Reading the Label

On my way to my bookclub this evening, I stopped at a Russian grocery store to pick up some treats. After browsing all the various candies, breads, crackers, cookies, and other baked goods, I settled on a package of what I thought were meringue cookies covered with chocolate. When I went to pay, I thought it would be fun to buy some candy, too. I picked up a package on the counter.

"What's this?" I asked the cashier.

"Oh, this is for something like make your stomach better digest," she said, struggling with her English.

"OK, I'll try them."

I paid and as I walked to my friend's apartment, I opened the yellow packaging. Instead of a chocolate bar or oat bar, I discovered four individually wrapped chewy chocolate bites. As I was chewing the third one, I realized it reminded a little bit of the chocolate calcium chews I used to eat years ago. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. Didn't she say that these were for digestions? OH MY GOD. WHAT IF I JUST ATE THREE CHOCOLATE LAXATIVES?!?! Well, it could be an interesting book club, I decided.

Fortunately, I had not shit my pants or my friend's sofa or stunk up her bathroom by the time our bookclub ended. However, I discovered that the cookies were some strange fruity marshmallow. It was deliciously over sweet, like the relief I felt at not crapping myself. But lesson learned: don't fuck around when you can't read labels!

More Butt Humor, Butt (ha!) Not Gross

While Dr. P was in Vermont with her family, she noticed a product at a general store called "Anti-Monkey Butt Powder." We watched two hilarious ads on YouTube for this excellent product, which I thought I would share:

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Jogger

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Biker (as in motorcyclist, which is even better than bicyclist)

I hoped to embed the short videos in CUSS, but no codes for embedding were available. Boo. Well worth clicking on, and safe for work!

Speaking on work, my first day at my new job is tomorrow. I'm nervous, but excited. I wish I had not down enormous quantities of Indian food last night, though, as my stomach doth protest. I need to quash the rebellion ASAP if I want to continue to have a job after my first day. No one wants to work with a gas bag.

What We Saw at a Bus Stop in the West Village

Warning: This is likely the most disgusting thing I've ever posted on CUSS...

As Steph and I strolled through the West Village this afternoon, she pointed out all the things that had changed since she moved. One of new arrivals is fancy bus shelters. We walked up to a glass and metal bus structure, and Steph gasped.

"Do you see what I see next to the bench?"

"Um, yes. Yes, I do."

"That's a dildo."

"With shit caked on it, yes."

This Really Reeks

A friend asked how I felt about the renovation now that it's been complete for over a month. Because I am a cynical bitch who only looks at the downside of things, I told her it made me feel poorer after all the money we spent. Then I paused and realized how much I like some of the changes.

The new linen closet is amazing. The old one was narrow and deep, which made it impossible to find anything. The new one is in a strange location (the entry foyer), as that was the only place to put it, but it is amazing. It is wide and just the right depth. Everything is sorted semi-neatly. Every time I use it, I am happy.

The faucet in the new bathroom sink is perfect. It is just the right height and arc for me to use it as a drinking fountain. It makes me smile.

Best of all, the washer and dryer have made what was once a hugely stressful chore into something easy and almost even fun. I no longer have to schlep all my stuff down to the basement. The wait for the elevator (my stupid building has no stairs that go into the basement, a fire hazard if there ever was one) is eliminated. My battle to find an unused washer and a dryer that actually works has been won. What is not to love?

Oh, right - the smell of sewage. For the last week, something has gone terribly awry with the plumbing. I hear a surge of water in the pipes, then the smell emanates through the white doors that shutter the washer-dryer closet. Sometimes it is so strong it permeates the bedroom down the hall. Other times, it is just faintly noticeable as you pass the closet on the way into the bathroom. It smells like a cross between shit and rancid Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup.

I've looked everywhere for a leak, but I don't see anything wet. I can't see behind the machines, but he smell dissipates within 30 minutes at most, so I know there isn't standing sewage water. It flush-smell-dissipation process repeats a few times a day. Oh, and did I mention that my super is on vacation? Even if he wasn't, I'm almost afraid to have him look into it, as tearing up walls at this point is my second worst nightmare. (The worst nightmare: there is a sewage leak and the washer-dryer must be permanently dismantled.)

Alli: Causing a Real Shit Storm

Cross-posted at BlogHer:

Filed under "Who Didn't See This Coming?:" The US Federal Drug Administration (FDA) is investigating reports that alli, the only FDA-approved nonprescription weight-loss drug, caused liver damage, according to The Washington Post. (Man, if that sentence wasn't a mouthful, I don't know what is. Except, of course, that people using alli can't have a mouthful because of how alli works, but more on that later.) While there is no conclusive link, more than 30 people using alli and Xenical, its stronger prescription sibling, were hospitalized with liver issues between 1999 and October 2008.

