Bathroom Ettiquette

After single-handedly destroying a good relationship with a decent guy who actually enjoyed my company and thus securing my position in the local convent, it was time to move out of my new home. Ironically, the day after the housewarming party was when everything crumbled into spectacular pieces.

Leanne and I looked at some real shit holes before finding a great apartment in Jamaica Plain. All it took was pretending that we were a young couple in love to convince the elderly landlords that we deserved the place. "We're really just looking for a place to settle down together." We chimed in unison and held each other's hands, cooing.

"You're the cutest couple we ever did see." they replied. Jackpot.

My first morning in the new apartment ended badly. Waking up and stumbling over boxes and bags to get to the bathroom for a shower, I found a towel, some soap, and disrobed. I liked our new bathroom. It was somewhat spacious, clean tiles and tub, and even has a little timer dial on the wall that you turn to the desired length of your shower (i.e. 20 minutes) and an exhaust fan on the ceiling would come on for exactly tweny minutes. Aside from the convenience of the fan, it was also nice to have a little alarm clock. When the fan shuts off, it was time to get out of the comfy, warm shower or risk being late.

I reached out from behind the hideous tropical bird themed shower curtain and turned the dial to 20 minutes. The gentle humming of the fan came on and filled me with peace. Before I could turn the water on, the gentle hum of the fan increased into a loud monotone whirring sound, like a super-powered hand dryer in a public restroom. As the noise increased in intensity and pitch, the shower curtain began swaying to and fro. Slapping against my bare, white thighs and then retreating out of the tub entirely. I could feel the wind generated from the fan sweeping over me like an el niño jetstream. It gave me the chills.

Rather than worry about the curtain or how to fix the fan, I was more concerned with getting warm. I reached down and turned on the hot water. It came pouring out of the tub faucet and felt nice against my feet. I pushed the faucet switch over from "tub" to "shower," prepared to be engulfed in hot water.

I was mistaken.

The entire time, I had never even bothered to look up at the shower head. If I had, I would have noticed that it was missing. It was a pipe protruding from the wall that ended abruptly without any sort of controlling device to stop the flow of water. Like a rider of an unfinished roller coaster, I could see what lay ahead, but was powerless to stop it.

Water came bursting forth from the pipe overhead like it were a fire hydrant. The unexpected force of it shoved me back against the tiled wall. My slick, bare bottom skidded over the tiles as I struggled to maintain balance. I reached forward, trying desperately to grab the handle and turn the water off, but the relentless flood blasted me in the face. Blinded by scalding water and stumbling around like a a dog on ice, I reached out for something--anything--to help me regain my footing.

I latched my meathooks around the shower curtain, trying to pull myself upright against the raging torrent of water. As I put my weight on the curtain, the shower rings began to burst open, one by one i could hear them snapping off, unable to bear my heavy burden. The last few rings burst open with a snap and sealed my fate. I lurched sideways and toppled out of the tub like a mighty oak tree.

Luckily, a box of towels and prescription drugs broke my fall and I was spared a savage concussion on the tiled floor. Without my body in the way to take the brunt of the firehose shower head, the water was now spraying against the back wall and splashing all over the bathroom--wetting the floor, ceiling, boxes, and towels.

I tried getting back on my feet. I thought if I could just turn the water off, the morning could be salvaged. I could eat my Lucky Charms, watch Al Roker give me the weather forecast "in my neck of the woods" and traipse off to work like nothing had gone wrong. I tried desperately to get up, but I was tangled up in the curtain. An otherwordly fog was enveloping the bathroom. I couldn't see my feet to disentangle them from the snare. The shower curtain constricting against me felt like a wet trash bag, making my skin crawl.

Thrashing around on the bathroom floor like a drunken goldfish didn't seem to help. Puddles of hot water were forming on the floor. I started to panic.

"LEANNE!" I screamed. "HELP!"

No response.

"WAKE UP! I'M STUCK!"

