G-String Undies

When most people think back to the 80s, they remember MTV, the invention of video games, the fall of the Berlin Wall, or the demise of the Cold War. Not me. I remember the 80s for the birth of g-string underwear. 

Looking back at the styles, it is clear to see why the popularity of the g-string was inevitable. Everything we wore in the 80's was fashioned in such a way that our clothes appeared to be just another layer of our skin. When we went clubbing, we either wore tight-ass jeans (regrettably acid wash) or tube- skirts. When we worked out, we wore spandex. The tighter the garment, the better.

It was during this decade that we started to really appreciate the human form, and we didn't want to conceal it by wearing bell-bottoms or crinoline skirts. Instead, we spent hours on our mothers' sewing machines, taking in the bottoms of our jeans so we could easily tuck them into our white "come-f**k-me" boots. If we didn't have the means to a sewing machine, we would spend countless hours tightening, overlapping, tucking, and then rolling up the bottom of our pants so  they would fit tightly around our ankles. We were a generation who, through our fashions, announced, "Hey look at my Jane-Fonda-sculptured-ass," while hoping that our camel toes went unnoticed. 

Like any teenage girl of the time, I fell victim to the fashions of the decade. I remember loving Esprit, Ralph Lauren, and Calvin Klein, but since I was never rich enough to enjoy such fashions, I looked to the next best fashion icon of the time; Madonna. Her style I could afford. 

With the money I had earned from working at McDonalds, I would buy clothes that resembled the fashions she wore while prancing around in the videos "Borderline," "Lucky Star," and "Like a Virgin." I spent my measly paychecks on tube-skirts, lace tops, crucifixes, stilettos, leggings, and studded belts.

One outfit that I was particularly proud of was this cute little number I had bought from Le Chateau. It consisted of a tight, orange, mini tube-skirt with a matching orange and white striped t-shirt. It was hot! 


However, there was one problem: the skirt was so tight, it outlined the seams of my underwear, including the gusset. This was unacceptable.

Luckily, Le Chateau had 2 for 1 undies on sale. As I sorted through the bin, I couldn't help but think what a total rip-off it was, considering the garment I was about to purchase consisted of three strings and a patch of fabric in the shape of a triangle. Basically, I was about to buy an eye patch and try to pass it off as underwear, so for all intents and purposes, we will just say that I purchased my first crotch patch. 


These g-string underwear were uncomfortable but necessary; I was willing to sacrifice comfort so I could wear my little tart-skirt while giving the impression that I was going commando. Panty lines, after all, were so 70s.

Like any girl who buys a brand new outfit, I wanted a place to wear it. As it so happened, all my underaged peeps were meeting at our favorite bar, Uncle Eddies. Uncle Eddies was a bar that thrived on underage drinkers. It was a seedy establishment that employed bouncers who had the math skills of ferrets. It never failed, while the bouncer was calculating the age of the person ahead of you, you and ten of your friends could sneak in behind him without his knowledge. If you were unable to do this, all you needed to do was borrow the license of a friend who was of legal drinking age. You didn't even have to look remotely like the picture on the license. Hell, you didn't even have to be the same race. Getting into Uncle Eddies was pretty much a given.

Because it was a hop, skip, and a jump away from where I lived, this bar served as the ideal oasis for me. All I had to do was walk through the gully, cross the Crowchild overpass, and climb through the man-made hole that was conveniently placed in the chain-link fence that stood right outside of Uncle Eddie's backdoor. From door-to-door, it probably took me about 15 minutes, depending on how much alcohol I had just consumed.

The night was proving to be everything that I had imagined for my cute little outfit.  My high school crush was there with some of his friends, and I knew there would be no way around him noticing me in this hot little get-up.

As we stood around waiting for the rum and cokes to kick in, we gossiped about school. And then, out of nowhere, the bass kicked out a familiar tune. Jess, one of my girlfriends, screamed, "I love this song!" She ran out to the dance floor as the beat picked up. I, for one, refused to be the first person out on the dance floor and required a few more drinks to let my guard down. 


