12 August 2006

A busy weekend

You may think that I haven't posted all weekend because I am busy living the fabulous life of a single woman in a California beach town, where the weather is always perfect and everyone rides cruiser bikes along the promenade with bouncy blonde hair streaming out behind them.

But no. We at Red Stapler Central have been cloistered, hard at work, doing research to try and discover the answer to a question that has been plaguing humankind forever. Or at least since Friday, when this came up on Mothergoosemouse: why do men take so long to poop? I mean, what are they DOING in the bathroom for so incredibly long? With reading materials?

This quest has taken me on long and arduous google searches with embarrassing strings like: men poop forever why; men restroom long time; men women poop different. And despite hours of effort, I still have not been able to come up with a satisfactory answer.

I did find a whole website Poop Report that is dedicated to the brown stuff. Naturally. Everything is on the web; everyone poops, so therefor everybody poops on the web. Anyone care to draw a Venn diagram?

I found a few articles on the subject: this one from the aforementioned Poop Report that explains a bit about pooping from a male perspective. Master of his own tiny, stinky domain - interesting, but it can't explain all male prolonged pooping. What about at home? What about men who own their own businesses and STILL spend years in the can?

Of course the fearless Dooce weighed in on poop far more hilariously than anyone has a right to do.

And everyone should know the FAQs of bowel habits,right?

One study abstract I saw said that vegetarians and vegans poop with greater frequency than meat-eaters. I want to know when my kickbacks from the toilet paper industry start. I think I deserve them, given that everyone who has lived under my roof for the past 20 years has had to go meatless, at least at home.

Consider this blog entry my public service for the day. I do it for no other reward than the dozens of weird search strings it will assure that I will see in my stat counter for years to come. I can hardly wait.

But I still need your help to discover the source of the mystery. Anyone? Anyone?

10 August 2006

Holy explosive device, Batman!

As usual, there is new, fabulous and interesting stuff at Linkateria, including a woman who smells like dead fish. You don't get that just anywhere. (Though the post is written and posted, blogger doesn't seem to be updating. If you are desperate, click the August 2006 link in the archive section of the sidebar.)

I have spent the past week over at Mr. Stapler's. No, we're not married. No, we don't live together. But he lets me stay over there whenever I want. He is nice that way.

This week I wanted to be there for my dear dog Goldie's sake. She hates fireworks of any sort and the county fair is on for 10 days, featuring fireworks at 10 pm every single freaking night. We live 1/2 mile from the fairgrounds. I didn't know if she could survive the nightly assault, since during the fourth of July leadup and aftermath she would not eat, sleep or urinate for 8 hours after the Explosive Amateur Hour around here every night.

So like gypsies, we packed up and moved. Tonight, with three days left of the fair, I missed my house and came home and brought her with me. But then at the last minute I left her at my parents' house, 7 miles away.

Thank Goddess. The assault just began and it is scaring ME. It is so incredibly loud. Bombs bursting in air and all that. During this time of war, I can't help but have new compassion for the people in Lebanon and Israel, who have real bombs falling on them.

I went out and stood in the driveway with Gorgeous Neighbor Leah the Surfer Girl. We oohed and aahed. I said a prayer for those living in the war zone. And then, for us, it was over.

God you're so depressing.
What is wrong with you?
Why do you WRITE stuff like this?
It was just some nice FIREWORKS fer chrissake.
What makes you think people want to read crap like this?
I thought you were supposed to be funny.
You never write anything funny anymore.
I'm worried about you.
Maybe you should get out more.
Maybe you should get mental help.
What is this stupid blog about anyway?
Why do you have to write so much?
Are you ever going to do anything with your life or are you just going to sit there in front of the computer?

Good night, voices.

Good night, Suebob

09 August 2006


My new blog header got me thinking. I'm 45 and I have been dating since I was, what, 14? Ever since that night when I went to miniature golf with Wayne Herron where he wanted to stick his hand down my pants out behind the shrubbery and I wouldn't let him. What an auspicious beginning.

Thirty one later, I have never married. That seems weird even to me. And despite the fact that he was a pushy, horny little freak, I probably can't pin all the blame on Wayne.

