Tag Archives: germs

Women Are Disgusting

I will admit it without any hesitation.

Women are disguisting.

For all the whining and carrying on we do.  Seriously.

Put the windows up! My HAIR!

Don’t kiss me!  I just put on my lipstick!

Don’t sit on the furniture!

Take your shoes off!

Do I have anything on my teeth?

Is my hair out of place?

Did you see her?

Does my ass look fat?

WATCH IT!  I just got my nails done!

.

.

.

.

.

We

Are

Filthy

Creatures.

.

.

.

.

If you don’t believe me.  Walk into any women’s restroom.  Any day of the week.  Any time of the day.  Any where.

Trashed.

What the hell?

I have never seen anything like it.

One should hope the worse thing experienced in a women’s toliet is exiting with paper stuck to your shoe!  Not.  Even.  Close.

First, let me tell you, it’s not a restroom. It’s a room filled with filth, disease, mayhem, absence of any barriers and worse of all ….a lack of common courtesy.  The men’s room is aces above what females exhibit behind public doors here.  Honestly, cleaning crews probably wear hazmat gear at the end of the day.

How do I know the men’s rooms are aces above what is available in ladies rooms?

I’ve been in them.

Come, walk with me.  Put down your cigar.  Put down your chardonnay.  Sorry, reds give me a migraine so I’m white wine only – bear with me here.  Or you can down your shot of Jameson – one of my favorites.  Of course don’t dare me cause I will take you up on the dare as some will attest to.  But, again, I digress.

Come with me as we walk into a public restroom designated for women.

Open the door, ignore the confetti of towels on the floor.  Walk past the sinks.  We’re headed to the stalls.

First stall – you push open the door and they didn’t flush.  Toliet paper clogs the pot, which multiple people have already used…not one flushed.  Or tried to flush. Great.  That’s just great.  NEXT.

Second stall – open the door and there’s piss all over the seat and not just a drop or two… someone turned on The Golden Shower.  Oh hey and there’s plenty of toliet paper all over the floor.  NEXT.

Third stall – there’s someone inside sitting silently…obviously waiting for you to leave so they can finish pooping.  Awkward, but what are you going to do.  HEY!  There’s a book called, “Everyone Poops”  I suggest you buy it and get over it.

Fourth stall –  there’s two empty toliet paper rolls on the floor.  Never a good sign.  Sure enough.  NO paper.

Fifth stall – clean.  You go in, shut the door.  The door doesn’t lock.  But you know, it’s not unusual.  You have a system and get to business.  Then as you’re getting the paper ready to clean up…. several things catch your attention.  It could be the unwrapped sanitary items in the bin – sitting in plain sight like some weird art project by Norman Bates….just nasty and then there’s the disguisting wipes off of someone’s finger of whatever on the stall wall.  Really? Come on ladies!  Just foul, foul, foul people.

As you go to flush the toliet, with your foot – you notice……pee on the floor.  PEE.  ON.  THE.  FLOOR.

Now trying not to touch anything, let us march out to the sinks.

We may or may not wash our hands but by god, I am going to fluff my hair and apply fresh lipstick….before heading out to greet you, my beloved.  Because, I am your Princess.  Your oh so perfect Queen.  Right?  Of course!

Yeah right and monkeys are going to fly out of my ass.

Now, let’s exit the restroom.  The woman has annihilated a stall – single handedly but yet won’t touch the handle to the door upon exiting.  FEAR – she might catch a cold from germs or the Ebola virus.  Let us throw out one last act of defiance – with a paper towel she’ll grab the handle of the door and without a thought, crumple it up and then aimlessly toss it in the general direction of the trash can.  Hence, a mountain of paper towels like Everest that grow with the passing of each hour.

Other things that are ridiculous in ladies rooms?

Being in a stall and little kids climbing under to look at you.

All the moaning and groaning of women pulling up and down their panty hose,  panties and various bodily torture devices designed to keep us looking smooth and svelte.

The sighing of sitting down on the toliet.