We all stood around and watched Jess prance around the floor with a bunch of drunk guys. 2 Live Crew's song, "We Want Some Pussy," was playing, and every time the chorus played, there was Jess, with all those drunk pigs, emphatically claiming that she, too, wanted some pussy. Except, Jess thought the words to the song were, "We Want to Push It." Far be it from any of us to correct her, instead, we were all busting a gut laughing at her. This was years before girl-on-girl was popular; Basic Instinct had not been released yet.

The next couple of songs were good enough to entice all of us out onto the dance floor. With our alcohol-induced confidence, we sang and danced to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" and AC-DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." My g-string underwear were proving to be quite the good investment. I could shake, bump, and grind to any song without having to worry about any compromising position showing off my panty lines. I was on fire.

As sexy as I was on that dance floor, nothing could distract me from the fact that I really had to pee. The matter became one of urgency when I realized that my flimsy underwear could not withstand the challenge of absorbing anything should I accidentally piss myself.

I rushed to the bathroom and found myself a relatively clean stall. To bear my weight, I braced each arm against the walls of the stall, and I squatted down without touching the toilet seat in fear that I might catch crabs. This did not work for me. I was way too drunk. I resigned to sitting on the toilet seat, pissed off that the girl before me was more successful at squatting, and in doing so, had pissed all over the seat. 

My bladder must have been holding a gallon because the stream would not stop. Since I had a great deal of time to spare, I started reading the graffiti on the bathroom stall. I wondered what kind of person feels compelled to let everyone know that she was here. Who really gives a shit? "Kelsey, class of 85, was here." I also wondered what shitty thing James did to his girlfriend that made her write, "James has a small penis." I considered leaving my own little message but decided that I was above this.

As the night went on, I became more intoxicated. Conversing with anyone was becoming more difficult, and dancing soon became out of the question. I looked across the bar, and I saw my fantasy boyfriend talking to another girl. "Okay, that's it," I thought. As with many drunk nights before and after this night, when I decide that I am done, I really mean that I am done.

Without saying goodbye to my friends, I stumbled towards the back of the bar and left through the back door. Two of my guy friends from school were out back smoking pot. After declining an invitation to join them, I found my way to the chain-link fence.

I was pacing back and forth, trying to find the hole in the fence through which I could climb. I kept thinking, "It was here just last weekend. Did they close it up?" As hard as I tried, I could not find it. This would not stop me...I had to get home. I took my purse and threw it over my shoulder. With both hands, I grabbed onto the fence and found my bearings as I dug the tip of my shoe into one of the tiny holes. I was able to gain enough leverage so I could pull myself up to start climbing the fence. This was the easy part. Hoisting my leg over the top of the fence, however, proved to be quite challenging.

There was a short moment in time that I was straddled over the top of the fence, trying to shift my weight so I could swing my other leg over. I don't know if many people have spent much time straddling a chain-link fence, but take my word when I say that they are uncomfortable and inappropriately invasive. Had my hymen still been intact, this would have made for one of those non-coital moments that would have surely broken it— like aggressive horseback riding, or wiping out while water skiing. 

It was during this Olympic straddle that my two friends started making cat calls. I had forgotten I had an audience. After a brief moment of being fence-raped, I was able to swing my other leg over the top and jump down. As I pulled myself together, I noticed that my purse was hanging upside down, and all its contents were on the ground before me. I picked up all my stuff, shoved it back into my purse, pulled down my skirt (which was up around my waist) and stumbled home.

The next morning, I awoke with the worst headache I had ever experienced in my 17 years. It felt as though my heart had migrated to my head, because every time it would beat, my brain would rattle. 


In my drunken state, I had passed out on top of my covers and was still wearing my clothes from the previous night. My cute little outfit had been ruined by coke stains and cigarette burns.  