OK, so people using alli (pronounced like "ally" - clever, no?) can really eat a mouthful, just so long as said mouthful doesn't contain too much fat. This is because alli "works" by stopping a person's body from absorbing fat. Anyone remember Olestra and "anal leakage" side effect? Yeah, it's like that. But worse. Basically, if you make a mistake and consume too much fat while using alli, you will essentially shit yourself. I'm sorry, there's no nicer way to say it. What distresses me about alli is that a lot of people (especially women, who alli is primarily marketed towards) are so desperate to be thin (and also continue eating what they want to) that crapping their undies is a better option than, god forbid, being overweight. (And let's not confuse overweight with healthy because they are often very different things. Certainly someone who is thin but uncontrollably poops through her thong is less healthy than someone who is overweight but can control her own bowels. Plus, studies have shown that what people we consider "overweight" are actually healthier than people considered a "healthy weight", but that's another story.)

BlogHer Health and Wellness Contributing Editor Catherine Morgan blogged about alli back in July 2007, noting that 1. FDA approval of the drug concerned her, as many drugs get approval and then are shown to be unsafe; and 2. "Limiting your fat intake per meal WILL facilitate weight loss, even without a pill that gives you diarrhea. She also pointed out that the only way to sustain weight loss is through a healthy diet. For these excellent insights, she was raked over the coals by some commenters. (Several claimed that people who eat too much fat - whether on alli or not - are at fault because they have no willpower or self-restraint. Another person demanded that she present her medical credentials for making such a ridiculous argument. Seriously.)

Although I clearly am irritated that people would attack Catherine's scientific, evidence laden post, I understand why. We live in a world we are pounded day in and day out with messages about body acceptability. We are also bombarded nearly 24-7 with ads selling tasty foods. At the same time, busy schedules, socio-economic pressures, and other issues may preclude people from having access to fresh foods, the time to prepare meals, and ways to exercise. These are not excuses, they are realities. And the reality is that drug manufacturers take advantage of our insecurities by selling us miracle pills to make us thin. Is GlaxoSmithKline, the distributor of alli, any better than a snake oil salesman peddling his wares from his wagon at the turn of the century? No, both sold people easy access to things that were and are just out of reach.

I'm not going to lie: I'm no more immune to the pressure to be thin than anyone else. No matter what I look like, I always think I am fat, except for a period of time about seven years ago. I had been having various digestive issues for almost a year and seeing a gastroenterologist, when one day I came home from work and needed to use the toilet maybe more urgently than I ever did in my entire life. When I was done, I was horrified to notice orange grease floating in the toilet. (As this is a family blog, I won't describe what else was in it.) For the next six months, whatever I ate slid out of me undigested like it was a vat of Olestra. I lost a lot of weight, quickly. And despite the fact that I was becoming nutritionally deprived, smelled from gas, had constant cramps, and my ass hurt from the amount of wiping I needed to do every time I used the bathroom - and I mean every time I sat on a toilet, something very bad came out of me (TMI, I know - sorry) - I liked how I looked. At least I liked how my body looked in a tight pair of jeans. My face looked like a zombie because I was seriously ill.

Many unpleasant tests later (for details, see Part I and Part II, but warning: it involves collection buckets and a refrigerator), no one understood why I naturally produced the as-yet-uninvented-alli, and I was warned to be very careful about how much fat I ate. The bottom line is that not digesting fat is really, really unhealthy. That's why I am not surprised that alli may cause liver damage.

Girl with the Doody Earring

While there are many good things going on lately, I remain frustrated by how the apartment renovation is proceeding (it's moving forward and looks great, but if the contractor changes the plan one more time and then acts as if it was my idea, I will strangle him) and last weekend my bubbe had a stroke while visiting my sister in Iowa. She's fine, but things were very complicated because she is a demanding and irrational person under the best of circumstances, and these were far from it. Hence, quality sleep evaded me every night this week.

During one of my wee hours of the morning awake sessions, I sat on the fancy new toilet, fiddling with my earrings. When I dropped the silver ball that I wear in my cartilage pierce and I heard it clink on the dusty floor, I got down on my hands and knees and searched. I couldn't find it. I figured that it was because I had no sight enhancing apparatus on, so I fetched my glasses from the bedroom. Still nothing.

A sinking feeling occupied the pit of my stomach. I lifted the lid to the toilet and peered in. There sat my earring. This would be no big deal except that I was using the toilet when I dropped my earring. Also, I had recently lost another small earring that I wore in my cartilage pierce in the shower, and a search for a replacement yielded nothing suitable other than the little ball I already owned. (It seems that super small earrings are not in right now, even for little kids.)

