internet.
In the end, I re-ordered, and after 4 weeks, I finally got my undies delivered (right to my desk). Note the appalled look on the screen saver guy.
Helpful Hints in Case This Happens to You:
- Don’t Google women’s underwear and think you’re going to not have creepy stuff come up on your screen
- Don’t get a dog that eats packages
- Don’t Google “missing underwear” – you’ll lose hours of your life reading weird articles
- Don’t click on random blog sites when Googling slang for underwear for your blog
- Don’t order your underwear at work (it’s frowned upon) – your IT guy might have something cheeky to say to you.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Spring Break, Travel | Tags: college, cruise, gym, health, men, physical, royal caribbean, Spring Break, travel
Lots of people have asked me if there was any eye candy on the spring break cruise we took, which apparently had most of the University of Georgia on it. I hesitate to say yes, because a) the “men” were the same age as my daughters and b) eye candy is only fun in this situation for someone my age as long as you have your headphones on. As soon as you actually hear the eye candy speak, it’s all over – it’s like getting what you thought was a caramel chocolate out of the candy box, and it ends up having that nasty pink creamy stuff inside.
But while I waited at the back of the pool crowd (see photo above) for the waiter to bring my next boat drink, I did notice that there are essentially 5 main male college bods:
- The football player who will eventually be a real estate broker or work in his Dad’s car dealership. This guy has already peaked – in fact, he may have peaked in high school but is riding the wave until the bitter end. His bulky size is beginning to go or will go to fat as soon as he stops working out in the gym, although he may re-acquaint himself with his neck when that happens. He always enters the belly flop contest and does the beer yell while dancing like Uncle Kracker. He also has some of the worst sunburn because he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and guys generally just aren’t that helpful to each other with sunscreen application.
- Dad-Bod. This guy has already achieved that settled look that usually comes after baby #1. You can already see what he’s going to look at when he’s 40. He’s wearing the pastel button-down shirt (probably unbuttoned) and a university hat. But he is someone who might be able to hold a conversation, and his sunscreen is evenly applied because he has a girlfriend (or potential girlfriend) who cares.
- The Gym Rat. This guy, no matter how tall or short, spends the same amount of time in the gym that Oprah Winfrey spends telling people how to live their lives better (BTW, I’m still annoyed that one of Oprah’s “favorite things” was a pair of slippers for $300, as if we’re supposed to be able to afford them – bitch, please). He has perfected the flex-and-scan, which involves – you guessed it – flexing his pecs and abs and scanning beneath his $200 sunglasses to see who noticed. This is usually followed by a smirk if he’s spotted a fan, or a frown if he hasn’t.
- The Head of the Back (a-la Michael Anthony Hall in 16 Candles). These leaders of the non-Ken Doll contingent tend to lurk around the outskirts of the big crowds, drinking as much as the rest (or more), but never quite make it to the inner circle. They may not spend as much time in the gym or in the girls’ dorms as the other guys, but they have an amazing assortment of professional sports-related clothing to choose from, such as baseball and basketball jerseys. Sunburn? See Bod #1.
- Baseball player bod. These guys aren’t necessarily baseball players – they just have that naturally athletic look to them, without all the gym work. They either are already in the military (hence the look), they’ll work 20-hour days on Wall Street, or they will climb some other corporate ladder quickly with their combination of looks and charm (and probably smarts as well) – unless they go the opposite direction and do something interesting/noble like joining the Peace Corp or becoming a Wilderness adventure leader in the Rockies. Their sunscreen is applied evenly by pretty much anyone they ask.
At the risk of being accused of body-shaming, these are generalizations only. I don’t know these people and haven’t spoken to them except to ask them to please aim their vomit down the stairs and not down my front (just kidding). And no, I’m not going to talk about the girls’ body types because…I’m not stupid.
And yes, I was jealous of them for a bit, but then I had a revelation:
College kids don’t have cash, and pool wait staff like cash. A lot.
Grownups have cash.
So, we grownups grabbed some chairs first thing in the morning while the partiers were still sleeping, and camped out all day enjoying the partiers’ annoyed looks. We tipped the wait staff each time they took our orders. Soon we didn’t even have to ask – they just brought. No standing in line amongst the sweaty, rum-breathing hoards, vying for the bartenders’ attention among the belly button rings and thongs. Just drinks on a tray when we needed them.
It’s good to be a grown up.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: 80's, bars, cover bands, dance, Dancing, dating, Dirty Dancing, drinking, Enzos, guys, Johnny castle, Middles, rail drinks, Roadhouse
There are very few things scarier than a bar full of horny, sweating 40–60-year-olds. Unlike college kids and 25-year-olds who are up front about what they’re doing there – drinking and trying to get laid, Middle-Agers (a.k.a. Middles) try very hard NOT to look like that’s what they’re doing. Oh, some put it all out there, with their backless turtlenecks (not a good look on anyone over 30), or the open-necked shirts showing off all that non-millennial chest hair. But for the most part, when you look around a bar full of Middles, its full of copious amounts of eye liner and hairspray, missing wedding rings, annoyed spouses who hate dancing, and lingering (but squinting) glances that border on being creepy because Middles don’t realize they are old enough now to look like rapists and pedophiles.