I got out of bed and found my purse to see if I had lost anything. This has since become a tradition for me. Except, now, I rarely find anything missing. Back then, however, it was pretty much guaranteed that I would have lost money, lipstick, or my license. Sure enough, I could not find my license. Except it wasn't my license; it was my older sister's license. I had snuck it from her just in case I needed it to get into the bar. Shit, I had to find it.

I decided that I would go back to the fence to see if it fell out of my purse during my fearless climbing expedition. 


As I changed my clothes, I came to the grave realization that my sister's license wasn't the only thing I was missing. Somewhere between dancing at the bar and passing out in my bed, I had lost my panties. I racked my brain as I tried to remember if I had gotten together with some guy. My memories of the night before, though foggy, did not include a hook-up. I decided to stop worrying about it, for I had more pressing matters to attend to; I had to find my sister's I.D..

When I arrived at the fence, it didn't take me long to find Andrea's license. Thank God! I bent down to pick it up, and I noticed that the hole in the fence, for which I had been desperately searching, was less than five feet from where I stood. How did I miss it? As I surveyed the ground for anything else I may have lost, I couldn't help but notice, in the periphery of my vision, a small, white object on top of the fence that was swaying to-and-fro in the wind. Curious as to what it could be, I stepped towards the fence to get a better look. "Hmmm, what is that?" As I got closer, the object became horrifyingly clear to me. Mystery solved! 


My panties!  


There they were, flapping in the wind, as free as Nelson Mendela.

I contemplated retrieving them, but reconsidered this decision due to the fact that it was rush hour and Crowchild was bumper-to-bumper traffic. Besides, I had another pair at home that was just like them. Not to mention, leaving my panties stuck to that fence was just as symbolic as Neil Armstrong leaving the American flag on the moon. It suggested that I had conquered unmarked territory. It was my own personal way of saying, "Rachel Paul, class of '88, was here."


http://www.amazing-animations.com/

Pensive

I've been working a lot, writing a lot, sleeping a lot...anything to avoid the reality of the last couple of months. Sometimes, I think I'm coping well and moving on, and then, out of nowhere, it hits me; she is gone.  Losing someone you love sucks the big one. But at the same time, I can look at this photo and see something in her face that tells me she posed for this picture knowing that, one day, I would be analyzing her smile, the look in her eyes...the whole expression on her face that says, "Aunty Rachel, it's all going to be okay. Trust me, silly!" And I do trust her, because in the side-view mirror, there is a long, snow-covered road that has been traveled, and yet she smiles, completely unfazed.

Birth Planner's Death Plan

A Die-Hard (pun intended) Birth Planner's 

Death Plan

Bad, bad, bad word!!!

My spouse and I acknowledge that when my spirit leaves my body, it is a natural process. Please do not refer to this process by using the "D" word.

I have a true hatred for medical personnel, so please don't take offense if I doubt your assessments and recommendations. Having spent the last two days surfing the web, I consider myself adept in this area and, therefore, more qualified than you to know what's best for me.

If I present to the hospital in pain, under no circumstance are  you to offer me medication that will abate my discomfort. Even if I change my mind, my husband is under strict instructions not to allow medication administration. I know that losing me is painful for him, but if he should suffer by watching me suffer, then all the better. 

I do not want an I.V. It will interfere with my mobility during my spiritual transport.

Intravenous Therapy

hell-to-the-no

I reserve the right to remain mobile during this process. Even if I can't breathe, I would like to be free to roam the halls. I would also like to sit on bouncy-ball and get in different positions to facilitate this process naturally. 

I am paying an arm and a leg for a comfort specialist who will be with me during this very pivotal moment. She has attended a three-day workshop; thus, she is qualified to give her opinion regarding medical recommendations. Please do not refer to her  as my ghoula.

I request that a mirror be available so I can watch my spirit leave my body.

Should I present without any brain activity, please do not consider me passed until my heart has stopped surging. I am aware that this could take years, and it might be a huge strain on my loved ones, but since this is a natural process, I would like my heart to stop beating on its own terms. My husband—no one else—will pronounce me dead when my heart stops...unless, of course, he has remarried. 