I pondered the dilemma for a few seconds. Should I perform a deep (dirty) water rescue? If so, would a rubbing alcohol bath for the recovered treasure be enough to prevent my from contract e. coli through a hole in my ear?

I really did not want to walk around with a hole visible in my ear when I had a job interview, so I took a deep breath and reached in. So far, I'm not suffering any ill effects. Husband, however, may want to think twice before nibbling on my right ear.

The Best Seat in the House

I realized that at the end of our renovation project, the bathroom will easily be the nicest room in our apartment. That makes the toilet - smiley face lid and all - officially the best seat in the house! Which makes me want to install a small flat panel TV on the wall opposite the throne, right behind the door. How awesome would that be?!?!

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Since I was frantically trying to find an outfit to the wedding I went to yesterday that didn't make me look matronly, I didn't have a chance to look into the photo editing software that everyone has thus far recommended. I hope to do that this afternoon. A bif thanks for the great suggestions!

Blowout!

Dana went to her six week post-birth doctor appointment first thing yesterday morning, (foolishly) entrusting the care of Marcus to my mom and me. Fortunately, the little bugger slept a lot, but when he woke up, it meant it was time for a diaper change and eating. I volunteered to be on diaper doodie (heh heh) while my mom heated up the bottle of pumped breast milk.

The changing process started out well. Marcus screamed himself red in the face while I removed his diaper, but I heard him fart and kept his poopy diaper in place, thus catching the burst of crap that he forced out. As I congratulated myself, however, he peed, which went directly into his face, all over the mat on the changing table, and on the new diaper I set aside to use. Damn. I'd witnessed this before, though, so I knew to wipe him down with wet wipes. Except that he was now soaking wet, and I had nothing to towel him down with before putting on his new outfit, so I grabbed a receiving blanket. While I dabbed him dry, I realized that the changing table was wet from pee, so I wiped that with a wet wipe, and put him down, not realizing that the mat was still wet from the wipe, and making him wet all over again. I picked him up again, wiped down the mat, and as I dried Marcus again, he peed on himself and the mat. I wanted to join his screaming.

Eventually, the stars and moon aligned and I redressed the dry squirmer. We went downstairs for a bottle. We sucked down five ounces in less than 20 minutes. When I burped him, he gave me a very big belch, which made my mom and I grin. We put him in his bouncy chair and watched him while we ate breakfast.

I was almost finished with my eggs when Marcus began crying again. As I lifted him out of his bouncy chair, I noticed a yellow stain near the back of his thigh. Shit! A blowout! (When my friend Dianne's daughter was a month old, I witnessed this horrible phenomena: baby makes a crap so big that it blows out of the diaper up the baby's back.) Back to the changing table, this time with my mom to help.

More peeing, screaming (Marcus, not my mom and I), drying, and re-diapering ensued. By the time Dana returned, Marcus was cozy, clean, and sleeping. Go us! I don't know how anyone does this job full-time.

Doody by the Pound

Whenever I am distressed, I give in to my cravings for sweet and fatty food. Throw in the recent holiday weekend, and the recipe is for overeating disaster. My problem is that eating so poorly tends to make my digestive tract explode. This is uncomfortable and smelly.

After a particularly fetid incident late Monday night, I crawled into bed and told Husband that I just evacuated pounds and pounds of poo.

"Doody by the pound?" he giggled. "That's gross. Especially because when you get it by the pound, the store wraps it up in wax paper and writes what it is on the outside, and everyone in the store knows what you have. It's so embarrassing!"

Damn, I love this man.

Poked by the Doody Finger of Fretfulness

My adorable little alien nephew* finally proved that he is a member of our family when he took his third extremely nasty shit. (Fortunately, I missed Nasty Shit #2, and as I reported yesterday, was peed on during Nasty Shit #1.) As I helped clean up the squirmy, screaming kid, doody got on one of my fingers. I knew that I loved the goober because I didn't mind at all that he managed to smear poo on me; I found it oddly endearing.

Other than Marcus's arrival in the world, things have been extra special stressful lately. I feel like the Doody Finger of Fretfulness poked me in the eye. Seriously, my right eye is punishing me for something. It is super allergy angry, and my contact gets blurry and dry at the same time. My glasses are very nice, but the last time I had the prescription updated was 1999 since I just wear them around the house at night, so I don't see so well out of them, either.

Our bathroom is still not fucking fixed. The person from the management company neglected to respond to my last email about what the status is. Things are going on in my professional life that keep me awake at night with anxiety. (Worse, the anxiety leads me to pick my cuticles, which then got baby doody on them...) School, which I love right now, is ending in three weeks.

