Unapologetically Mundane » potty mouth

How Many Times Can I Talk About Excrement in One Post?

plumpdumpling — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 16:00:33 +0000

A pretty fountain in the gardens outside of Kamran’s apartment building that speaks of a grander time when you noticed the 1920s handmade Italian tiles on the sides of the buildings more than the streaks of not-quite-cleaned-up-well-enough dog poo on the sidewalks. Not that I blame them. Touching feces through a plastic bag is still touching feces.

And speaking of poo, I finally posted another poll on IS IT PEE-PEE? today. This one was motivated by Dishy of The Daily Dish and The Daily Dish, and her hilarious bloggin’ daughter, Madison.

What’s Going on in There?

plumpdumpling — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 16:00:42 +0000

The door to the women’s restroom in one of my company’s offices. Intriguing.

My Boyfriend or My Butt: A Conundrum

plumpdumpling — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 19:30:33 +0000

I hate to admit that advertisements sometimes work on me. I used to have a roommate who would mute the TV every time the commercials came on so she could avoid being sold to, and I always loved her for that. The advent of the DVR has obviously made it easier to live commercial-freer, but I’m still met with ads I can’t ignore on the streets and subways.

And it’s not always a bad thing. After seeing FreshDirect trucks all over town, I finally convinced the ever-reluctant Kamran to try it, and it turned out to be kind of life-changing for us. Not only is it much less expensive than Manhattan-based grocery stores because they don’t have to pay Manhattan rent, but they also offer the kind of selection you could never find at small Manhattan retailers. We used to have to make a choice every weekend to walk in one direction to the health food store or in the other direction to the traditional grocery store, but FreshDirect has both your traditional (meaning terrible) items like sugar-free Jell-o and your local, organic, pastured, antibiotic-free stuff. And they deliver it right to your door. Swoon.

I have a problem, though. Last night, I saw an ad on the subway for Soap.com, and when I checked it this morning, I found that they have my lotion, my powder foundation, and my shampoo at Ohio prices. (Yes, I kind of feel bad about not supporting my local economy, but I feel worse about paying $9 for a $5 bottle of mostly water.) So obviously I want to order from them, but here’s my dilemma: they have the toilet paper Kamran likes but that none of our local stores carry. I don’t like it because of the way dust-like miniscule paper particles fly all over the place every time I rip a sheet off, but I think he really misses the stuff.

Do I order from them, save a bunch of money, get my bathroom essentials delivered for free, and risk having a dusty bum again? Or do I go to a retail store, pay Manhattan prices, and continue to ruin Kamran’s life with my super-soft, non-shreddy toilet paper?

A Long Family History of Underwear Turmoil

plumpdumpling — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 17:00:37 +0000

This weekend, I found a plastic bag containing all of the dirty underwear I brought back from my ten-day Christmas trip to Ohio. They were all of my favourites, because of course I bring my most comfortable underwear on vacation with me. So I threw them into the wash last night with the rest of my clothes. You know, the clothes that hadn’t been festering in a plastic bag for two months.

. . . so there’s something you know about me that you can never unknow.

Relatedly, when my mom and dad went on their honeymoon to Niagara Falls, they realized when they came home that they’d left a duffel bag full of my dad’s dirty underwear behind in the hotel room. Pretty sweet tip for the cleaning lady, right? I’m mostly just impressed that my dad owned more than one pair of underwear in his 20s and that he classed it up by storing them in a duffel bag rather than a leftover grocery store sack.

You May Just Want to Go Wet at My Apartment

plumpdumpling — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 17:00:01 +0000

Remember how good your memory used to be before the advent of cellphones? I recall sitting up in my bedroom in front of my tiny 15” TV with my cordless phone, dialing friend upon friend from memory. I knew personal numbers, parents’ numbers, moms’ and dads’ numbers separately if they were divorced, grandparents’ numbers, radio stations’ numbers, school numbers, work numbers, the local police station’s number, and on and on.

After having a cellphone for about ten years, I now know:

1) My dad’s cell and home numbers
2) My grandmother’s home number
3) Kamran’s cell number
4) My best friend, Tracey’s, cell number
5) Tracey’s parents’ home number (left over from junior high!)
6) My great-aunt and -uncle’s home number
7) Carmel car service’s number (because you never know when you’ll need a ride home, and also because it’s literally all 6s)

I rely on my BlackBerry’s memory for everything else, though I do have some vague ideas about what other people’s phone numbers are. Anyone calling from Manhattan’s 212 area code is likely a restaurant confirming a reservation. I know that a number with a bunch of 2s and 8s in it is my friend Katie. And I know that a number beginning in 347 is likely my roommate, or “Landlord”, as he likes to be known.

So I actually answered my phone this weekend from Kamran’s apartment when I saw a 347 number come up, and it was indeed Landlord. We have our own separate bathrooms in his condo, as I’ve bragged about several times now, and he claimed that he had been innocently sitting in the living room when he heard a dripping sound coming from his and went to find his toilet leaking all over his bathroom floor.