At work, women, for some reason and I’ve only ever seen this where I work….put toliet paper down the length of the door to cover the crack so nobody can see them.  Really?  What woman is peeking in between the cracks?  I’m not visiting the bathroom on a tour – I’m going to pee and then get back to work.  If you think your YaHoo is so precious or you’re spending so much time in there posing that someone it going to want to stop and look at you – W O W.

It’s a common, common, common occurance for woman not to flush.  Are they saving water?  The toliet seat cover didn’t flush.  The toliet paper they used to cover the seat didn’t get flushed.  The turd didn’t flush.  All the STUFF didn’t go down.  Why is it woman can’t do a courtesy check and double flush if necessary?  We’re double checking our fucking cleavage, hair and teeth but can’t take a second glance at the toliet to see if our pee and paper have been disposed of properly?

I just don’t get it!

It’s disgusting.

It’s disturbing!

Steven King could make a horror film out of it!

Those ads in Vogue this season are so hot – with the girl leaning against the nasty toliet in her Lucky Brand Jeans, looking all hot and bothered.  I so want those jeans.

OMG and did you see that one ad that Calvin Klein did with the couple making out in that ladies room with pee all over the floor and the trash?  I so want my man to do that….NOT!

And did you see that latest Victoria Secret ad with the wings?  Fantastic, she was seated on the sink with all the trash and toliet seat covers all over – that was so cool.

Nothing about any of this garbage reads sexy, hot, sultry or beautiful.

What woman thinks this is acceptable?  Someone has to clean up after you!

I’m not the first woman to let this cat out of the bag.  It turns my stomach every damn time I go into a public restroom.  It’s not a restroom it’s like the fourth level of Dante’s Inferno.  I’m not kidding.  I spend more time circling his damn Inferno….

All I can say is this…..

MEN…

Listen up…..chances are your woman is pulling the wool over your eyes!

So please, do yourself a favor…. the next time we chastise you for farting in front of us….remember this blog!  Ask her if she does a courtesy flush.

Advertisements

Buckle Up, You’re a Traveler.

Last week I took a long weekend to travel up to Buffalo, New York to visit my better half’s family.  It was his Dad’s 80th birthday.  There were enough candles on the cake the wait staff actually brought in fire extinguishers…..just in case.

Had Dad had extra long eyebrows or nose hairs, we would have had some serious issues.  The dancing flames of flamenco dancing would have had all new meaning to the clan.

The joys of traveling.  A necessary evil.  Luckily we’ve been able to bypass the stagecoach nowadays.

A first for me was having to find a boarding place for our child.  I wasn’t going to bring her with me and while she’s 11 years old, she’s too young to stay by herself.  After asking around I found a highly recommended boarding facility about 45 minutes from our house. The morning of departure I packed her up and we traveled to the cottage.  The entire time in the car she pitched a fit.  Wouldn’t stop telling me how unhappy she was for all kinds of reasons:

  • She didn’t understand why she couldn’t go with me.
  • She was unhappy that she couldn’t stay by herself at home.
  • She’s never been to the new boarding place.
  • She was worried about making friends.
  • She was pissed she couldn’t see out the window.
  • She wasn’t happy about having to travel in the car while zipped inside a bag.

Needless to say, Liggy, was one pissed kitty upon arrival to the Country Cat Cottage.  After dropping her off at the feline spa, I raced home and threw on my dress and grabbed my suitcase.  I was off and running to the airport.

Yes.  That is correct.  I wore a dress.  On the plane.  With heels.  For one main reason: I wanted to see if I got treated better dressed up.

What do you think?

Remember years of yore when people actually dressed up to travel on the airplane?  Sunday best attire, hats and gloves?  Now everything including pajamas are acceptable.  It’s ridiculous.  I think there should be a little bit of a dress code to fly.  Honestly, there was a hooker on my return flight!  Forgive me, a working girl.  A gentleman’s lady.  An escort.

Seriously, she was a lady of the evening.  I saw who checked her in at the Delta kiosk.  That wasn’t her father.

Another reason for dress codes on the airplanes is because seats are now so close together that you pray the person sitting next to you doesn’t cross their leg….resting their ankle on their knee closest to you.  Chances are they’re wearing inappropriate shoes, right?!