Please delay my last bath as long as possible. Because incontinence is a natural occurrence when you die, I don't mind if my family and friends say their last good-byes to me with me smelling of shit and piss. 

Under no circumstance is my husband allowed to leave my side. He must accompany me everywhere; even to the morgue. 

I appreciate your cooperation. Should your care deviate from my wishes, you will be held accountable for my spirit not leaving this earth exactly the way I had planned it. As a result, I will come back in the form of a lawyer to haunt your sorry ass!

The L&D Nurse's Death Plan

A Labor and Delivery Nurse's Death Plan

• I believe that dying is a natural process. However, should I be in pain, please do everything in your power to ease it, even if this requires giving me an epidural. I want this to be as quick and pain-free as possible.

• If I come in dying, please obtain IV access as soon as possible to administer necessary medication. The heavier you sedate me, the better.

• I don't mind being immobile if I am actively dying. I am sure that I will be too lethargic to roam the halls or to shower, so I don't mind being in a bed.

One of Sally's ancestors painted this picture

• I understand there are signs and symptoms of dying, but in order to assess this, you must be able to monitor certain changes...

Not good!

Good!

I allow you to assess for these changes even if it requires using medical equipment

• Because I have done more homework in researching my doctor than I have in surfing the web for this death plan, I trust the physician I have chosen. If it is obvious I am dying, and my doctor tells me this, I won't demand a second opinion from another doctor in another practice.

• If my death is a long, drawn out process, I don't mind if you augment my death with potassium. If potassium is not available, please smother me with a pillow.

• It is okay to use the words death and pain. Let's not sugar-coat it; it is what it is.  After all, a turd by any other name would still smell just as awful. 

• If my brain has no activity... 

please do not wait until my heart is done pulsating to pull the plug. 

Thank you for making this day easier on me and my family. I have prearranged for Tiff's Treats© to be delivered to you and your staff shortly after I have been pronounced dead. 

Punctuation Inc.

Trouble had been brewing at Punctuation Incorporated for quite some time now. On their last assignment, the punctuation team failed miserably. Mr. I. Write, the C.E.O., shouldered some of the blame, for he knew it was his responsibility to direct the team's use of correct grammar and sentence structure. He considered blaming Mrs. Proofreader for the poorly constructed essay, but since she was his overly critical lover, he decided against it. 

In an effort to save his team, Mr. Write held an impromptu staff meeting. He needed to be reassured that each team member understood his and her assigned tasks. 

As the group convened, they carefully selected their seats. 

Ms. Comma and Ms. Question Mark sat together. They were best friends, and because of their curvaceous figures, they regularly attended Weight-Watchers meetings together. The main reason their friendship thrived was because Ms. Question Mark never confused Ms. Comma's job for her own. In fact, Ms. Question Mark was confident in her position at Punctuation Inc. and never questioned, which was quite unlike her, what she needed to do to get the job done. Needless to say, she did her job well. It was a common belief, however, that the only reason she did it well was because she rode on the coattails of Who, What, Where, When, Why, Which, and How. These guys adored Ms. Question Mark, not for the proficiency with which she performed her job, but more for her top-heavy figure: she had big breasts. You would never see these guys doting over Ms. Comma like they doted over Ms. Question Mark. Poor Ms. Comma—she had a huge butt. 

Exclamation Mark—the office homosexual and the most out-spoken of the group—would have been happy to sit next to his plump friend, Ms. Comma, but in an effort to avoid Ms. Question Mark, he sat by himself. You see, he loathed Ms. Question Mark. She would always make fun of his stick-like figure. In his mind, she was mean! 

True to form, Ms. Period sat at the very end, and Mr. and Mrs. Quotation Marks, who were always fighting, sat on opposite ends from each other. Apparently, today's fight had put Mrs. Quotation Marks into such a foul mood, she almost got into a fight with Ms. Period over the seating arrangements. Mrs. Quotation Mark thought it only appropriate that she sit on the end. Ms. Period, suffering from a constant state of P.M.S, was obstinate and would not budge. 