I guess things could always be worse - the Doody Finger of Fretfulness could have poked me in both eyes...

*I swear, photos to come. I need to be sleeping now but am waiting for some stupid USB port to format, so I thought I'd blog a bit, but can't find the camera.

I'm Not that Senile Yet (I Hope)

I sat slack in my chair, staring blankly at the computer screen, when Husband walked into the living room.

"I forgot what I was doing," I told him, not that he asked.

"You were making a doody," he nodded.

"Do you think that its a good idea to encourage me like that?"

"Right. I forgot who I was talking to."

Lord, I Was Born a Rumbling Man

The less pleasant symptoms of my undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment returned last week, making my life stink. These include:

• Gas that could kill infants, toddlers, and small animals;


• Explosive bowel movements that fill a toilet bowl; and


• Acid reflux.

Thus far I have been spared the once a month, wake up in the middle of the night vomiting that is so violent it comes through my nose. Unfortunately, I also have not experienced the only upside of this misery: weight loss!* Even more disappointing, my ailment strikes hardest during my free time. So while my evenings and weekends are spent groaning and trying not to smoke Husband out of the apartment with my toxic fumes, the stupid condition doesn't lead me to miss work. It's bullshit.

Still, the other odors in the air at the Allman Brothers concert that I attended on Friday night were far stronger than my noxious gases, so I didn't feel too self-conscious in that regard. The show did remind me how conservative I am at heart. Not only is smoking not permitted in public places in New York City, but the historic theater that the show was at was recently restored, so I was seething from the second the envelope of various smokes enrobed my head when when I walked through the lobby. People were also spilling their beers everywhere. Between the ashes and the beverage, I fumed about the useless of restoring the building. Plus, all the smoke gave me a headache and made my throat itch. Later, I fell asleep during one of the many jam sessions. I did groove to special guest Bruce Willis's harmonious harmonica, though. That was exciting.

Rumble, rumble.

*No need to worry, though, I'm just trying to look on the bright side of a bad situation; every cloud has it's silver lining; etc.; etc.)

Special Anonymous Guest Post & Photo

We have been having a very bad, awful week at work. My co-worker and I were glumly walking out to lunch when we both saw this chair, which had been pushed under a counter, probably to hide what was on the seat.



We both looked down and saw the chair simultaneously, then looked up at each other and cracked up. It was that kind of junior high school laughing where you just can't stop. We ran down the stairs, howling.

"Oh, we thought we had it bad," I said.

"Yeah, but that is proof that it can always get worse," he said. "I mean, no matter how bad it gets, now I can always say, "Well, at least I didn't shit myself at work today."

Thanks to my anonymous guest blogger and photographer for sharing!

Intestinal Pneumonia

I discovered that I really like the sound of the words pneumonia and spumoni. There's something pleasing about that "moni" aspect. I also like the Tommy & the Shondelles song "Mony, Mony." Interesting.

So I feel like the champagne bottle that is smashed against the prow of a new ship to christen it. There is possibly nothing worse than trudging to work through slush and snow while a freezing rain falls while congested, coughing, and trying to stop your nose from pouring its liquid contents onto your face. Then I sat through a (very interesting) training in which there was no water available. To keep my throat wet, I drank about a teaspoon of coffee with a cup of cream and two Equals.

However, unless pneumonia affects the intestinal tract, I am pretty sure that I have a stomach flu. Let's just say that as I was walking to the subway after class tonight, my stomach made this growling gurgling sound, and I thought I farted. Your imagination can fill in what happened next. (What scares me is that this is the second time this has happened to me in the last six months, so maybe it isn't the flu. Perhaps it was the cup of cream taking 11 hours to hit me?)

When I arrived home, I dominated the bathroom for a long time. I was afraid to walk away from my safe perch on my porcelain link to the sewer system. After I felt like there was nothing left, I suggested that Husband may not want to go in there for at least a week.

Hopefully, I'll get a little NyQuil-induced sleep on the couch tonight and feel better in the morning. And apologies for the TMI. You know how I love my doody stories...

Out with the Old, In with the New

There's nothing like starting a new year than by breaking things. By things, I specifically mean bathrooms. And by bathrooms, I mean home and hotel facilities, one on each coast.

Yesterday morning, Husband and I awoke to urgent voicemail messages from my cousin, who is staying at our apartment while we gallivant about California. It seems that the pipes in our bathroom are leaking. The super and a maintenance dude came over to poke about, and after ripping up the linen closet (and patching it back up), concluded that the walls and floors of the bathroom need to be torn open to fix the problem. Work is to commence on Friday, Jan. 2 and hopefully will conclude on Monday, Jan. 5, which is my first day of work and I was already a nervous wreck about it before I learned that I won't have a functional bathroom that day.

