The Poo Goes Down

So our toilet (our one and only toilet) is on the fritz.

It all started Sunday night when Kevin's urine would not flush. We tried plunging and plunging and nothing worked. It would flush real lazy-like, like some urine would go down and sort of swirl around in the bowl. But there was not that one satisfying flush that lets you know God's in His Heaven and all's right with the world.

So we kept plunging.

Well Monday arrives and when I got home I proceeded to have a bowel movement. And I flushed. And I thought it went down, thought the problem was fixed. I mean, I looked down into the bowl and there was nothing.

Kevin came home an hour or so later and started walking to the bathroom.

"It seems like it's working," I announced. "I guess my poo went down."

There was silence from the bathroom...then Kevin goes, "Except...it didn't."

I raced to the john. My poo had somehow slid back into the toilet bowl from wherever I thought it had gone. Sneaky little turd...how dare it betray me!

You know, there are just a few things in life I think you should be able to trust:

**The light goes off in the refrigerator when you shut the door.
**The birth control pill is not candy and actually, truly, 99% of the time really works.
**The poo goes down.

When I saw my poo just sitting there I screamed, "Oh my God, my poo! It's back! I'm so grossed out!"

"We're never having sex again," Kevin replied.

Now that I've gone ahead and revealed too much, I'll say we spent the night peeing in the shower. The plumber came today and we have to get our pipes cleaned to the tune of $$$$$. The toilet might get fixed, but let me say I lost a little bit of my innocence last night.

You are NOT the father!!!

There are several specific reactions that can happen when paternity test results are revealed on the Maury Povich show.

The result is: "You are NOT the father!"

Woman's reaction might be: Head in hands, shaking of head, running off the stage sobbing, collapsing into Maury's arms as he says, "We can have you come back Tawny. We can help you find the real father." Variation on this theme might be woman sobs and pulls at man saying, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

Man's reaction might be: Jumps in the air, punches the air, swaggers in front of the stage representin' for the audience. Repeatedly says, "I TOLD ya bitch, I TOLD ya!"

Woman's reaction might be: Puts hand in the face of man who has been revealed not to be the father, gives a "Oh no you didn't" look and shrugs shoulders. Says, "Whatever, whatever, whatever Maury...I didn't want this BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP to be the father of my baby, no way Maury."

Man's reaction might be: Breaking down in sobs, accusatory looks directed at woman, might say something along the lines of "You BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP, you BEEEEEEEEEEEEP." Runs off to the back and sobs, tells Maury it doesn't matter, he is still going to buy that baby diapers and "love `em like he's my own." Sidenote: This is always the most sympathetic figure on Maury's paternity test shows.

The result is: "You ARE the father!"

Woman's reaction might be: Head shaking, finger in the face of man, crossing arms and leaning back with smirk on face. "I TOLD ya you was the father you BEEEEEEEP!" Self satisfied grin directed at audience. Variation on this theme might be woman cries with joy and embraces man, both of them forgetting her extramarital affair forever. Or at least for the remainder of the show.

Man's reaction might be: Stunned stare, maybe a little drool even starts to form in the corner of the man's mouth. Stares at hands, stares at audience, stares at Maury. Might run backstage where he is promptly greeted with a Maury staff member who puts a mewling baby in his arms. Man stares at baby and promises to Maury he will buy diapers and "be a father to my kid." Audience erupts in cheers.

Woman's reaction might be: Sobs, head in hands, running off backstage, etc.

Man's reaction might be: Starts crying with happiness, looks up at the ceiling, thanks God, hugs woman as they collapse in tears. Baby is brought out by Maury staffer, audience oohs and ahhs.

The Weather Channel People

So...are the people on the Weather Channel like the rejects from Broadcast Journalism school or what? Do Charlie Rose and Lou Dobbs and Diane Sawyer get together over drinks and just talk shit about them?

I've been watching the channel a lot lately, what with this weather we're having. The women have big 80s hair...the men look like they're wearing foundation. They have this weird, sad, nervous look to them. They look like maybe they're one step away from ending it.

