Poop

Today I discovered the joy of pooping at work.  It was the most liberating thing I've ever done.  In the past I was always nervous that I would exit the restroom and one of my customers would be standing there ready to go in...and they would know what I just did.  Today, however, waiting wasn't an option.  I had buffalo chicken pizza last night (not to mention the cold slice this morning at 5:15 for breakfast), and the time was nigh upon us. I instantly felt better.  Relief.  Freedom.  Liberation.  Out of courtesy I gave the room a generous spraying of Lysol and, of course, washed my hands, but who really cares?  It's not like people don't know what's going on in there.  That's the room's sole function.  You can pretty much judge by the amount of time someone spends in a public restroom what they're doing.

I don't know what my hangup has been.  My finance Katherine (anyone know how to add the accent above the "e" in fiance?) poops at work every day.  As a matter of fact, Katherine poops every day at 10am no matter where she is.  When we gave tours of the historic Beechwood Mansion, the first tour of the day began at 10 am.  A normal tour for one guide was about 20 to 25 minutes.  If Katherine gave the 10am tour, it was 10 to 15 and ended with her bounding down the stairs in her corset to the ladies' room.  And woe be unto any lady who who might occupy the stall farthest to the right.  It was the one with the radiator in it.  All the girls fought to use the coveted "pre-warmed" toilet seat.  In a 150 year-old house with little insulation, heat was a hot commodity...pun intended.  I'll confess that after hours I, too, would sneak down the three flights of stairs from the actor's housing to the first floor women's room where there was not only a heated toilet, but a chandelier.  But that was after hours, so it doesn't count as pooping at work.

But I stray from my topic.  I decided that pooping at work was so liberating that I would make it my daily routine.  Why not?  I mean, the restroom is right there.  I get a lunch break, I wash my hands.  What could go wrong?  That's when I made my pros and cons list.

Pros:

1. I feel better.
2. It's better than driving like a madman to get home after work to make sure I get there in time, if you know what I mean.
3. It's a legitimate excuse to sit down on a job that requires me to be on my feet for 6 hours at a time.
4. It's quiet in the bathroom as compared to the otherwise rather loud cafe.  (Again, how do I make that accent over the "e"?)

Cons:

1. One-ply toilet paper.
2. Customers might be less willing to buy coffee from a barista that just pooped.
3. Even when you spray the Lysol, everyone knows what you just did.

After weighing the pros and cons I found that I still couldn't arrive at a logical decision.  Honestly, the biggest deciding factor is the toilet paper.  One-ply toilet paper should be illegal.  You're not saving anything as you end up using twice as much.  This industrial strength t.p. is also quite uncomfortable.  My dad would call it John Wayne toilet paper:  made of True Grit and don't take no shit off nobody.  Toilet paper in general is an odd thing.  My friend Tim once told me he didn't get toilet paper at all.  He commented that if you got poop on your arm you wouldn't just wipe it off with a paper towel and be done with it.  You would use soap and water.  Why should it be different for your butt.  I said, "Yeah, but your arm is out there.  Your butt is your butt."  "Oh, Charles," he replied.  "You're clearly not gay."  Point well taken.

In conclusion, I still don't know if I should poop at work.  Today certainly has given me a different outlook on the subject.  I think I'll just play it by ear from now on.  I mean, why should I be uncomfortable when there's an obvious solution, but then again, I handle people's food and use the same restroom they do.  Ah, the mysteries of life.

Bitch Bakes Good Shit

My friend and roommate Jessica is amazing. I know, I know. That's a pretty general statement that many people would say about their friends, but I'm serious. Jessica is amazing. She's beautiful. She's smart. She's funny. The list goes on and on. But the greatest thing about Jessica is that she bakes. I don't mean she smokes a lot of pot. I mean she gets in the kitchen to her OCD-level labeled drawers full of different types of flours, sugars, nuts, fruits, and magic, and she bakes. At least once a week. If she's stressed she might bake twice in the same week. It's how she deals with life. Baking. This means that I have the best roommate in the world as when I need to deal with life I eat.