Of course.  Flip flops.  Toes that haven’t been tended to in months.  Nails so long they’re leaving snags in the airplane carpet.  What is that tapping noise?  Oh, that guy’s toenails hitting the tray table.  Lo and behold, if you looked close enough you’d probably spy moving fungi between the toes.  Oh, wait up….that was jam.

What’s even worse (you’ll want to mentally prepare yourself for engaging your anti-gag reflex) the people who play with their toes or pick their nails and then put their fingers in their mouth.

Good grief….disgusting.   Miss Manners would be horrified.  Forget Miss Manners – I AM HORRIFIED.

Being this was my first time to the Fort Lauderdale airport as a departure contestant (think Fear Factor contestant) I drove around the entire complex TWICE before locating the proper exit for parking.  I can’t say it was a scenic drive as I was too busy trying not to be run down by the taxis.  The first parking garage I drove around and around and around was – full – of course.

There was a sign for Valet, which I actually considered as I was beginning to panic about finding parking, but couldn’t actually locate where the hell the Valet people were stationed.  Everything here in Miami has valet.  Seriously:  malls, restaurants, movies, bars, strip clubs, doctor offices…you name it there’s a valet.  You would think the airport would have a blazingly bright neon sign screaming, VALET.  Or at least a random homeless person with a sign around their neck with a big arrow saying, VALET….this way.   Nope, this airport is like Pandora’s Box.  Good luck with that shit.

Finally, I find a spot to park Norman….in a second parking tower.

Since the complex is so enormous, I actually took a picture of the garage parking map where it said, “YOU ARE HERE.”  At least I’ll have a general area of where the hell Norman is when I return.

I race down 6 floors to the ground level where I see a sign for a shuttle to the terminals.   The airport fairy sends the tram car and I hop on.  The gentleman in the back car smiles and gladly takes my carry on luggage.  Score one point for my test of dressing nicer for service.  I advise him of my airline and off we go.

Now, I am sweating, not because of the heat (well mainly because of heat) but I’m now later than I wanted to be walking into the actual airport.  I have a little over an hour before departure.  My time has been wasted trying to find parking and then taking the tram to the actual building.

This is ridiculous.

In my haste to get to the airport, I completely forgot you have to take your shoes off at security.  There I am BAREFOOT in the airport.  The best I could do was try and keep my little piggies up off the floor.  Most people wear socks right.  Wrong.  I look around and 99% of the people going through the security gates are sockless.   Walk on your heels.  Don’t walk on your heels – they’ll think you’re mental.

Finally, I make it to the gate only to learn the flight is 25 minutes late.  Great.  There goes my connection in Detroit.  The gate agent assures me it won’t be a problem, there’s a tail wind and all connections will be made just fine.  I try to think positively but in my heart I know this is going to be a mess.  You know like when your gut tells you not to open that piece of junk mail but you do it anyway and it turns out to be a virus.  I felt like that.

Once on board the silver bullet we take off and the pilot comes on to announce our arrival time into Detroit.  Oh yeah, by the way, we’re still going to be 30 minutes behind schedule.  Luckily I am in the second row of steerage so I’ve formulate a plan.

As soon as the “double-ding” occurs I am up and out of my seat heading towards the door.    I race up the gangway and leap out into the terminal like a ninja.  Where’s a monitor?  I need to see the monitor!  (No.  Thanks Delta, but you were’t able to provide gate information coming in for the landing, you didn’t care I had a connection and there was nobody at the gate to assist.)  We’ve arrived into terminal A – and my connection is in terminal C.

YOU MUST BE KIDDING.  With 10 minutes before departure, I give it a solid try.  My feet have already been contaminated so what’s it going to hurt?  I yank off my high heels and begin sprinting through the terminal like OJ Simpson.  The exception is I’m shorter, pulling a wheeled bag and I’m barefoot.  AGAIN.

I’m following the big C signs with the arrows  and come up short when I realize, there’s a  shuttle to the C terminal!  I hurl myself into the car as the automated announcement tells us the doors are closing.  No shit, really?  The gentlemen next to me asks about my connection, I tell him it’s to Buffalo.  A Delta employee is sitting there and says, “Oh, they shut that gate 7 minutes early.”