My pleas for help were being swallowed by the gurgling sound of the ineffectual fan above. Slithering across the floor and shedding the curtain behind me like snake skin, I reached again for the faucet knob. Adrenaline pumping, sweat and tears mixing with saturated air, I finally grasped a knob through the fog and heaved myself on top of it.

The endless stream from the pipe above stopped. My twenty minutes were up and the fan shut off. The chaos was shattered by sudden silence. The drain gurgled as a few remaining water drops slid down its mouth.

I heaved off the limp, wet shower curtain and threw it into the tub with extreme prejudice. The parrots printed on it seemed to caw with laughter. I looked around the bathroom at the broken, soggy box I had landed on, the puddles on the floor, the fogged up mirror, the shower curtain rungs that had fallen on the floor along with me. It resembled a scene from Titanic.

It took another tweny minutes just to clean up the wreckage. I strolled into work an hour late, disheveled, unshowered, and badly groomed.

"How's the new apartment?" My coworkers asked.

"It's good."

Tactfully Replaced

We all have our image problems. Girls certainly have more than guys what with the high gloss magazines telling them they're fat, chestless, and alone. But guys have their share as well.

Some of us have no fashion sense, others have bushy caterpillar eyebrows, while others have nipples the size of petri dishes or dinner plates. Thankfully, my nipples are small, my eyebrows tweezed, and my style impeccable. However, i am not without my physical flaws. My nose is enormous and shark-like, I have a droopy eye, my eye lashes are so long that they push sunglasses right off my face, I have a mole on my belly that grows a giant black hair overnight once a month, and I have large, hairy hobbit-feet, small hands, and thin hair.

An ex of mine that I dated when living in Astoria, New York City pounced on every opportunity to point out these flaws. In fact, after a particularly brutal berating from this fiend, I asked him point blank what DID he like about me? His answer was grounds for an immediate separation.

"Well...I like that you're average looking. Cute guys know they're cute and are arrogant. Ugly guys are boring and try to compensate with personality. You're average-looking and you know it. It's refreshing."

I do?

I was pretty much speechless after that. What does one say when your significant other calls you average looking? That your best quality is your average looks? What does that say about the rest of the package? I don't fancy myself an adonis, but I like to at least think I'm mildly attractive. At least in a dimly lit restaurant or a dark bar I look cute.

Needless to say, our relationship crumbled quickly after this little pep talk. Whether I'm attractive or not, I at least want someone who thinks I'm cute. We decided to stay friends and have remained so even after I left New York for Boston. After not hearing from him for months, I decided to give him a call and see how he was doing. Our conversation went like this:

"Hi Joe, it's Josh. Just calling to see how you're doing. It's been a while."

"Hey Josh. Good to hear from you. I'm doing well. Started seeing a great guy."

"That's great! What's he like?"

"Well, he's 28, tall, skinny, Italian, creative, and shy at first but really funny once you know him."

"Sounds like someone else I know." I said jokingly about myself.

"I guess so..." He continued on. "He lives in Astoria and he's a graphic designer for a nonprofit company."

"Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah, why?" He replied oblivious to the similarities between this new man and myself.

"Nothing...keep going."

"He likes Mel Brooks movies, wine, Apple computers, and Chinese buffets."

"Okay now you're just messing with me." I laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Nonprofit graphic designer? tall and thin? Spaceballs? Wine? Buffets? Lives in Queens?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Remind you of anyone?"

"What are getting at?"

"You're dating me!" I raised my voice, awed by his unawarement.

"No I'm not. He's really cute." He said nonchalantly.

"What's his name?" I hissed. "Josh?"

"Very funny. His name's Steven."

"What's his sign?" I continued on.

"I don't know. His birthday was in May."

"A taurus?"

"Maybe. Why? What are you?" He asked.

"What do you think? I'm a taurus!" I spat.

"Are you jealous or something? You shouldn't be. You should come meet him. You'd really like him."

"No thanks. I don't like looking in the mirror."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He growled.

"Nothing."