Colon and Semi-Colon were still in the men's room where they were engaging in some New Age treatment known as a caffeine-colon-cleanse. Ms. Question Mark, true to her nature, always inquired about this strange morning ritual, to which they would both reply, "You may start your morning off with a cappuccino; we prefer an 'asspresso.'" This would abruptly end the interrogation. 

Em Dash—known for his flight of ideas and frequent interruptions—caused quite the commotion as he ran into the room to take a seat. In doing so, he rudely interrupted Mr. Write's train of thought. Taking the only seat available, Em Dash sat next to Exclamation Mark, who flirtatiously leaned over and said to him, "You look simply dashing!" 

Once everyone was seated, Mr. Write commenced the meeting. Mrs. Proofreader wrote down the minutes while exchanging seductive stares with Mr. Write. 

"Well, folks, I am sure you are all wondering why I called you here today. When perusing our last assignment, I found more grammatical errors than I found in my son's fourth-grade book report," he shamefully admitted. 

"This leaves me no choice but to have each of you explain to the rest of us what it is you bring to the table, or more specifically, to a written piece." 

"Who would like to go first?" he asked, hoping someone would eagerly volunteer. 

"Oh, I'll go! I just love public speaking!" Exclamation Mark declared with great excitement as he bounced out of his seat. 

Skipping to the front of the group, he cleared his throat while he shifted his skinny weight to one side and placed his hand on his hip. 

"Well, my adoring peeps! I am the cayenne pepper of writing! I spice things up! In dialogue I make commands or exude passion! I add emotion! I add ummph! I add piz—!" 

At this point Mr. Write interrupted him. "Yes, Exclamation, you do add some flavor to a piece, but may I remind you that you are one of the junior members of the team, and your input should be kept to a minimum. I recognize your job is important; it is needed at times, especially in written dialogue, to emphasize a sentence that declares utmost emotion. Nevertheless, when you get over-zealous and make yourself too available, it can really ruin the essence of a story. You are an invaluable member of the team, but I must insist you tone down your presence." 

"Fine!" Exclamation retorted, returning to his seat. Although he understood the point Mr. Write was making, he couldn't help but wonder if he could find a better job at the Cingular store across the street. At least in a job like that he would be a key player as he graced the text messages on cellphones across the nation...LOL! OMG! BRB! A market such as this would undoubtedly appreciate his true worth. He just knew it! 

Ms. Question Mark made her way up to the front of the group. "You want me to explain what it is I do for all of you?" she asked. 

Mr. Write nodded in agreement. 

"Do I not ask the direct questions of the story? Is this not clear?" she asked. "I ask not what the writing asks of me, but what I ask for the writing. That is the question, right?" Without further explanation, she took to her seat as the rest of the group sat in confusion. It became clear to the team members that although she was good with questions, her talents were pretty much limited. 

Mr. Write called on Semi-Colon and his brother, Colon, to address the group. The two were always vying for Mr. Write's attention, but he found them both equally important. Colon, feeling he was superior to his brother, spoke first. 

"My job is as follows: I may introduce quotations or summaries, I am the leader of many lists, and I join two independent sentences while allowing the second to amplify the first. My job is important: I am essential," he attested. 

Semi-Colon, eager to up-stage is brother, announced, "I am Semi-Colon; therefore, I am." He spoke with urgency. "I unite two related independent sentences where a conjunction is lacking." During his address, Semi-Colon began to fidget nervously, as if to avoid a strong urge. "I must leave in haste; my morning enema is taking effect!" The two brothers quickly left the room. 

Next, Mr. Writer called forth the Quotation Marks to inform the group of their job descriptions. Mr. Quotation, the leader of every quote, demanded attention as he explained the following: "The Mrs. and I are like the front and back door of every quotation. Everyone, including you, Ms. Period, must exist within our realms. We enclose everything that is being said, including punctuation. Think of us as your bodyguards; we've got your front and your back." They returned to their seats, but this time, Ms. Period begrudgingly switched seats with Mrs. Quotation Mark. 