The doors open and I weigh my options.  Continue like a crazed nutter and hope the guy was lying or put my shoes back on and stroll up to the counter?  Yep, you guessed it.  The Nutter won.  I continue sprinting along the long hallway, which obviously must be under an runway as it went on forever.  My little naked feet are pounding against the moving walkway as I keep praying silently to myself, “I will not get foot fungus.  I will not get foot fungus.”  It was like being in a horror film….running down one of those long hallways that you never get to the end of….and Jack Nicholson is chasing you with an ax screaming “Here Comes Johnny!”

As I’m dashing down this hallway, more like a character from a Dr. Seuss story than a long distance runner I notice with horror one thing.  I’m loosing my panties.

My under ware is falling down.

By the time I get on the escalator going up to terminal A, I realize half of both cheeks are exposed.  Well, how the hell am I going to pull these up?  Thank god for the person who invented the pockets.  My dress has pockets.  Insert hands and pull up panties.

Good grief.  I’ve never.  Ever.  EVER.  Had a problem like this before.  What’s next?

Finally I get to the counter and there are THREE Delta agents there.  Nobody making eye contact with me.  Oh so sorry, that flight is already gone.  We’ve already booked you on another flight this evening, here’s your ticket.  No seat assignment?  Oh, we can’t do that, you have to go to that gate.  Alright fine.

I walk away, sit down on the bench and burst into tears.  Now I know how people feel on American Idol.  You give it your best shot, do everything in your power and you still loose.  My cute dress didn’t even help me.  They can’t even give me a seat!

Finally I pull myself together, wipe the sweat and melted eyeliner off my face and walk to the departure gate.  I have about 90 minutes before the next flight.  I ask the agent if they can assign me a seat.  Nope, they are not dealing with my flight yet and suggest I come back in about an hour.

Are you kidding me?  There’s computers and technology sitting all over counter.  You’re telling me you can’t assign me a seat?  For real?  OMG.  Where is the customer service?  Not at Delta Airlines.

Don’t worry, it gets worse.  Trust me.

I get something to eat and head back to the gate.  They assign me a seat and while I still have 30 minutes to kill before boarding I wander the terminal and make some phone calls.  I stand across from the gate, while I’m on the phone, waiting for the flight number to read “now boarding.”  All of the sudden the gate number changes.  WTF?  I rudely tell my friend, “I have to go!  The flight is now departing out of B terminal!”

Once more, I ponder my situation and decide, in order not to miss the possibility of this next flight also leaving early, I better take the heels off again.  I dash through the airport, pulling my purple wheel bag and praying to God my panties don’t end up around my knees.

Again, they get so bad that I seriously consider just stopping and yanking them off.  I don’t care at this point.  But then I think to myself, “what would you do if you fell and didn’t have anything on underneath?  You’d be embarrassed….”  So instead I stopped and pulled them up three times on my run to the next terminal.  What baffles me is they were cute new roos.  How could they not fit?  Good grief.  Leave it to me.

I finally arrive and sling-shot myself into the counter in B terminal.  The agent tells me I have plenty of time, not to worry.  So I decide to use the restroom, wipe the sweat off all exposed areas of skin and secure my panties.  I’m not just misting or glowing, I look like I’ve been enjoying myself on the slip & slide.

Pulled together once more, I walk on to the tiny plane.  It’s one of those with 2 and 2.  My seat, last one, by the bathroom and it’s a window.  Of course.  Nothing like being a nervous flier stuck by a window, in a seat that doesn’t recline and enjoying the aromas of the freshly used toilette.  Love it.  Sign me up to do this multiple times a day!

I get to my seat and the guy on the aisle is very nice.  I figure it must be the dress.  I get my ear plugs out and a piece of gum.  Departure time comes and the Delta crew tells us they’re waiting on a few connecting flights that just landed, giving those folks time to catch this flight.  Fuckers.  You didn’t wait for me, you sent my plane early!

Really though, it was a lie.  Nobody else joined us on the plane.

20 minutes later.

30 minutes later.

45 minutes later.

60 minutes later.