I know it was a silly thing to be mad at him for his new boyfriend. I should have been happy for him. What pissed me off was being replaced by a more attractive version of myself. Isn't there enough competition out there from entirely different people without me having to compete against a prettier me?

I eventually did meet Steven. He's everything that Joe described. He was very nice, and he actually seemed to like me very much. Maybe we're not so alike after all.

Seasonal Tact

The last three people I've heard talking while on the elevator have all been complaining about the weather. Standing there nonchalantly with my earphones on but my ipod turned off so that I can hear every word they're saying, I listened to them rip Autumn a new one.

"I hate the Fall!" they complain. "It's cold in the morning and hot during the day."

"I never know what to wear."

"I'm sick of wearing brown for 3 months."

"All the trees are dying. Raking them is such a pain."

"There's too many college kids around now that school has started."

Etc. Etc. Etc.

Call me crazy, but I love the Fall. How can anyone not love it?

The air is crisp and clean. It feels like snow is coming, but it isn't yet. The leaves on the tree-lined streets are shedding their cumbersome weight in firework displays of red and gold. The leaves on the ground make the nicest crunching noise as you walk all over them--like biting into a head of lettuce. The ground gets so saturated with suicidal leaves that it looks like a red carpet rolled out before you.

Students go back to school, triggering "Back to School Sales" that everyone can enjoy--student or not. Dorm furniture--ripe for the taking--fills the streets after trying in vain to fit in closet-sized rooms.

Perhaps my favorite part of Fall--the part that makes others cringe while I giggle with delight--is the fashion.

The bright fashions of Summer are boxed away in basements in favor of more sensible earth colors. Browns, golds, and reds appear on mannequins in store windows. Short shorts, hairy legs, and cleavage stand aside to make way for smart, touchable sweaters and khakis. No jackets needed yet, unless it's for style's sake.

My dark hair, pale complexion, and feces-colored eyes are perfectly complemented by Fall colors. Not only that, the cool Fall mornings and warm days require careful clothing planning. Layering is your friend. Layering is a gay man's dream. It allows for a mid-day wardrobe change. Leaving the house in a t-shirt covered by a fuzzy pull-over sweater, I return home with my t-shirt on and my sweater in my man-purse. When the sun peeks out in the afternoon, it's my cue for a costume change. 2 outfits in one day! What's not to like?

My only bad Fall experience was during a dentist appointment. Wearing my infallible t-shirt/sweater combo, I sauntered into my dentist's office only to discover that his heating system was on the fritz. It was my first dentist appointment in three years. I had never met this man...this "Dr. DeSoto" as they call him. Walking into his office was like skating into an igloo. My nipples stood at attention and could be seen through my multiple shirt layers.

Acting like nothing was wrong, he shook my frigid hand and ushered me into his torture chair. I couldn't tell if I was shivering because of the cold or out of fear that he would chastize me for not going to the dentist in three years--that I had mouth-rot, that my teeth were so riddled with cavities they all needed come out immediately, that they don't have any veneers to replace them with and so I'll have to gum my way through life.

"Let's see what we have here." He muttered into his mask and yanked my mouth open.
I could see my icy breath rising from my gaping maw. While he was prying around my mouth with some sort of incendiary device, I got the chills. He tapped on one of my tusks to check for decay and I shivered, biting down on his fingers. It wasn't on purpose--at least I don't think it was--but he was too busy screaming and bleeding to accept my apologies. He ran to the bathroom to wash off.

Sitting there on his operating table, I was getting a case of the cold sweats. My t-shirt was soaked to my skin, my palms were wet, my hair stuck to my face. I leapt up and started pulling my sweater over my head, desperate for some air. It got tangled on my melon head on its way off. Struggling mightily, I couldn't remove it. It got further lodged and twisted.

I heard footsteps approaching from the bathroom but couldn't see anything. Trying to look casual I went to sit back down in the chair but missed and sat on a tray of dental tools instead. Crashing to the floor and taking the tools with me, I flopped around on the ground like a seal, bare-chested and exposed.

"What are you DOING?" I heard the silhouette of DeSoto shout.