I rang in the new year today by nearly breaking the toilet in the hotel. The result of my spontaneous self-cleansing strongly resembled an eel. Steph warned me yesterday morning that the toilet was not as powerful as it should be. ("It took me three flushes and a lot of hoping. I almost started looking around for a wire hanger, but then figured that this place was too fancy. A wooden hanger would work," she explained, "but wire hangers can be bent so that you can get as far away from the shit as possible, whereas a wooden hanger, it is what it is.") I thought about my honeymoon trip to London in August 2001 and how I had broken the toilet with a shit brick, and then feared that my eel turd would be even worse. Fortunately, it went down in two flushes and nothing resurfaced. Whew!

Happy new year and shit...

The Scary Future in My Bathroom

Yesterday I tsked tsked about the state of the United States in the twilight of the Bush administration. Not long after that, I was confronted by an even scarier situation: the state of my toilet. For as much as I dread being spied on by the FBI (and what a fucking waste of precious limited resources that will be), the possibility that my toilet is losing flushing power far more dramatically affects my daily life.

Husband and I are heavy toilet users. For the first five or so years that we resided at this apartment, our industrial-type toilet (it has no tank) dealt very effectively with the digestive abuse we hurled upon it. Then last year, I noticed a change. After I flushed and the water settled, wisps of toilet paper drifted back up from the pipe, like ghosts haunting the bowl. Even the most basic uses of the toilet required an after-flush to send the restless toilet paper souls back to their watery graves. Still, the hardier matter went away and didn't reappear.

The only slightly distressing situation changed to worrisome yesterday morning, when I made a large deposit in the toilet bank. I flushed before I even wiped, knowing that the teller could barely handle the load as it was. The water swept it down to the vault, but as I threw in my deposit slip, a chunk of my change reappeared.

"Oh shit," I appropriately swore, and flushed again. The toilet paper and poo went away and stayed that way, which was good. I'm hoping the condition of my toilet doesn't deteriorate further, but I fear for the future.

And I Thought I was Full of Shit...

A few years ago, Husband saw a book called What's Your Poo Telling You? at a bookstore. Knowing my obsession with crap (both because I have a mysterious undiagnosed digestive ailment and because doody is funny), he surprised me with a copy. Since it appeared in our apartment, the book has delighted many of our guests with helpful knowledge about why their shit looks or smells a certain way.

Recently, someone pointed out that the book has a little blurb on animal dung. The first bullet point is about rabbits. According to the shitty experts, rabbit can produce in excess of 500 pellets of poo a day. Now, let's reflect on my 13 pound rabbit, Tycho Bunnae. While the beast is definitely a big shitter, I am very lucky that he doesn't even come close to crapping out 500 pellets a day. I could never keep up with that level of production.

Just a fun fact, as well as a chance to reflect once again on how lucky I am.

Oh, Diarrhea on the Wall!

My friend's grandmother passed away on Sunday. In accordance with Jewish tradition, she was buried as soon as possible. The funeral was Monday, and then the family sat shiva, which is pronounced "shivva," not "sheeva" like the Hindu god, and is a lot like a Catholic wake, minus the body.

Yesterday afternoon I took the train to Connecticut to sit shiva with my friend. The nicest thing about sitting shiva is that people really do focus on helping the family through their grief, and so a shiva is usually very jolly. Lots of food and laughter are shared as people recall happier times. Thus it was only sort of completely inappropriate when my friend's brother told people a hilarious story about how he accidentally shit all over the wall of his parents' bathroom a few weeks ago during Passover. It seems that when his stomach rumbled, and he realized that an eruption of a geyser of crap was imminent. He ran for the toilet, but stopped to grab the newspaper on his way. This would have been fine had he just taken the whole paper, but instead paused for 15 seconds to find the business section. Unfortunately, those precious seconds cost him dearly. When he got to the bathroom, he barely pulled down his pants before a stream of liquid feces emanated from his angry ass, splattering all over the wall. "And that's how I got diarrhea all over the wall of my parents' bathroom," he concluded while beaming with pride.

After hearing this story, I decided that I must use the phrase, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" when something goes horribly awry. (This would also work in place of, "The shit hit the fan," I think.) Prior to attending the shiva, I experienced my own metaphorical diarrhea on the wall incident. After weeks of waiting, I learned that the grant that funds my 50% of my job was revoked by the issuing foundation. I am not surprised by this turn of events (and in fact had a first round job interview that morning which went very well, anyway), but I think I am entitled to say, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" in response to the news.