Ms. Period, determined not to be undermined by the Quotations, stood up from her chair to speak. "I know I may seem depressed to most of you, but you would be depressed, too, if you had to perform a job of such monotony," she explained in a despondent manner. "Simply put, I end sentences....I end a lot of sentences. I am overworked, and if it weren't for Exclamation Mark and Ms. Question Mark, I would never get a break." Close to tears, Ms. Period sat back down, picked up her purse, and retrieved a tampon. She, too, left in haste for the bathroom. 

Mr. Write decided to skip over Em Dash, who, as it so happened, wasn't paying attention anyway. Dash suffered from A.D.H.D., and as a result, he was very disruptive. The hyperactive part of his disorder is what earned him the name 'Dash.' He had a tendency—no, more like a social affliction—to interject mid-sentence, thereby interrupting the flow of thought. Dash was commonly confused for his cousin, Hyphen, who was a 22-year-old, all-knowing jerk. 

Last but not least, it was Ms. Comma's turn to share her knowledge with the group. Frequently misunderstood, Ms. Comma knew she had her work cut out for her. 

"Well," she started timidly, "I have numerous jobs, but I will only explain the basic ones. With help from the conjunction team, I unite two independent sentences, but only if the subject is repeated in the second sentence. Also, I am used after introductory words and phrases. Over the years, there has been much debate over my function in serials. Although it is agreed that I am required between serials of three or more, it is debatable if I am needed after the last serial before the word 'and.' If it was up to me, which it isn't, I would prefer to be present, as I know I can prevent confusion. Unless you are writing for a newspaper, where space is a concern, I feel I have the right to be after the second serial." 

Confident she had done a good job in explaining her role, Ms. Comma returned to her seat, where she took out her morning snack of an apple, a piece of cheese, and a carton of low-calorie milk. 

Mr. Write was pleased with his team. He dismissed them to return to their cubicles. As they filed out of the room, he realized it wasn't their fault for the poorly written assignment; it was his. They knew how to function in composition, so now it was up to him to understand their rules and apply them accordingly. 

With a renewed spirit, he gathered up his material. As he turned to leave, Mrs. Proofreader asked, "Would you like a quickie?" 

This casual proposition, though tempting, made him realize that he and Mrs. Proofreader were not cut out for each other. Since he was a better writer than a speaker, and she a better reader than a listener, he responded via post-it note. He scribbled his reply and handed it to her. 

"Mrs. Proofreader, I regret to inform you that our tryst is over. First of all, you are married, and secondly, I find you very critical. You point out everything that is wrong with me, you ruin my confidence." 

After reading his response, Mrs. Proofreader replied derisively, "Fine! Have it your way, but for your information, 'You point out everything that is wrong with me, you ruin my confidence,' is a comma splice, you idiot!" With that she turned and stormed out of the room. 

Her abrupt exit left Mr. Write alone with his thoughts. The stress of the last couple of days had caught up to him. To slow his hurried mind, he did what all great writers do: he opened up his laptop, and Mr. Write began to write. 

*****

"I have spent most of the day putting in a comma and the rest of the day taking it out."~Oscar Wilde

The Tao of Poop

I have always conceded that a good friend is measured by your ability to sit in comfortable silence with that person. Conversations, like good friendships, should not be forced.

Aside from reposeful silence, another quality I look for in a friend is the ability to comfortably discuss with her those things in life that you are otherwise uncomfortable discussing with someone like, say, your boss.

In other words, I consider a good friend to be one with whom I can discuss the finer details of taking a really good dump. An even better friend is one who is willing to analyze that dump after I command, "Hey, come and check this one out." The greatest friend of all is the kindred spirit who, after inspecting my productivity, gives me a congratulatory pat on the back and says, "Strong work. Do you mind if I take a picture?"