We’re still sitting at the gate.  Trapped in this silver bullet.  Waiting to go to Buffalo.  It was a mechanical.  It was paperwork.  It was the dispatchers. It was the hokey-pokey.  I don’t know exactly which excuse it actually was but just be honest.  While you’re at  it….  offer us something to drink for crying out loud!  This was the first time that I didn’t travel with my Quart Size Bag filled with alcohol bottles.  Yes, I am the only person who actually  uses those bags properly.  Had I stuffed it with my little bar bottles, I could have made a fortune on that plane.  $5 a bottle.

70 minutes into our collective meditation on the lack of service provided by Delta and we’re on our way.

Ahhhhhhhh…….

Had a great time with the family.  Lots of laughter.  Met new faces.  Ate the same thing for lunch two days in a row….the sub shop is AWESOME.  Bought hosiery cause I can’t find any in Miami.  Wandered through the village.  Went to the zoo.  Chased little kids.  Played one hand of some sort of card game (I don’t like cards….too many numbers.) And ate a steak for the first time in months!  Was also the only one who didn’t get sick after eating at the weird taco place….

I would like to say on my return, I did not wear a dress.  It obviously had put the hex on my customer service experience.  Upon arriving at the Buffalo airport I had plenty of time to get to my gate.  Once on board I relaxed and happily anticipated enjoying an adult beverage from the cart.

We push back from the gate and guess what?  Delayed.  AGAIN.  Trapped like a sardine.  AGAIN.  Are you kidding me Delta?  The people around me immediately start balking.  Their flights before this one were all late and now this one is leaving late.  Connections are going to be missed.  It’s a fiasco.  Previously, I had a 2 hour layover in Atlanta.  Now, I have about 60 minutes, which is fine.  Not a problem.

The real problem however was when we landed in Atlanta and I walked to the next gate for my flight to Fort Lauderdale.  Yep, you guessed it, my last flight of the day….delayed!  Honestly, they should consider renaming Delta to Delay or maybe just Delete.

Things I learned from this experience:

The dress didn’t make a damn bit of different.

You can’t drink alcohol in the Buffalo airport before noon on Sundays.

Never to work for Delta, let alone fly with them again.

Always travel with your own bar.

Oh and yes in case you were curious, I threw out the panties.

 

 

 

 

There’s a What in My Belly Button?

I wouldn’t say I am a giant germophobe.

I go to the movie theater without concern.  I drink out of restaurant glassware, although I will admit I am about two steps away from bringing my own silverware.  Thank God payphones are going away, I couldn’t use those anymore.  You know, close talkers and all.  WAH!  And I certainly won’t use a public water fountain or get into a public hot tub or pool.  (Don’t even get me started on those.)

However my biggest weakness is the 3 x 3 space called airplane seats.  Before storing my bag under the seat I break out my alcohol wipes.

I wipe down the seat belt clasp, both arm rests,  the incher recliner button, head rest, all of the tray table, the clip that holds the tray in place and the lip of the seat pocket. This is true, even when in first class.  I don’t discriminate against the germs.

Technically, whatever you do, you shouldn’t even use that pocket in the first place.

Ignore it.

Resist all temptation to put anything in there!

Do you know what’s been in there? Used vomit bags, used tissues, dirty napkins, napkins with spit, used cups, gum, candy wrappers that have been chewed on, diapers, used diapers, water bottles that are probably covered in germs, ear wax from headphones, lice from hats, half eaten items of questionable origins, finger nail clippings….not to mention toe jam from the people in flip flops that use the seat as a foot rest and finally boogers too boot!

There’s a plethora of bacteria growing on that material!  I didn’t even have to mention unwashed hands touching the magazines or flight safety card.   When was the last time any of this was actually disinfected?

Remember how there was always a mad dash to get the pillows and blankets on the plane?  Thank goodness they’ve gone the way of the 8-track tape….they were oceans of germs!

It makes me a little woozy just thinking about it.  So is there any wonder I disinfect like a crazy person when I get on?  Next time you have to fly, I bet you think twice about what you’re touching.

Betcha.

The other day, I was at the gym and came out of the toilet, washed my hands and noticed the woman in the stall next to me didn’t bother to even approach the sink when she came out of the stall.  She immediately went right out of the locker room.