My other roommate Patrick today stared at me as I slowly, guiltily, ate my fourth cowboy cookie of the day. A cowboy cookie is a perfect mixture of chocolate chips, oatmeal, soy nuts, craisins, and God only knows what all else all shoved into one amazing cookie. "I hate these damned cookies," I confess. "They're there. So I have to eat them."

Patrick nods knowingly. "Bitch bakes good shit."

And that's when it hit me. That's the perfect name for Jessica's bakery (that she doesn't yet know I forcing her to open). It's a catchy name that will draw people in for the curiosity factor as well as a truth. Right now, as I'm typing this, I'm craving one of her massive cowboy cookies. I forgot to mention that Jessica is incapable of making a small cookie. These are smaller than the last batch, and they're still about 5 inches in diameter. I want one.

Ooooh! Or her brownies. We have these ridiculous vegan friends that come over on occasion. Now why anyone would voluntarily give up meat is beyond me, but not eating butter or milk! It's un-American. Jessica found a recipe for vegan brownies. "I'm not about to eat that," I thought to myself. Well, I got hungry the next day, forgot that the brownies were vegan, and BAM! Best brownie ever. Patrick and I were furious that we were duped. How can something so wrong taste so right? I drank a big glass of milk with mine so I could feel like a red-blooded American, but the truth is that I could have just eaten that perfect moist chocolately brownie all by itself. A few days later Jessica asked what she should bake. Patrick emphatically shouted, "Those fucking brownies!" I couldn't agree more.

So look out, world. Coming next Spring! A new specialty baking boutique: "Bitch Bakes Good Shit". Serving a rotating array of delicious delights like Cowboy Cookies and Those Fucking Brownies. Ah! Life is good!

Massholes--An Open Letter to the Governor of Massachusetts

Dear Governor Patrick,

I am writing to you on behalf of the American motorist. I have lived in five states in the last five years, and nowhere have I feared for my life more than when sharing the road with drivers from the Bay State. In Rhode Island we loving refer to residents from your state as "Massholes". It's a pun. It sounds like assholes.

The irresponsible patterns of your drivers not only endanger other motorists, pedestrians, cyclists, and roadway stability, but these drivers create an undue amount of stress on others sharing the road. I have not been able to uncover any official studies yet, but I am certain that the average New Englander loses between two to three years of their life over the stress of driving with your citizens on the road.

In the spirit of fairness, let me say that bad drivers are not unique to Massachusetts. Drivers in Texas notoriously speed. In Illinois they rarely use their turn signals. In West Virginia everyone creeps along at a sluggish pace. The difference between them and your citizens, however, lies in the unpredictability of your drivers. For example, a Masshole may or may not use his turn signal. Oftentimes they begin to make a turn, turn on their signal halfway through the turn, and then continue driving with the signal still flashing. On more than one occasion, I have seen a Masshole have their right turn signal on and then turn left.

My favorite move here is the Masshole left hand turn. In the generally agreed upon rules of normal roadway driving, when the light turns green someone turning left yields to oncoming traffic unless there is a protected turn signal. A Masshole, however, makes the left hand turn immediately after the light turns green--oncoming traffic be damned. If you are unaware of this strange rule the Masshole will let you know with some combination of honking and/0r shooting you the bird.

Massholes can be easily spotted on the road even if the red and white license plate is not visible. They usually are on their cell phone and if not they are fiddling with the radio, the windows, the mirrors, really anything except watching the road. Massholes will without exception take up two spots when parallel parking and stop between two gas pumps when refueling.