Let's face it, solid elimination is a fact of life, and what good are friends if you can't share this satisfying experience with them? This is not to say that I don't value loyalty. Believe me, I would be nothing short of enraged if I found out that my good friend had leaked a picture of my little, brown baby on the Internet.

Needless to say, there is a code of silence among friends when discussing the art of defecation. Unless, of course, your good friend is me, in which case you must accept that I have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than to blog about the intricacies of plop-dropping...if for no other reason than to hone my writing skills. But fear not, my bosom buddies, your identities will be protected (tee hee). Due to the sensitive content of this prose, I have changed the names to avoid bringing humiliation to the reported poop-doers and poop-talkers.

If not for my wonderful friends and their willingness to candidly divulge the intimate details of their bodily functions, I would have never come up with the Tao of Poop. Below are some of the life lessons that have been acquired on (and sometimes off) that proverbial throne we commonly refer to as the shitter...

Tao #1: Everyone Poops.

The Japanese are obviously more comfortable with this topic, as evidenced by the children's book Minna Unchi. Kudos to Amanda Mayer for translating this book into the American version Everyone Poops. All over the Western World, parents have used this book as a potty-training tool. I, personally, have considered purchasing this great piece of literature and using it as a coffee-table book. At the very least, based on the conversations it would elicit, this book would serve as an invaluable tool at dinner parties for weeding out mediocre acquaintances from potentially great friends.

Tao #2: Everyone turns around to look at their poop. Those who say they don't are lying.

Many G.I. specialists agree that your poop tells the story of your overall health. If this isn't reason enough to examine your poop, then I don't know what is.

Besides, I am pretty sure Michelangelo spent hours inspecting his sculptures, so why should you feel ashamed for taking a peek at yours?

As I am sure most people are aware, it can be very disappointing when you turn around to find that your poop is missing. Poof! Gone. It's as if it gets sucked into the depths of hell before you even have a chance to bear witness to the fruits of your labor. I refer to this little bugger as the Ghost Poop, which brings me to Tao number three.

Tao #3: It is okay to personify your poop and use idioms when referring to act of defecation.

The Rocking Chair Poop, according to my good friend who suffers from chronic constipation, is the poop that requires you to use back-and-forth rocking motions in order to rid yourself of the tenacious little bastard. I have another friend who refers to this same kind of poop as the Monkey Poop. During her difficult elimination attempts, she will actually bring both feet up on the toilet seat, thereby opening up her bottom while perching herself on the toilet like a monkey.

My personal favorite is the Conservative Poop. This one requires little cleanup and saves you tons on toilet paper. Conversely, The Bush Poop is the one that leaves you with no choice but to believe your ass is harboring weapons of mass destruction. Like the Bush Administration, the Bush Poop couldn't care less about the environment, it requires a great deal of cleanup, and it leaves you with the feeling that there is more destruction yet to come.

Another friend, whose name will remain undisclosed (you're WELCOME, Sue), uses Pat Green's song Wave on Wave to describe her pre-movement sensation. Whenever I hear her singing the lyrics "it came upon me wave on wave," I know it's time to remove myself from the perimeter and have her call me at a later date. Other friends have referred to the art of elimination as dropping the kids off at the pool, pinching off a loaf, or squeezing out a squirrel.

However you may refer to it, I think we can all agree that pooping requires a little bit of etiquette.

Tao #4: Be polite. Even though you may enjoy your own shit, others find it disgusting.

All bathrooms should be equipped with deodorizer or matches. If they are, please use them. If they aren't, then I suggest you spend five minutes fanning your arms to disperse the odor, or you can make a clean-break when you are sure no one else is around. Should someone catch you, it is acceptable to blame the stench on another person, providing that other person isn't me.

And, yes, serial flushes are required if you just dropped the Dale Earnhardt of poops and have left track marks on the white porcelain. Furthermore, it is utterly impertinent to leave one square of toilet paper on a roll. Not every poop can be the Conservative one!