If I could come up with a tactful way of saying, “OMG!  You didn’t wash your hands!  That’s so disgusting.” I would say it.  Unfortunately, I know myself well enough that it wouldn’t come out anything close to something Miss Manners would approve of in society.  It would be more like a rant from Ozzy Osbourne, or having just watched The Dictator, it would come out more like, “What The Fuck!”  See, that’s not so Emily Post either.

Now every time I see this lady I know she’s not a washer.  If I was ever introduced to her I’d end up declining the hand shake.  “I’m sorry.  Normally, I’d shake your hand but I know you don’t wash after peeing.”  That would be the end of the friendship.  Which would be a blessing.

We’ve all heard the stories about hotel rooms.  Put the remote in a baggie, it’s covered in germs from every orifice of the human body.  Immediately remove the bed spread.  They’re covered in dried puddles of once oozy fluid – we’ve seen that proven time and time again on investigative reporting shows.

The cleanest thing in a hotel room is probably you!

Of course, I am a firm believer, without a little dirt in your life, you’d be sick quite often.  You need to build up your immunity to the tiniest wonders of the living world.  Dirt is good.  There are things I don’t need to know and I’m okay knowing that over time, yes, I have probably eaten a bug or three.  It’s highly likely I have accidentally eaten hair – not of my own.  Random flecks of whatever have made their way into my body and the hearty little army of germ fighters have kept the battle strong and keep fighting the good fight.  Thank you.

However, the other day, I had a “like” on my blog,”Best Night’s Sleep in Ages” from Twinkling Pebbles and decided to check out her blog.  She had written about an article that was recently published online via National Geographic about what scientists are researching regarding…yes, that’s correct…our belly buttons.

They have described it as being similar to a rainforest……full of bacteria!  Seriously, how many of us have actually thought about scrubbing out that little innie or outie?  Well, now you should or sign up for the research.  According to the NatGeo article, “From 60 belly buttons, the team found 2,368 bacterial species, 1,458 of which may be new to science.”

That’s it, I now have a child’s toothbrush in the shower, to clean out my belly button rain forest!  Now of course I’m curious, is it easier to clean an innie or an outie?  I don’t know.  This could be worse than toe jam on your tray table!

Time to invent some alcohol q-tips swabs….

I’d Rather Not.

A few weeks ago, my better half injured his back moving lumber around in the garage.  Heaving and throwing pieces too big to even fit into our garage in one whole piece.  Cue the chiropractor and professional massage appointments.

What?

Yes.  Of course I could have gone out to help him.  However, I was busy.

Too busy trying to throw up my small intestine for the twentieth time in 48 hours.  Thank you Norwalk Virus.  Down 6 pounds in two days.  Never before had I experienced so many dreams about lots of water and having my nipples pierced.

I was a little disappointed when I came out of my deliria only to realize I didn’t already have my nipples pierced.

Anyhow.  The man throws his back out and upon my recovery asks if I would rub some pain reliever into his back before bed.  The first two nights I was the Florence Nightingale of back pain relief.  I used my elbows, forearms, finger tips and heels of my hands….they were good massages.

Evidenced, obviously, by his squeals of pain and sighs of relief when I finished.

The third night, I finally broke down and said – out loud :

“I don’t know how people do this for a living.  It would drive me insane.”

The fourth night, I broke down and said, – out loud:

“Doing this every day would make my mind go numb.”

The fifth night came and being nearly out of my gourd, all I could say was “does this hurt?” as I poked around his back with my finger.  I was trying to find the sore spot.  This wasn’t going to be a ten minute rub down, these fingers were going to be on and off the knot like a sugar fiend licking down a carton of cake icing.   Fifteen seconds and counting.

If this was to continue, I was contemplating getting the animals involved….walk here.  Step over there.  Or I was going to have to pull “a Ross” from the show Friends and get out my toy trucks and salad spoons to do the massage work.

Which leads me to ponder other jobs in the world I simply couldn’t do. I would rather pick up elephant poop with my bare hands than perform any of the duties below.

Let’s ponder the other jobs in a spa or beauty salon.  One word….

Waxing.

I’ve been waxed.  Legalized S & M practice is more like it.

