Friday, February 9, 2007
When I saw these on the back of my friend's toilet, I knew I had to have some too. Partly because dry toilet paper doesn't always do the job, if you know what I mean, but mainly because there is a picture of a frog wiping his arse, right on the box. Who could pass up the opportunity to adorn their lavatory with frogs practicing proper hygiene? Certainly not me. So I bought not one, but two boxes, plus refills. They even have a lovely cucumber melon scent. No more fishy odor for me, it's all fruit and vegetables down there from now on. To top it off, every time I use one, I can be heard singing in the bathroom from outside the house. It's a simple song, something like, "Caaaaaaannnn dooooooo, caaaaaannnn dooooo, (repeat about 10 times over)." Have I finally lost my mind? Oh yeah, but that happened long ago. I may be the only woman without kids that owns these things. What can I say? I am young at heart.
Since I don't feel like battering all of you, again, with my tales of whimpering woe, I will tell you a story instead. Gotta give you all a break every once in awhile.
When I first met The Ass (aka first husband who doesn't really deserve the title of husband) at the ripe age of 19, he told me that his last girl friend had dumped him. Believing him, we started dating. A few weeks into our relationship, we decided to camp out over night in front of B10ck.buster so we could get tickets to the P1nk Fl0yd concert. By the way, the concert was on April 20th. For those in the know, I think you will find that date ironic, for those who are not please don't ask, because it's not appropriate blog conversation, even on this blog.
Any hoo, we spent a freezing night on the sidewalk, not sleeping. I had to work at 10am the next morning, so around 9am I headed to his house where I was staying for a few days because of a terrible fight with my college roommates. When I came in the door, I saw that my underwear were dispersed about the living room, with a trail leading to the bedroom where my duffel bag was. His dog, Sierra, was not as big on eating underwear as my current dog, but every once in awhile she would express herself by eating the crotches out of my underwear, you know, just for shits and giggles. So as I picked up my crotchless undies, I scolded her and tried to reason with her regarding her behavior. Usually, she slinks away, wagging her tail in an apology, but that morning she just looked confused.
I decided to change my clothes and put on my jeans for work. As I put one leg in, I realized that my leg went through, but not into a pant leg. Staring down, I realized that my leg went through a gigantic hole in the crotch of my relatively new jeans. Again, I scolded Sierra. So I picked up a different pair of pants, and the exact same thing occurred. Then I realized, every pair of underwear and pants were missing the critical crotch component. Where the hell did all my crotches go? Upon closer examination, I realized that this was not the haphazard work of a bitter dog. Instead it appeared to be the careful work of a bitch, of the human species, wielding a sharp pair of scissors. After some investigation, I discovered that his girlfriend, who still lived with him, had come in during the night, when she knew we would be out, and removed all of the crotches from my clothing.
That should have been the first sign that The Ass was a two timing basturd. But, let's face it, I was 19, and I was clueless. Maybe even really dumb.
What did The Ass do when I told him what his supposed ex-girlfriend had done? He vomited right there in the B10ck.buster parking lot. Yep, back then, I really knew how to pick'em.