"I'm sorry!" I yelled into my shirts. "I was cold! I mean...hot! And nervous!"

I struggled to my feet, crunching on some tools and hitting my head on the overhead lamp causing it to swivel into a cabinet with a crash.

"We're done here! Please leave!" He boomed.

It took me several minutes to find the door, but I did leave and never came back. It took me two more years to go to a new dentist. I had three cavities, gingivitis, and a loose filling. It was still an improvement over my last visit.

Hospital Tact

My Aunt Cindy was recently admitted to Boston Medical Center. Going in for a headache, she is now staying with diagnosed acute leukemia.

Having extremely little knowledge of what this actually was, I asked around and the consensus is that this is the "bad kind" of leukemia. Instead of its chronic counterpart which happens over time and can be more easily detected in early stages, acute leukemia strikes suddenly, without warning or cause, and can kill in a matter of weeks.

I didn't see how this was possible. Young, fit, long-distance running Cindy is the picture of health. I had to go and see for myself.

Making a quick call to my Mother, who is a nurse, for advice on what to bring with me, I hopped in the car and went to the hospital. I was told not to bring flowers, fresh fruit, or anything dirty as they can't risk Cindy getting any additional illnesses or infections in her weakened state. Flowers and a fruit basket were out of the question. Instead I stopped by the Latin Market down the street and picked up Twinkies, Moon Pies, Zingers, Ho ho's, and honey buns. Thinking she would be there for a while, I grabbed some books of short stories and novels from my bookshelf for her to read.

Arriving at the hospital and checking in with the nurse's station, I was told she was downstairs having some tests done and would I please wait in the lobby. I waited and watched the Red Sox decimate Tampa Bay until Cindy was wheeled by. Following the bed to her room, I saw her get up, stagger a bit, and work to open the door and pull herself inside. I followed her up to the door and, not wanting to startle her, knocked first, and started to enter her room.

"You have to wash your hands and put on a mask." She labored. "Germs."

"Right. Sorry." I said.

I rushed down the hall, found a bathroom, washed my hands, grabbed a surgical mask and gloves from the nurse's station, and went back to the room.

"Where did you go?" She asked me, sitting in a chair by her bed.

"To the bathroom to wash my hands." I replied, confused by the question.

"You just have to use the disinfectant outside the door, next to the masks. And you don't need gloves."

"Oh. Sorry. I haven't really done this before."

"That's okay. Me neither." She said.

There was a strange span of silence then. It was awful. I looked at her, looking sad, scared, frail, in pain, covered in IV's and bandages, and I just wanted it to stop. I stood up to cross the bridge of space between us and give her a hug. Then I stopped myself. I'm not supposed to touch her, I remembered. Feeling silly just standing there, I picked up the bag of items I brought and handed it to her. "These are for you."

Cindy managed a smile as she opened the bag and pulled out the assorted books and trashy novels I brought with me. Then my marathon-running, health-conscious Aunt pulled out the now-smooshed Twinkies and various Little Debbie assortment from the bottom of the bag.

"I know you don't really like junk food...but they said its what's best for you now. They don't want you to lose any weight and you can't have fresh food." I mustered.

She nodded, smiled, and thanked me.

Visiting her, I thought we would have a lot to talk about. But actually being there changed all that. Everything I had meant to tell her suddenly seemed so insignificant in the face of this impending crisis. I didn't want to talk about my new condo when who knows when she'll see hers again. I didn't want to talk about my new job while she was on a leave of absence or the new dog I was planning to get while she looked so alone. Another moment of silence crept into the sterile room. Unable to bare it and unsure of what I could do to possibly comfort her, I blurted out:

"How are you feeling?" She went to the doctor for an earache and was told her odds are 50/50. How do you think she's feeling, dumbass?

"I'm hanging in there."

She went on to tell me about all of the tests they were doing and they would be starting chemotherapy in the morning. She seemed to know everything that was going on around her. I suppose that if you're in a situation like hers--knowledge is your only real weapon.