Rich People Stink

Hello from the Admirals Club in Dallas-Ft. Worth, where I am waiting out a two hour layover before boarding the flight to Honolulu. One of the many benefits of traveling with Husband is that I get to observe (and experience) the lifestyle of fancy-schmancy business travelers and the wealthy. What I discovered is that these people stink. Literally. (Proverbially, the top 2% live rather nicely, as the convenient free internet stands in the Admirals Club demonstrates.)

The flight to Dallas-Ft. Worth had two classes: first and coach. On that type of flight first class is really more like regular business class, but the hoity-toity have to accept it and sit amongst the hundred thousandaires or be forced to sit in the back with the riff-raff (where I belong). Anyway, not long into the flight, I used the bathroom. It was not smelling very fresh, even at that point. However, when I went back an hour or so later, I nearly fucking passed out it was so damn rank. I wondered who stuffed the dead body into the tiny room and how it managed to decompose so quickly. When I needed to pee again not long before landing time, I decided to wait it out, figuring there'd be a nice potty in the Admirals Club.

I was only half correct. The fixtures were very upscale, but the two stalls had the distinct odor of fresh diarrhea. (Sure that made me laugh when I typed it, but I wanted to cry in the bathroom while I emptied my very full bladder.) As a person with an on and off digestive ailment, I understand that sometimes you can't help where you have an explosion. However, I am starting to wonder if all the expensive food consumed by the upper class leads to more stink bombs in toilets.

Anyway, other than spilling orange juice all over Husband's seat and iPod during the flight, that's about it for now. Good times ahead.

Actually, I just looked out the window and a large fire appears to be ranging on the tarmac. Scary. More to come.

I Ain't Shittin' Ya - Why I Love Husband

Loving Husband is easy. Although he did not find anything about the picture of the disgusting toilet in India amusing, he indulges (and even encourages) my love for doody jokes. I came home a few weeks ago and found a random bag from Borders on the little bench we have next to our front door. Inside was What's Your Poo Telling You? by Josh Rochman and Anish Sheth, MD.

This slim brown volume is right up my alley, so to speak. There's a description of dung, then analysis from Dr. Stool. Not only is it informative, but heeelarious. Par ejemple, "Rotten Poo" (something of which I am a frequent victim):

This poo can vary in shape and size, but its distinguishing feature is its atrocious and unbearable odor. As this poo is under way, the stench will overwhelm you. Even with a quick courtesy flush, survival instincts force you to speed up the defecating process in order to exit the bathroom as quickly as humanly possible. Lord help the innocent bystanders if you are in a public restroom, because this odor will linger and may promptly cause others to experience gagging and nausea… this poo smells as if a dead animal has been decomposing in your intestines and is making its exit at its most noxious moment [I generally describe my worst gas this way, thinking of it as a hamster or perhaps gerbil]… when it happens, a quick termination of the stooling session is a must.

How could I not cackle multiple times as I typed this up?

"What's so funny?" Husband asked.

"I'm writing about the doody book you gave me," I giggled.

"Ah, you and your book reports!" He puffed his chest with pride.

Yep, I love Husband a lot.

Toilets Do Not Get Much Grosser Than This

Don't say I didn't warn you with the title.When John's camera broke on the first day of the trip (how badly does that suck?), he began using Rachel's camera to take pictures for both of them. On Saturday, Rachel gave me a CD burned with pictures from her camera. This was one of them. I have no idea what on earth is in that toilet. I'm just impressed that whatever restroom this was taken in even had a toilet.

Also, upon further study, I noticed that not only does this toilet have wings, but the seat and lid are also almost the same color as the one in my parents' bathroom in the basement. This should not make me laugh, but it does. Maybe I will get fired from my consulting job for cackling and blogging. (One can only hope...)

Gross Confession Time

My left foot falls asleep when I am on the toilet for a long time. This is a weird development, and I am not sure what to do about it, as sometimes I require being on the toilet for a long time. On the other hand, sometimes I am sitting atop the throne for longer than necessary because I am checking my email or blogging. Yep. You read that right – I take my laptop to the bathroom with me. A woman's gotta maximize her limited time. I see nothing wrong with this, although you may want to think twice about borrowing my laptop when I see you at BlogHer 07. (You are going, right? And guys, you are invited.)

The Welcome Committee

Finally, I boarded a flight that left Chicago and arrived in New York. As the plane taxied to its gate at JFK, I checked my voicemail messages. Relief rapidly became roiling frustration as I listened to a message from the car service company. It seems that I communicate better with my 14 mangled Hindi words to people who speak limited English than I do to my Husband of 6.5 years, as, despite repeatedly telling him I was on a 2:20 pm flight to JFK, he arranged for a car service to pick me up at LaGuardia.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" I said loudly. The guy across the aisle from me on the plane stared at me.