A couple of weekends ago we were invited to go see a great local 80’s cover band at one of the bars in our area, located in a Food Kitty parking lot. Usually the music there is geared towards the older crowd (think Carolina beach music), and when we go, we are the youngest by at least 15 years. This time, there were Middles like us happily re-living their high school and college years, but with better drinks and an Uber app on their phones.
While there are a few differences between going to bars in your 20’s and bars as a Middle, there are still the same bar guys – they’re just a little older:
Roadhouse is either an ex-Frat Guy or a Redneck just out looking to start shit. He looks like he reads Maxim and goes to the gym more than he reads social cues. Roadhouse is the guy who will start a fight with the smaller guy in your vicinity by looking your way and saying things like, “This guy bothering you?” or giving the guy a shove and saying “The F*&K did you say?” The beauty of being a Middle is that this is no longer impressive. In reality, it means I’m probably going to get a drink spilled on me, and frankly, I’m not drinking rail drinks anymore, so that’s going to piss me off.
About 15 minutes after the band started up, Johnny Castle (Patrick Swayze’s character from Dirty dancing) started dancing…or at least some guy in his mid-50s who thinks he looks like Patrick Swayze. Johnny Castle sports a form-fitting black vest (no short underneath) and skin-tight black pants, and a black fedora on his shaven, balding head. And, he is clearly on the hunt. Johnny Castle spends the entire evening gyrating, twisting and generally trying to grind on anything female that moves. He thinks the empty circle of space around him that appeared while he put on his Michael Jackson moves was created out of sheer awe, not from fear that he might grab one of usand pull us in for a Dirty Dancing grind.
Several feet away from Johnny Castle is Colonel Sanders. At least 70 years old, Colonel Sanders is also on the hunt, lurking around the edge of the dancers, looking like an old Rutger Hauer (see above reference to pedophiles). An 80’s cover band event it really isn’t his scene, but the alternative of watching pat Sajack is too depressing for him. He eventually either finds someone age-appropriate or hangs out with the bar owner in the corner looking cynical and hopeful at the same time.
Of course, no matter what bar you go to or what age the patrons are, there are the Wall Props. These guys don’t like dancing and are usually too drunk to do more than hold up the wall near the bathroom and hit on women as they wait in line. They might slur and try to cop a feel, but they’re easy to slide past. But ladies, if you want a free drink – that’s your guy. No expectations on either side – he’s just happy to be there.
And last, every bar containing Middles has “married-guy-on-the-prowl.” This guy looks harmless, but has the suspicious white skin band around his wedding finger where he just took his ring off. His posse of married guy friends are sheepishly drinking craft beers in the background, having given up on deterring him from his mission: to hook up with someone other than his wife. Usually this guy is from out of town, but sometimes he is stupid enough to go poaching in the local forest – inevitably he will be caught by his wife’s network of friends, and the drama that ensues is fodder for suburban cookouts for weeks to come.
And like any good night at a bar with a band, there were groupies, a fight, a guy who stood like a stone doing the head nod while his girlfriend twisted and swayed around him, and at least three couples who left in a huff.
So, after two bourbons and three straight hours of dancing, I had somethings confirmed:
- Rail drinks are not my friend – I’m better than that now
- I still suck at dancing – Hubby’s got the moves, not me, but the beauty of being a Middle is I don’t care anymore;
- The White Man’s Overbite is alive and well
- I’m grateful I have Hubby to go home with – the Middles’ dating pool desperately needs some chlorine; and
- Blister in the Sun is still crazy-fun to bounce in a circle to, like one of the characters in A Charlie brown Christmas!
Filed under: Exercise, Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: Cats, dogs, drinking, Exercise, health, hiking, Middle-Age, Outlander, resolutions, Scotland, travel, yoga
(Not that any of you should even remotely care what my resolutions are this year, I thought maybe you could use some ideas.)
Dear Self –
Learn to pay in cash – not only will you save money, but the super-annoying “Remove Card” buzzer when using the debit card will no longer send you over the edge in Food Kitty
Do yoga in the living room – just because it humiliates you that Sting’s 
wife is 63 years old and can twist herself like a pretzel is no excuse for you not doing her yoga DVD that you spent $20 on
Sleep more – that means stop playing Candy Crush in bed – you’re the only person on the planet who’s still doing it
Stop playing games on phone…except at stop lights…and while watching tv…and while waiting for the fam to go anywhere…and while Hubby’s driving…
Write more family-friendly blogs
Start anonymous blog page so you can write about the fam
Save money for hiking trip in Scotland (a.k.a. satisfy Outlander fetish)
Run a 10k
Run a 5k
Walk every day
Walk once a week
Hike once a month to train for hiking trip in Scotland
Drink only on weekends…or when out socially…or after a really, really crappy day at work…or when the cats pee in the house…or when the recipe requires wine…
Stop cooking with recipes requiring wine
Be nicer to the dogs
Be nicer to the cats
Subourbon Mom 