Did I have a desire to get married? Sure, yeah, once, desperately, but that was also the point of my life at which I was the most insane. I can also say that I am positive I would have been miserable with him, and that I would have divorced him and that he would not be a nice person to get a divorce from. So in my book he saved me a lot of trouble by refusing to get married (after he proposed, mind you).

When I told my mom I was moving in with Mr. Stapler, she said "But you have failed so many times before."

That was a bit of a karate chop to the gut.

My mom thought I failed. Ouch. Being a failure in the eyes of my parents is one of my worst fears and one of the things that keeps me from drinking cheap gin all day and living in a cardboard box as I have always aspired in my heart to do.

I had never looked at the end of my relationships as failures, which might seem strange. I have cried many big breakup tears and spent weeks moping around with wadded-up kleenexes in my hand, but I had never considered what I did failing. I always just thought I was moving on, and that I HAD to move on. I didn't feel that I had an alternative.

A friend asked the other day "When you look back on all the men you dated, don't you think it would have been ok if you had just picked one and married them?"

"Hell, no," I thought. I am thankful that I never tied the knot. None of them were horrible people, they just weren't people I wanted to spend decades with. Maybe no one IS.

And anyway, I'm boycotting marriage until everyone can get married. I feel strongly about gay rights, and right now it feels like getting married would be the moral equivalent of sitting in the front of the bus in Alabama in 1964.

So all you men who are lining up to ask, just don't bother. Get back to me after legislation changes. Thank you.

Some damn fine writing over at Linkateria today.

07 August 2006

Help indeed

My new favorite search term used to find this blog:

i shaved my crotch and now it itches what do do help

I love the "help" at the end. It sounds so sad and plaintive.

Any advice?

Finally, some new links over at Linkateria.

06 August 2006

County unfair

Four hours later I am still on the verge of tears.

I went out and destroyed weeds with the weed-whacker for about an hour but even that sweat and work couldn't erase what was going on in my mind.

I had a freelance newspaper assignment today covering a pie-eating contest at the county fair. What could be more innocent, more silly, more evocative of the whole fair? I figured "Free tickets and get paid to go drink lemonade and eat greasy food - what could be better?"

I got there about 45 minutes early (I AM a Davis, after all) and took a walk. In the Commercial Building with all the Macinack Island Fudge and Westbend Cookware, I saw a 50-something woman hustling a tiny old crippled-up man by the elbow. Hustling him way too fast for his skinny old legs.

As they passed by me, I heard her muttering "I've about had enough of this f*ing sh*t, you understand?" I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I followed them.

She sat him down in a motorized cart and continued cursing at him. I pretended to be watching the Olde Tyme Photo people.

"This is the second stunt you've pulled in about 10 minutes and I don't want any more of your crap," she hissed. He tried to start the cart but couldn't. She walked about 20 feet away. I sprang up to him.

"Do you need help starting that?" I asked, and he said yes. "Are you ok?" I asked, but then she was right in my face.

"You get away from him," she said. I looked up into her hateful eyes. Her face had that strange, flat look that longtime drunks get, but she didn't seem drunk.

I put on my best Pollyanna voice. "Oh, I'm just trying to help him get this thing srarted," I said. She stared at me. She was tall, about 5 foot ten, with shoulder-length scraggy grey hair.

"He's throwing a fit and you need to stop interfering," she said. He did not look like he was throwing a fit. He looked like a confused old man.

I continued to insist I was just trying to be helpful and she kept telling me to quit interfering, like 4 or 5 more times. I could feel my chest filling up with shards of broken glass.

"Are you ok?" I asked her, as gently as possible, trying to keep the trembling from my voice.

"You get away from me," she said, menacing and scary.

I went and found a security guard, which felt like it took forever. I explained the situation and he went to find his boss instead of going off to find the lady.

I felt completely helpless and stupid and sad. I felt like I should have done more. I wanted to protect that frail old man but I was too much of a chicken in the face of her hateful menace. I felt like I failed, and I still feel that way.

I don't want sympathy. I just want to say that I will do better next time. Be stronger, louder, smarter, not worry about getting to my assignment on time. Because sometimes more important things happen than our plans.
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