Governor Patrick, there are many threats to this country today. Terrorists attack civilians. Wall Street bankers attack our economy. Immoral agents attack our youth. But nothing presents more of a threat to our nation as the completely inconsiderate and oblivious drivers from your state. I am petitioning congress to pass a federal mandate that auto makers must put a device on the wheels of all motor vehicles sold to residents of Massachusetts that lock as soon as the motorist crosses the state line. Please keep your idiot drivers off our roads.

Sincerely,

Charles

Click Here for a definition of "Masshole"

Why Linda With an "R"

"My friend Linder and I went ta Wahwick to buy a sofer at Cahdi's"

??????????

This was one of the first of many sentences that I heard upon moving to Newport, RI that baffled my Texan ears. I actually stopped to make sure what I was hearing was indeed English. Translated, the sentence is "My friend Linda and I went to Warwick to buy a sofa at Cardi's." I actually believed this poor woman's name was Linder. What a horrible thing to do to a person.

After a year and a half in Chicago, my fiance Katherine and I have returned to Newport to work with the newly formed Marley Bridges Theatre Company. When we worked here before we were housed in a historic mansion and catered mostly to tourists from all over the world, but rarely did we encounter the natives. This time around I'm in the midst of them.

I'm working at a coffee shop right in the middle of Newport. When I say "right in the middle" I mean right in the middle of where the locals congregate. This is far from the historic mansions of Bellevue Avenue or the pricey restaurants of the wharves where millionaires dock their yachts. This is where the blue-collar workers of Rhode Island come to laugh, work, play, and socialize. They are a different breed with a different culture, and oftentimes, a different language.

Now, let me preface this by saying that I love the natives. They are a fascinating breed of people with a great love of life. They are just so foreign from what I know. I am a fifth generation Texan. That means that I, my mother, my mother's father, my great-grandfather, and my great-great-grandfather were all born in the great state of Texas. At least that's as far back as we can prove. It may go further. In elementary school when we had to do genealogy reports I remember hearing other kids say, "I'm Irish" or "I'm French". I always just said that I was a Texan. It's still that way. When I was studying in Italy the other students would always tell the locals that they were American. I always said I was Texan. They all knew where Texas was while few knew where Illinois or Minnesota were. Texans are a special breed.

While I share that strange Texan pride that we all have, a pride that far exceeds the patriotism of any other group, I have always said I cannot live there. I think I have too much of that cowboy independent spirit in me to live in a state that voluntarily keeps re-electing an obvious idiot-buffoon like Rick Perry...but this isn't a blog about politics. It's about people and culture.

My father taught me as a child that anything north of the Red River was considered "yankee territory". My grandfather taught me that the difference between a yankee and a damned yankee was that a damned yankee wouldn't go home. Now, I know that this term "yankee" brings up racially charged imagery for many Americans, but for us it simply meant one of those inferior non-Texans. While we shared a sort of kinship with Southerners (Alabamans and Georgians are like strange but lovable cousins), anyone from the north was so far removed from our culture that we couldn't identify at all.

I have learned since living here in Rhode Island that there are few differences between the New Englander and the Texan. I told my dad that the locals here are just like the hicks back home with the exception that the hicks back home at least pretend to be polite. It's that Southern charm and hospitality. Take, for example, the following exchange first in Texan and then in Yankee-speak:

Texan one: "Bless her heart, have you seen how big Linda's got?"

Texan two: "You could move in!"

Now in Yankee:

Yankee one: "Damn, Linder is fat."

Yankee two: "Like you got room to talk."

I will admit that I do love the Texan trick of placing a "bless her heart" in front of basically anything and using it as a free license. You can say anything if you add those magic words. "Bless his heart, he ain't got sense to pour piss out of a boot." The yankee is more direct. More honest. Less polite. This can be both disarming and strangely refreshing. Sure the people here are rude, but at least you know where you stand.

And speaking of where you stand, don't stand anywhere near the roads here. Particularly if you're anywhere near the world's worst drivers: The Massholes (drivers from Massachusetts). But that's a subject for tomorrow.