I couldn’t wax anyone.  You want to wax your what?  I don’t even think there’s hair there.   I don’t even know where that part is located.  Talk about having a private practice.  Some body part requests would simply cause me to faint.

I tighten up my black leather, knee high boots and straddle myself over the chair…..likely having to use some body weight to get the successful wax.

Oh, yeah, let me go ahead and get that nappy spot of hair off that __________!

>>>RIP IT OFF<<<<

Now, you’ll excuse me while I throw up and get a cold compress for the back of my neck.

Another job?  Pedicurist.

Nope. Not going to happen.

Thick, yellow, scaly toenails.  Not to mention possible fungus issues. Having to cut those things?  I know you’re tearing up the carpet at home, scraping the wood flooring – but damn.  Your dog called and wants his nail clippers back.  Shit, I don’t even think a hack saw and grinder is going to work on those things.

Not to mention the unidentifiable stuff that has been stored up under there for weeks, months, years…..which is going to come flying out and hit me in the eye.  I’ll end up loosing my eyesight from a serious pink eye infection due to your toe jam surprise.

Could you please pass the fully contained HAZMAT gear with facial guard?

Feet….with the tough heels, hard corns, stinking bunions and flaking skin.  It’s not right.  Seriously,  I think it’s nature’s way of trying to reverse evolution and get us to return to the ocean as fish.  I swear that woman had half a fin on the side of her foot.

Lastly, quite a few spas offer showers.   All I have to say is : drain hair.

Not doing it.

I just threw up a little.

 

 

 

 

Personal Safety Zone – Hoola Hoop Style

I’m not a hugger – unless I know you.

In reality, even then, I may not hug you.

It’s nothing personal.  I prefer to keep a hoola hoop size safety zone around me at all times, whenever possible.

Of course there are definite situations when this doesn’t work.   Examples:  elevators, dance floors, receptions, bars, grocery store lines, airplanes, Costco food sample tables….you get the idea.

I’m also short.

Hugging can be awkward.

I don’t necessarily want to end up in my friend’s pillowy cleavage.  But thanks for the offer!  Not to be rude….but let’s avoid the “eye to boob” contact – thanks.

99% of the people have to do a full bend to hug me – that’s awkward for them….appreciative to me.  In fact I usually stand up on my tip toes in return.  Cutting off at least 2 inches in the bend.

For the hugger, one of three things happen.

  1. A full squat to hug me (which only leads them to the thought of, I could pick her up and swing her around….)
  2. They bend at the waist, allowing their butt to stick out far enough to hamper traffic movements around them.
  3. We do a side hug and I get tucked into their armpit.

Now you see why I prefer the hoola hoop – there’s safety in the no touch environment.   It’s my little world inside the hoop and I prefer to keep it that way.  Which is nice, have you seen some of these people running loose out there?  Makes me want to hand them a Sani-wipe!

Not too long ago I was on the verge, it hasn’t left my mind completely, of bringing my own silverware with me to restaurants.  It’s one of the first things I check.  Not just mine but I look at others as well.  On more than one occasion I have sent a friend’s silverware back due to being unclean.

Then I realized, with horror, if I brought my silverware, I may as well bring my own glassware and plate.  I’m certainly not going to haul around a wheeled carry on bag everywhere I go, so I’m going to have to live with whatever is on the plate.  At least I can check the glassware for lipstick.

So what do you do when you see the glass is clean – no lipstick, dried  crusty food bits or other things that make you go “no thanks” yet you’re going with your gut and that scratch may be more than just a scratch on the glass?  Do what I do – the lip roll.

Position glass just under your lower lip line.

Curl lower lip over glass edge.

Drink.

Yes, I could use a straw, but I don’t want lines in my face later on in life.  People will think I lived my life either as a chronic smoker, or worse yet…a habitual pole smoker.  Let’s just move on.

Bathrooms…..wouldn’t be so disgusting if it wasn’t for the people using them.  Are people using a different set of manners in public restrooms than they would at home?  If home bathrooms are being used in the same manner as the public bathroom, we’re in trouble.

Several things disturb me:

Moaners.     These are the women who are moaning and groaning during the entire process.  From unzip to rezip.  Really?  Is it necessary?  With the occasional sigh thrown in as their ass hits the seat.  Which makes my stomach turn as the hazard sign blinks, “don’t sit on the seat!”