Clearly this is code for “I took a giant dump earlier since you finally weren’t home to hear me, and these newfangled ultra high efficiency toilets with the lids that don’t slam when you drop them can’t handle how manly I am”, but I let it slide. He said he’d used up all of his towels trying to clean up the “water” and wondered if he could use some of mine to get the rest. I told him that sure, he could go for my thin aquamarine and pink guest towels but that he should leave my OMG softest ever Simply Vera Vera Wang Microcotton Bath Towels alone. I also told him he could use my bathroom with its handsoap shaped like little hands from Kamran for the day.

via the foliage Etsy store

The moral of the story is:

1) I am the best roommate ever.
2) Brings your own towels if you ever come to visit me.

Long-Lost Videos of 2010: Part 3

plumpdumpling — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 17:00:41 +0000

Okay, okay, I know you didn’t watch any of the videos I posted last week. But these are great and seriously deserve to be seen. Well, the second one, at least. The first one is purely fish porn.

Kamran and I spotted these guys in an Asian grocery store while in California last August. Of course I had to set them to Ween’s only good song.

Jack and I test the strength of my new bathroom walls against fart sounds. Because you have to know how much noise you can pollute the bathroom with before everyone in the living room can hear you.

Watersports

plumpdumpling — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 16:00:17 +0000

That’s What She Said jokes are never not funny.

IS IT PEE-PEE .COM

plumpdumpling — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 16:00:05 +0000

I know this will surprise no one, but I have a new blog full of pictures, polls, and the opportunity for you to experience the unexplainable wetness I do every day here in NYC.

IS IT PEE-PEE?

When I pre-released it to my BBFF Bachelor Girl last week, she said, “Dude, you know you’re going to have every perv in the free world following your blog(s), right?”

One can only hope.

I’m Sorry If I Gave You AIDS

plumpdumpling — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 16:00:36 +0000

I know it’s neither polite nor sanitary, but I got an unexpected nosebleed in my office’s bathroom last week, and a drop of blood hit the blue-tiled floor before I could do anything about it. I lifted my hand to catch the drops that followed, but the blood kept somehow escaping me, and after a few seconds, I stopped trying and just let the floor become littered with my DNA. It felt so good to do something I wasn’t supposed to and to not care.

How’s It Hangin’?

plumpdumpling — Thu, 06 May 2010 16:00:57 +0000

I just noticed today, after working at the same company for almost four years, that the woman who refills the toilet paper in our bathroom puts one roll into the side-by-side holder so that the paper’s dispensed on top and one roll in so that it comes from underneath.

I love that the janitorial company cares enough to not take sides in the over/under debate, even though one of the sides is clearly incorrect.

Hey, not to make matters worse, but seriously, keep your hair off my toilet seat in the future.

plumpdumpling — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 18:35:34 +0000

You may remember that fateful day a year ago in which I went to my favourite bathroom stall at work to find

THE LARGEST PUBIC HAIR IN EXISTENCE.

Well, today, I came out of my stall, and as I was washing my hands, a black woman from the office next door walked in, half-acknowledged the hello I gave her, and went straight for the very same stall. I thought to myself about how funny it is that I always see her using that stall and how we must appreciate the same sort of conditions while doing our bizness.

And then it hit me. The largest pubic hair in existence was probably . . . the hair from her head. And if she saw that sign, she was probably offended, maybe even deeply hurt. It likely called to mind all of the years of latent racism she’s endured, all of the rage she felt when Don Imus called those girls “nappy-headed hoes”. She probably went to the back of the bus that night out of shame.

I don’t have to feel bad about it as a privileged white person, but I sort of do.

Rub and Scrub and Scrub and Rub. Germs Go Down the Drain. Hey!

plumpdumpling — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:00:14 +0000

I like to judge people for fairly irrational things like:

1) not liking something as small as onions, while I myself hate everything that comes from the sea except possibly crab, and I only eat that when forced,
2) not putting their dirty dishes in the dishwasher at work, while I myself leave dishes in the sink at Kamran’s for days, and
3) using abbreviations like “lol” in chat, while I myself say “brb” all of the time, though I usually follow it up with “~@~”, which in Google chat looks like a pile of poo with flies circling around it, and the awesomeness of that cancels out my “brb”.

There’s one thing I judge people for that I don’t think is irrational, though, and that’s not washing their hands after using the bathroom. I know that ingesting someone else’s urine likely isn’t going to kill me, but I still feel so superior as I take an extra-long time to wash my hands in the bathroom and call innocently to anyone who leaves without stopping at the sink, “Oh, excuse me, but I think you accidentally-and-not-at-all-because-you’re-a-lazy-respectless-heathen forgot to wash your hands!” With the hugest, fakest smile on my face.