The best is when one of the female forecasters is pregnant, like way pregnant. I saw one that basically blocked the whole map whenever she turned to the side. Half of her forecast was her belly.

The viewers are like:

"Oh, I see...it's raining in Biloxi and in New Orleans it's...pregnant with a chance of twins."

At The University Library...

Currently, I'm at the library of a local university...I'm in teacher training this week and have barely a moment to myself. I've been checking my E-mail here, which is odd. I am used to checking my E-mail at home in my underpants. As you may have guessed, I can't do that at the university library.

Things I Have Observed At the University Library:

A girl sitting next to me tooted and pretended she didn't. (I would have too.)

People don't turn off their cell phones EVEN THOUGH IT'S A FUCKING LIBRARY.

Some people just walk around, but I don't think they're looking at any books.

Some people sleep in the chairs.

People whisper to each other but they won't turn off their cell phones EVEN THOUGH IT'S A FUCKING LIBRARY.

****A little girl left a paper she wrote at the terminal next to mine. It is entitled The Awful Truth.

It reads:

This is the awful truth.
Once upon a time thewhere two cool kids named george and harold. They had a mean old principle named Mr. Krupp. One day Mr. Krupp punished george and harold. so they got a hypno ring and hypnotized him. They made him think he was a super hero. so george stole some super power juice from a UFO. The principle ate it. It gave him super powers. THE END.

I don't know what a hypno ring is, but I think I am aiming to get one.

Hush Hush, Keep it Down Now...

Voices carry...Hush Hush, keep it down now...voices carry.

Yes, good old rat-tailed Aimee Mann and her infectious `Til Tuesday concoction is stuck in my head and I can't get it out and I can't go to sleep.

It's 1:13 in the AM and I just finished a freelance article for the Journal of the American Dietetic Association. (Just like Playboy, people read it for the articles.) This particular piece was about a newly coined term "orthorexia nervosa" which is basically an eating disorder where the sufferer is not obsessed with weight loss but with acheiving a "perfect" or "pure" diet. This involves complex rules and a lot of guilt and "punishing" behavior when the person eats a "wrong" or "bad" food.

My favorite quote was from this OCD expert who said, "Obsessions are as varied as the creativity of the human mind."

I have a little touch of the OCD. When I was younger, I needed to touch things an even number of times and repeat certain phrases whenever I looked at the clock and it had all the same numbers (e.g: 3:33 or 4:44). I wasn't as bad as David Sedaris, but I had it enough that I was like, "What is up with this?" I asked my Dad about it and he said, "You'll grow out of it."

I did, for the most part, but my obsession with touching and phrases was subsequently replaced with:

Fingernail biting
Hair pulling
Scalp picking
Always having to have the television on Channel 5 before I turn it off
Always having to check the oven before we leave on a trip like 20 times
Developing severe hypochrondria
Developing whacked out panic attacks

Oh...also, no riding elevators for like two years.

I know I'm going to get, like, whacked upside the head for this by some depressive. But sometimes I wish I had been wired for depression instead of anxiety/OCD. Depression is so much more attractive and artsy and, frankly, requires less energy. The depressives are all Plath and Hemingway-like with their poetry and their suicides and their winters of their discontent and all that. Depression is beds and wasting disease and sleeping for ten hours and The Smiths.

Who do the neurotics have? Basically, making color-coded TO DO Excel spreadsheets at 3 in the morning, throwing up, repeating the same phrase or song lyric over and over and over again in bed, chewing your hair, nervous tics, rocking back and forth in your chair while jiggling your foot up and down, and Woody Allen.

The depressives get sympathy and the neurotics get laughed at.

Hush hush...keep it down now...voices carry. Hush hush...keep it down now...voices carry. Hush hush...keep it down now...voices carry. Hush hush...keep it down now...voices carry. Hush hush, keep it down now...voices carry...etc.

Feel free to tell me I'm wrong...I probably am. Don't be too mad with what I've just said.

Oh yeah, obsession number 328: People will hate me.