Tao #5: To maintain anonymity when using public stalls at work, choose your shoes wisely.

This particular rule doesn't really apply to me since I have a designated private "office" at work. For my friend Sully, however, leopard print shoes are not the wisest choice when attending a meeting at the public loaf factory in her office. She wears her unique footwear like a Scarlet Letter, which leaves her poop-scared and stuck in a stall, too embarrassed to come out. My suggestion? Try the Monkey.

Tao #6: Devote your attention to the task at hand.

Unless you are great at multi-tasking, I strongly discourage you from doing a Sudoku and talking to your your best friend on the phone while evacuating your impurities, especially if your mind is already preoccupied with wardrobe choices for the date you have later that evening. Pay heed to this advice, otherwise, the outcome will be pure humiliation.

It will be no one's fault but your own when your date comes over, asks to use the bathroom, and upon latching the door, leaves you with the grave realization that because you weren't focused on the earlier task at hand, you forgot to flush. If it weren't for the complete humiliation brought on by such an incident, you would have been quick on your feet by blaming it on your roommate, but since you already told this date she was away for the weekend, you must grovel quietly in your own shame. It will be the only time in your dating career when you won't question a guy's reasons for never calling you again.

Tao #7: When in public washrooms, maintain a firm grip on your toilet paper, lest it flies out of your hand and lands, faceup, in the occupied stall next to you.

Right, Jay?

Tao#8: There are appropriate and inappropriate places to lay your troops.

Appropriate:

Aside from my home, my next favorite place to leave my offerings is at work. Many people may disagree, but if you can secure a discrete and quiet bathroom, nothing beats the feeling of knowing that you are getting paid to crap. What's even more satisfying is being employed at a place that offers evening and weekend differentials.

Unless you suffer from a medical condition, it is unacceptable to leave your solid waste in certain places. I, for one, know that the urge can be ignored for at least three days; they call it a romantic getaway for a reason.

Inappropriate:

My Bed. I don't care how much alcohol and mexican food you just inhaled on your boys-night-out.

Port-o-potties. First of all, anyone who would want to use one of these for this purpose doesn't value how ambiance can amplify the satisfaction of a good purge. Secondly, it's disgusting.

Truck stops. Think webcams and Peeping Toms.

Baby Showers. To this day, it confuses me that someone could momentarily excuse herself from the elegant baby shower we threw for our dear friend, Shawna, only to drop the Mother Load in our tiny bathroom, which I might add, was less than six-feet away from the perfectly displayed, three-tiered stand of pink and mint-colored iced cupcakes. Whoever you are, you may think you got away with it. And granted, for a short time, you did. But I am here to tell you that whatever it was you flushed down our toilet...was found...hours later...at a remote location! Evidently, the massive missile you dropped in our commode was too much for our septic tank to bear. The shear force of your shit caused it to blow right through our pipes like an MK-46 torpedo. Your dump found its final resting place, right there, smack-dab in the middle of our front lawn.

After our initial shock and disgust from this gruesome discovery had waned, my close friends and I stood in comfortable silence as we hovered over this uninvited lawn ornament, each of us lost in awe at its enormity. Although I can't attest to what my friends were thinking, I am pretty sure Sue was reciting "Wave on Wave" in her head, and T-Bone was most likely considering the great satisfaction this mammoth-sized dump must have provided for its creator.

The only thought running through my mind was: "Hmm? I wonder if this is where all Ghost Poops end up?"

*****

I had to include this comment that was left for me on my Facebook wall regarding the Tao...

Pooper, in answer to your questions: 1) I can not divulge the creator of the monkey. However, I can tell you she came up with this position during her pregnancy, so I imagine that if a pregnant woman can do it, it can't be all that difficult. I will thank Monica... (oooooh, crap, I didn't mean to say her name... shit, what's wrong with my delete button? It won't work!) 2) If socks are problematic, might I suggest "Yoga Paws." They are like socks with rubber traction on the soles. Hope this helps!