I called the dispatcher and she was very nice. She said she'd send a car to JFK and he'd be there in 10 minutes. I began to tell her it would take me a bit longer than that to get to the pick up area, but my call waiting began beeping and my "low battery" signal went off at the same time. I answered the call waiting, and spoke to Husband for four seconds before my cell phone died. At that point, I considered how satisfying it would be to throw it on the floor and stomp it to a million pieces, but despite decided that the answer would be "highly," I put it back in my pocket. I really miss my StarTac.

Some small mishaps happened in finding the car and then discovering that neither I nor the driver know how to get to in-law's house from JFK, but it all worked out and I arrived around 7:00 and Husband, Mother-in-Law, Rebecca, and my friend who I invited to a Passover Seder that I almost didn't make it to came out to greet me. I barely ate anything at dinner, though, because my stomach was in the early stages of revolt. It felt really great to see everyone.

On the way home, my digestive track kicked up into full welcome home mode, and upon arriving at my apartment, I made a mad dash for the bathroom. Although I was about to shit my pants, I stopped dead in my tracks when I turned the bathroom light on.What the fuck? The hamster that used to run the wheel in my brain definitely died early that day, so I stood still, mouth agape, trying to process what happened to my toilet. A few moments later, the new hamster sent by the temp agency arrived, and the wheel spun again. A not-too-distant memory of a conversation I had with Husband while I was in India replayed in my head.

"Hey, I'm thinking of getting a new toilet seat," Husband said. "Any particular kind you want?"

"Not the cushiony kind," I replied. "Those split quickly."

"I was thinking that, too. Also, I'm not getting another wooden one," he piped in. I loved out wooden toilet seat (it had been a dream come true when we got it upon moving in almost five years ago, I shit you not), but knew he was right. Thanks to the crappy plumbing in the building which resulted in geyser sprays emanating from the toilet bowl, the toilet seat had starting rotting.

"Plastic it is," I agreed.

Now that I was faced with our new plastic toilet seat, I was not actually sure that I could bring myself to use it. But nature called – rather urgently, in fact – and I found my ass plopped down on quarters suspended in Lucite. We completely outdid my parents in Jewish white trashiness with this one.

Welcome home, Suzanne.

One More Thought

Is there a worse feeling than being utterly exhausted, just wanting to pass out in bed, and yet having to deal with a massive digestive explosion? Maybe being horny and having to deal with a massive disgestive explosion? I don't know. I've seriously considered crapping my bed before I finally draggeed myself over to the porcelain throne, but never risking a doody fuck. So I guess the latter is worse.

Wow, this must be the grossest thing I ever wrote. I need sleep.

The Hamster Running the Wheel in My Brain May Have Died

Next time I decide that it is a great idea to stay in Chicago an extra night after spending 8 days in India and debarking from a 16 hour flight so that I can have Passover with them, please stage an intervention. Obviously, I am on drugs and need help.

It's not that Passover or the family were bad. Or at least any worse than usual. It's just that I am so.damn.tired. When my dad picked me up from the airport, he revealed that while I was in India, Bubbe had two surgeries to fix clogged arteries. She'd been recuperating all week and my mom used her spring break to care for her. I already knew that she wasn't making Passover, but somehow this news didn't make me realize that she clearly would not be making her gefilte fish. (She was doing well since the surgeries, so I didn't worry about it.) Later in the afternoon, after foolishly not complying fully with Ray's advice to take a nap, I spent the afternoon with my bubbe and dad. I saw her new apartment, which has the most fucking amazing view of Lake Michigan. As I dazedly stared at the water and drool began seeping out of my mouth which was hanging open, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Bubbe was packing a can of gefilte fish to take to my aunt's house for our Seder. That horrible sight woke me up for a bit.

The rest of the evening went fine, except that also my digestive system had held up its end of the bargain pretty well and didn't explode on me in India, and thus is using today to catch up. And that damned canned gefilte fish. I put a teensy piece on my plate and trying to discretely sniff it.

"Are you smelling your food?" my mom asked.

She is always smelling her food, so I replied, "yeah," and stuck my nose closer to the plate. Nothing too suspicious. I took a tiny bite. Very, very wrong.

Anyway, I am both on the verge of falling asleep and shitting myself, so I'll finish with the India stuff tomorrow. Thanks for sticking through it with me.

Incredible India

After months of planning and eager anticipation, my departure for India is a mere 48 hours or so away. I hoped to be leaving on doody firma, but my digestive tract is in open revolt and not negotiating. Yesterday I showed my friend all the prescriptions I had to fill before I left, including a special one that the travel medicine clinic prescribed just in case of extreme diarrhea.