I listened to her talk about what the nurses and doctors said, what tests have shown, and general leukemia facts. Even though she was tired and nervous, she was starting to sound a little better. I couldn't physically comfort her in any way, but having someone to talk to was making a difference.

While I was visiting Cindy, every member of our family called to check up on her too. She may have felt lonely, but she was far from alone. Knowing that is keeping up her fight. After she beats leukemia and comes home, I can't wait to go out for some chocodiles with her.

Still Intact

Last night was a much needed fun escape from the horrors of being on a fixed budget after buying my first condo (see right.)

It began with a matinee showing of Super Bad at Loews on Boston Common. Featuring heinous language, violence, toilet humor, and more raunch than a teen's wet dream, it was right up my alley. I give it an A-.

After the show, we shuffled on over to Shanghai Restaurant in the Chinatown/Theatre District area (see right.) If you like your bad service with a side of mausoleum-esque atmosphere then this is the place for you. Featuring 4 tables total, a bar with 4 stools, and 3 silent, mummified employees who eschew eye contact—the place left much to be desired. The only employee who did make eye contact was the gremlin in the kitchen who was periodically taking breaks from cooking the tasteless food to gawk shamelessly at my attractive friend. Stealing the show, however, was my fortune cookie. Managing to best even the rude waitstaff, it contained this gem:

"Today, your mouth might be moving but no one is listening."

Paying our bill we rushed back down the street to the theatre for an 8:05 showing of Stardust. The movie would have been pretty bland if it wasn't for Claire Danes, Bobby D., and Michelle Pfieffer. The story was cute and creative, Deniro's character unexpected, and the special effects good. The problem was the visible striving to be the next Princess Bride or Never Ending Story and falling short. I'll give it a B on merit.

As I was listening to the closing music and watching the credits to see the name of the cute hero actor, I leaned down to grab my bag (man-purse) only to discover its absence. Jumping up with trepidation I looked down the aisle floor searching for my perfect little bag. Dear God, my phone, camera, pills, ipod, and, most important, my journal are in that bag. Abandoning the rest of our group, I Snatched the hand of my friend Leanne and ran back to Shanghai Restaurant to see if a good Samaritan had discovered it and kept it safe.

Being completely ignored by the oblivious employees, it was easy to skulk around the restaurant looking for it on bended knee like it were a lost puppy. Spotting it behind the bar I let out a giant sigh of relief and crawled toward it. Tiny Asian feet inside tiny shoes intercepted my recovery. Looking up at the bartender I told him that I had just eaten here (sadly) and that it was my bag. He didn't seem convinced. I could see where he was coming from since the restaurant was just packed full of people and how could he possibly remember the only table who had just eaten there? I pleaded more in a language he didn't understand and pointed to the bag, making gestures of putting it over my shoulder and walking out the door. Wearing him down with my charades, gibberish, and native tongue, he acquiesced and stood aside.

I grabbed my bag and ran outside with it, rummaging through to see what had been ransacked and what the Gods had deemed necessary for me to keep. Everything was intact. I whipped out my cell phone to call the group I had just abandoned at the theatre to explain my behavior. Perhaps it wasn't the best decision to stop and make a phone call on the corner of a Chinatown street at night. A tall black man in a Red Sox cap tapped me on the shoulder while I was on the phone, asking:

"Hey big dude, when you get off the phone, can I ask you a question?"
First off—never call me "big dude" unless I've known you for 3+ years. Secondly, I know what you want to ask me—can I give you any money? And lastly, you're better dressed than I am with my Filene's Basement Bargain Bin t-shirt and tattered jeans—why ask me for money?

I nodded to the scary stranger, exchanged a scared look with Leanne, and continued my phone conversation while taking baby steps down the sidewalk toward the subway. Taking the hint, the man gave up on waiting for me to finish my call and walked away. I hung up and we walked swiftly to the T-station.

All I could think of the whole way home was that when I start my own Fortune Cookie company, all of my fortunes will be as vicious as the insults in Super Bad.