Piddlers.       If you pee (or worse) on the seat – wipe it up.  It’s YOUR bodily fluid – not mine.  Do you do this at home?  Send in the Ebola team, we have a contagion.  Makes me faint just thinking about it.

Lovers.     I know what you’re thinking – shame on you.  I’m talking about the over the top Mother Earth lovers.  Those who only flush once a day in order to save the water levels, save the rats in the sewage system and keep the earth green .   I love the earth.    However if you’ve taken a poo – be kind to the next in line – flush it!

Wash Your Hands.       Forget it.  Telling John Q Public the way to prevent illness is to wash your hands frequently is like trying to convince a dog not to roll in dead salmon.  It’s the same outcome.  The dog thinks, “but it smells so good.”  John Q. Public says, “but I didn’t get anything on myself.”  Really?  Tell that to the next person who comes down with e coli.

Speaking of washing your hands, I had a moment in a public restroom while I was washing my hands.  A lady comes up to the sink and only used one hand.

  • Turned the faucet on with her right hand.
  • Rinsed her right hand.
  • Got a paper towel with her right hand.

Which can only mean one thing:  she wipes with her right hand.  Why not wash both hands?  Is the left one NOT dirty?  Did you not touch anything with the left hand?

The people who immediately comes out of the stall and grabs a paper towel to turn on the water at the sink crack me up!  Not wanting to touch the water knobs because, “all those dirty hands are touching them and it’s gross!”  Ponder me this…did those same dirty hands not touch the latch to get out of the stall?  Just curious.

Disturbing isn’t it?

Think of all the things you touch in a day, that someone else has touched.  Handles, buttons, pens, latches, doors, boxes, railings, carts, hands, arm rests, counters, money….etc, etc.

Which leads me to traveling on planes.  Everyone take a deep breath….they’re like bathrooms but different.  Horrified?  Makes me sweat a little just thinking about it.

As soon as I sit down, I get out my Sani-wipes and wipe down my hoola hoop safety zone.  Seriously, how many other people have sat there before me?  When was the last time any of this has been wiped down?  With a sanitizer?  Arm rests, seat belt buckle, head rest and the tray table – anything I am going to touch, I’m wiping down.

Tray tables are like petri dishes – who knows what has been on them!  Forget the seat pocket.  I don’t want to think about what has gone inside those little hot pockets.  Could be everything from dirty diapers to flu ridden tissues or vomit bags.  Nope.  Keep it.  I’m not touching it or the magazine – this isn’t a cracker jack box with a surprise inside!  Technically, there is a surprise, you just have to wait 48 hours to see what you get.

Traveling on airplanes is like going to the zoo – you never know what show will be happening during your visiting hours.   Could be screaming new born or adult hysterics.  A guinea pig running amok.  Drunk and newly discovered love birds.  Or someone trying to find their bottle of aspirin.

When you drop something on the floor and you can’t easily locate it – an Emily Post solution would be to ask those rows around you to see if it rolled under their seat.

Are you shy and afraid to ask?  Then ring the flight attendant.  They can ask for you.  Our personal space is only so big and we’ll be happy to look around our space to see if we can help locate your lost item.

However if you are determined not to bother anyone and think the solution is to get down on your hands and knees….patting the floor from two rows in front of you to three rows behind you….please for the love of the other passengers WASH YOUR HANDS afterwards!

If you think seeing a grown adult, on all fours, going up and down the aisle….while talking to themselves… isn’t going to draw attention then your world must be filled with unicorns and glittery pixies.

Big ol’ butt coming at you….backing up….beep…beep….excuse me. How you like me now?

Big ol’ fuzzy head of hair come at you….excuse me…..have you seen my bottle of aspirin?

Better half yelling from their spectator seat:  Did you find it?  Well look under the seats!

Nearby passengers are hoping the cart with the little tiny bottles comes by very soon – otherwise they’re hitting the button.

I’m thinking we should provide a mandatory sani-gel rinse as people get on a plane.  Wipe ’em down folks and keep your hands to yourself.