Peeing with the door open

I have a confession to make: I pee with the door ajar. If in someone's house who I just met I'll maintain some modesty. But overall, after knowing someone for over a month, in the name of chronometric economy, I'll skip the crucial step of shutting the door. Unless there's a party and the living room is just off the hall. . My parents made me this way. They also encouraged belching at the table. My father burped the alphabet.

My best friend came from a home where a slip in gas passage earned parental fury. We met at age 18. Her sphincter activated only in a soundproof, sealed toilet after great rumination. By age twenty we took turns in gas station bathrooms.

At age 24, she shocked me by dropping her pants, sitting on the rim of my car's passenger entry, and peeing on the side of the road. My pride welled as she pulled up her pants without anxiety as cars whizzed by. On I95 in South Florida, She'd done a good clean pee, no dribbles. The student becomes the teacher.

She got married two months ago. A week after her honeymoon she called me. “OMG! We poop with the door open.” She explained that not having a door on the master bathroom gives them two choices: dash into the living room while the other performs their evacuation, or remain blanketed in their warm bed. “I don’t think I’d be this free if it wasn’t for you," she claimed.

"Aww, thanks friend. Glad to have helped free up your martial toileting, but remember I only pee in front of you.” Pooping is a behind the scenes activity.

But what’s the big deal. We can't deny that humans would rather announce their need to void rather than their urge to defecate. No one wants to take a dump at the office. Why is peeing a more socially acceptable activity? Maybe because peeing uses our conventional genitalia and pooping employs our ‘alternative’ or ‘back door’ breach. Is it the odor? The production of solid matter? The grunting? Perhaps those inclined to share sustain the mystique of a number 2 for good reasons; a good poop affords us the peace to read our guilty pleasures, like Road and Track or Consumer Reports.

Michael Jackson

Last night I morned the loss and celebrated the life of Michael Jackson. After discussing his death and music contributions with my roommate, J, I headed to to ITunes and purchased the Fat and Eat It videos. After all, one of Mr. Jackson's greatest contribution to my life, aside from the awesome Black or White, was providing "Weird Al" Yankovic with parody fodder. According to "Weird Al", the parodies thrilled Michael Jackson.

Actually, I liked Michael Jackson and grew up on his music. I remember sitting in my best friends living room glued to MTV waiting for the Thriller video to air. In 1982 we lacked tech wonders like You Tube and media players. We ran home after school plopping ourselves in front of MTV. Clasping our hands together, we'd straighten our backs each time a Bryan Adams video ended chanting "Thriller, Thriller" at the television. The music network back when they aired music ran promos announcing when the 14 min video would air. Often it would play 5 times in prime time. And children everywhere squealed. My father's middle management position did not afford our family a VCR until 1984, so he bought my sister and I the album. I played on Thriller until I had memorized every syllable. Whenever some says, "Darkness Falls," I launch into Vincent Price's rap. "...across the land, the midnight hour..."

At twenty I liked a boy who loved Mr.Jackson and fell under his spell again. Our small college Hillel group drove around Lake Worth Beach with Black or White and Vanilla Ice blaring out the window. I watched the video on You Tube tonight (Is that Tyra Banks?) and remembered the good days when a video told the story of a song. Not like today's artsy and hyper-sexual renderings.

His music played everywhere today: the radio in my cab, the hospital cafeteria,Subwaytm. I never bopped around like that while getting seasoned fries on my lunch break before. I sang under my breath and danced under the counter as I payed for my veggie patty sub. The King of Pop made me do it. It's got a great beat and you can dance to it. Pure music from a thirty-something's age of innocence. The counter man said that his death reminds us that life is short. I said it makes us wonder why we don't appreciate something until it is gone. When he was alive we didn't listen because we focused more on his strangeness. Now we remember how good the music was. And how good it made us feel.

At the end of his trial, our media professor assigned someone to check their internet phone every five minutes. The not guilty made me happy. I felt the poor guy was being run through. I never cared about his persona or his scandals, that's not my business.

I'm glad the music played everywhere today and I relived some great moments.

Thank you Mr. Jackson from my whole singing and dancing heart.

The Pill Shooter

I am jumping for joy tonight. I finally got my cat to take a pill. Some backstory: My cat Giles has a skin allergy which causes him to scratch and lick himself sore. After I exhausted all of my vet's knowledge in fighting it, she sent me to a specialist, Dr. Pikes of Animal Allergy and Dermatology.

The assistants descended on him, taking samples from every part of his body. He has both fungal and bacterial infections on his sore spots. I was nervous about the pills since I tried before. The aftermath of the pilling session looked like I'd plucked a chicken: white hair everywhere and scratches on my arms. Enter the pill shooter, a long narrow tube with a plunger. The E how website has amusing directions on how to use this product here. I really like number three.

"Calmly talk to your cat and explain why he needs a pill, and what you are going to do, and that it will be quick and will not hurt."

Of course he'll understand. Giles, honey, you are scratching the shit out of yourself and frankly I can't hear the sound of your sandpaper touge abrading your bald flesh anymore. So I am going to open your mouth and shove this little bitty pill into it. Okay, If you don't scratch me or bite my fingers it will be over in a second. And I promise, It will hurt me more that you. 'K pumpkin.

I did comfort him and I was quick and it worked. YEA! The crushing and mixing was getting on my nerves.