As I was rinsing today at work, though, I wondered, what do people who don’t wash their hands think about me? Are they judging me for being too clean?

PUMPKIN ANUS

plumpdumpling — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 16:44:22 +0000

Am I right or am I right?

The Do-It-Yourself Public Restroom in Times Square

plumpdumpling — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 15:55:22 +0000

Last night at 8 p.m., Kamran and I exited a movie theatre in Times Square, accompanied by our friends Jack, Beth, and Nik, Jack’s friend Chris, Jack’s friend Alex from Romania, and Alex’s Romanian girlfriend, Simina. We were walking down 42nd Street, trying to decide which is scarier: the flesh-sucking monsters we’d just seen in Zombieland or NYC tourists. Mid-conversation, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone bent over with liquid spilling all over her legs and the ground. She was out in the street, facing traffic, with her back to the sidewalk we were on, and I just assumed she was vomiting. She had wavy, shoulder-length black hair and a black suit jacket on. Her bottom half was nude-colored, but I just assumed she was wearing peach leggings. I couldn’t imagine a middle-aged woman wearing leggings without a long shirt covering them, but that seemed much more likely than what was actually happening, which was that

THE WOMAN HAD HER PANTS DOWN AND WAS PEEING
IN THE STREET.

In Times Square. Which, if you’ve never seen it, is basically the center of the world. We’re talking thousands of people milling around a few blocks at all hours of the day and night, with enough lights on every building to make it seem as if the sun never sets. And mostly people who don’t live in NYC, which means a woman with her pants down in the street is about the most exciting thing they’ve ever seen. Traffic was stopped right in front of her, so people in cabs had their noses pressed to the glass not two feet away from her bare bits. The lights glared off the urine clinging to her flabby backside. People stopped and pointed her out to each other, and Kamran yelled for me to get my camera out.

But it was too late. She finished, pulled her pants up, and walked into the subway unashamed.

I Never Thought I’d End Up Here, Either

plumpdumpling — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 15:37:30 +0000

There’s a very sweet woman who cleans our bathroom at work. She’s a couple of years older than I am, I imagine, with large eyes and shiny brown hair that grows past her shoulders. She’s fit but curvy, so she looks pretty smokin’ in the white shirtdress that serves as her uniform.

For some reason, we always end up in the bathroom at the same time in the mornings. She rolls a little cart full of toilet paper, seat covers, and paper towels in and goes about refilling each stall. I always say hello to her, and she always smiles and says hello back with a bit of a European accent. I always think about how she was probably a teacher or a surgeon back home, but I’d never talked to her enough to ask her.

I was waiting for the elevator with two other women from the floor at noon yesterday, though, and when the doors opened, she was standing inside in a colorful striped shirt and dress pants. I said, “Done already?”, and she said, “Oh, no, just going for lunch. I change clothes, though, because I hate my uniform.” She paused and added, “I hate my job.”

I said, “I love your uniform! It’s really adorable, actually.” She said thanks, and then, out of nowhere, she said, “This is the only job I can get. In my country, I got a degree to be a physician’s assistant, but it doesn’t matter here.” I asked where she’s from, and she said Albania. I said, “You hear that a lot here. People who speak multiple languages and are obviously intelligent had jobs they loved overseas but can’t get work here.” One of the girls with me said, “I’ve met more doctor cab drivers . . .”

We all bid each other good day as we began to part ways in the lobby, and I wanted to say something like, “Umm . . . you’re really great at your job, if that helps.” But then I remembered that this is the girl who has to put a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom stall I’ve just pooped in, and nothing I can say is going to comfort her.

Poop of Love Deux

plumpdumpling — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 14:12:22 +0000

After a tip from my super-Innanet-savvy co-worker Anthony, I sent Kamran this graphic from doodie.com:

And then we said this:

a) That’s why I love him, and
b) that’s why I love Gmail Chat.

My Boyfriend or My Butt: A Conundrum (27)
Watersports (9)
Deep-Fried Everything (13)
Happy Birthday, Kamran! (13)
Five Years of Bliss in NYC (24)
That Little Voice in Your Ear (14)
How Many Times Can I Talk About Excrement in One Post? (4)
Oh, Yeah, Remember When I Went to California? (18)
What’s Going on in There? (6)
Like a Dog, I Only Love You When You Feed Me (18)

This Ain’t “Seinfeld”, People

plumpdumpling — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 18:46:58 +0000

Last week, I walked into the ladies restroom at work and saw a black cardigan sweater draped across the back of one of the toilets and spilling on to the floor. Just looking at it sort of made me sick to my stomach, and in order to keep from vomiting, I had to stop myself from picturing some woman coming in, realizing it’s hers, picking it up off the back of the toilet, and putting it back on.

I swear, I’m about ten seconds away from putting a hazmat suit on every time I go in there, and someone’s taking her clothes off to pee?

Unapologetically Mundane » potty mouth

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