"How will you be able to tell if your case is the usual or extreme?" my friend asked.

"Oh, the doctor said specifically to use it in the event of bloody diarrhea," I cheerfully replied.

"Why are you going on this trip?" my friend asked.

I did ask myself that at one point while I was listening to all the vaccines and precautions I needed to take for the trip. In the injection department, I had two Hep B shots, a tetanus booster, and a polio booster. On the oral vaccine side, I took a typhoid vaccine and will start malaria pills on Friday. I was told to buy special insect repellent with a higher concentration of DEET and to spray my clothes with a special DEET spray that would last up to 6 weeks. In no uncertain terms am I supposed to ingest any unpurified water; Frommer's India even advises travelers "…do not open your mouth in the shower." I could get bloody diarrhea. It is a bit scary.

Still, the opportunity to see and experience India is so going to be worth it. I can't wait. I plan to travel blog while I am away, so my adventures, observations, and complaints will be posted daily. Hopefully, they will not include descriptions of bloody diarrhea.

They Stink

I hate stools. I'm not talking about the brown ones that come out of my ass, either, although for the record they have been quite unpleasant lately because I've been eating so much crap. (After all, you are what you eat.) No, the stools that I hate are the chairs that are a zillion feet off the ground for no discernible reason other than some idiot decided to make high tables because they look cool. Or for a bar, which at least makes sense.

As a short person, I find stools extremely difficult to navigate. How am I supposed to scoot closer to the table? My legs are at least four feet off the damn ground. Whoever invented non-bar stool and table sets clearly hated those of us who are vertically challenged. Yet another reason the Randy Newman song "Short People have No Reason to Live" resonates with me every once in a blue moon. (My mom used to serenade me with that song.)

Yes, I had a challenging dinner tonight. Dosas are delicious, but not on my lap and on the floor. Harumph.

Love and Hate

I love chocolate and cheese. My digestive tract hates chocolate and cheese. It is not shy about it. (If I was supposed to call you today and I did not, it is because there was interference from my guts. They had other plans for me. Sorry about that.)

I love Lover's Wine (Cranberry & Plum wine) from the Old Wine Cellar Winery in Amana, IA. Because everyone knows that the vineyards of Iowa are amongst the best in the world. (OK, love is a strong word for me and any wine, but that stuff is almost like candy, so it's not bad.) I hate Stone's Green Ginger Wine. This is a wine that Husband brought back from London that is made out of raisins and ginger. Yes, you read that correctly - raisins.

I love Fridays and Saturdays. I hate Mondays. I hate Sundays because they are the day before Monday and I waste a portion of the day hating Monday.

I love good parents. I hate bad parents, like the one my sister told me about when I spoke with her on the phone today. It seems that this one mom insists on dressing her three year old son in boxer shorts. While this is obnoxious in and of itself, the real problem is that the kid is not fully potty trained and shits himself. The turdies fall out of his loose boxers, down his leg, and on the floor. The kid's mom told Sister that they were at Wal-Mart and the kid shit himself and then suddenly there were turds on the floor. She said she laughed for hard she almost peed in her pants.

And Your Point Is?

As I was washing my hands after using the facilities at Bugaboo Magazine, I remembered something disturbing the infectious disease doctor said to me this morning. He was telling me about some sort of food-borne illness and said that people who are exposed to it should wash their hands after using the bathroom. To which I replied, "Shouldn't they be doing that anyway?" And I swear he stared at me like I was an idiot.

This is How the World Will End

Last September, Husband went to a presentation from a venture capital group that was held at the Philadelphia Planetarium. For no good reason other than the meeting was being held at a planetarium, the key note speaker was an obscenely wealthy guy who was the third private citizen to go into space by paying the Russians a lot of money. Husband said that his presentation was mostly boring, but the highlight was his explanation of how people shit and piss in space, complete with pictures. It seems that astronauts’ doody ultimately winds up in some sort of sealed box, which is then ejected into space.

Now picture this: some sort of other life form in the universe finds a large box floating into its home. “How lovely,” it thinks. “Someone sent me a gift!” Upon opening the box, however, (and hopefully before sampling it, think it is chocolate, a favorite food of all life forms) the life form discovers that some asshole has in fact sent it a turd. It is embarrassed and repulsed, and feels rather degraded. It never mentions the incident to any of its kind.

If we are not careful, this could happen over and over again. And one day, the other life forms are going to get really pissed. They will trace the space poop back to earth, invade the planet, and kill us all, which I often think we deserve at the rate we are going, anyway.

Space littering is a bad idea.