I have plenty of material built up from the last month, including many terrific Angst Advice Column questions, so check back soon for those. In the meantime, here is a recent exchange between George and me while at a hotel in North Carolina. We went with my parents (separate rooms...we aren't THAT southern) to the Cherokee Harrah's casino and this happened the second day before we embarked on the Steal My Money and Cause Me to Utter Curse Words to Nobody in Particular Because the Casino Gods Apparently Missed the Memo that it's My Destiny to Win a Million on the Shamrock Lucky 7s Machine:

(NB: I am WAY too tired to proofread this and edit it for perfection. My apologies in advance.)

So we'd eaten reeeeeally bad buffet food at an unfortunate steak-dessert-bakery-buffet house that looked normal and decent from the outside, but was in fact the seventh ring of HELL. To give you an idea, let's listen in as Gracie, on her way back to the table with her plate only a quarter full, due to the terror experienced at the selection (or lack thereof), politely asks her server "Excuse me...could you please tell me where I can find the butter? I can't seem to locate it anywhere on the buffet..." because, you know, when the food is that frightening looking? You're aaaaaaall about the bread, riii-eeet? Her stunningly helpful response? *Deep inhale, looks at ceiling, then closes eyes, shoulders sag, exhales angrily and says...* "Awrite, but kin I jes' point to it, cause I'm REALLY busy!"

Heh.

Needless to say, it just went downhill from there. Not only was the food bad, but I haven't seen that many mullets and so much big hair since 1986. And what the HELL is with nuclear-pee-green shirts up there? Seriously, I counted close to a dozen different women in varying shirt styles, but all of them lime green. And the women NOT wearing lime green were in either stained sweatsuits or their christmas applique sweaters. It was terrifying. Also, I told George that we SO needed to move there cause we'd be King and Queen of the state due to our newfound hot-ness, cause...WOW. I'm used to Atlanta which is southern and filled with freakishly beautiful people and I'm simply not used to seeing people out in public (death-by-buffet-style aside) who aren't all made up and dressed in the latest fashions, even when they're in sweatsuits and I just felt so...so...PRETTY. hehehehahaha.

So yeah. Dad got a burned ...hamburger patty in gravy and some other things and just chowed down, happy as a clam, unaware that the food was bad. Bless his heart. The innocent look on his face when he asked "What? Is it not good honey?" just about broke my heart in two. Love him so much. We all picked at our food and pointed out other patrons who were in the lead position for Best 1980s Heart Impression of the night, each convinced that OUR person was the front-runner. And even though we only ate things that we THOUGHT were safe and hard to fuck up? Ohhhh we still paid. The gas ALONE was enough to kill a moose. From all of us. But around 7 the next morning my eyes shot open and the following thought went through my head: "huhhhhwhuh? ussat? uhhhhhhh go backa syeeeep....snoooorrre..." *12 seconds later, eyes shoot open again* "ooot. ohhhhh. ohhhhh OW." and gracie moves as though ass is on fire because her ass is, in fact, on fire, as is her stomach, throat, and all areas in between, and she makes it to the bathroom just in time to...well...deliver satan right into the toilet. It was violent, it was frightening, and it was proven that acoustics in a tiled Ramada hotel bathroom are, in fact, remarkably clear. Also it echoes. Ohhh, it echoes.

What happened next cannot in any way, shape, or form be my fault. I used a reasonable amount of toilet paper, I did. Also, everything that escaped my ass was a violent, water-like substance, so it makes NO sense that the toilet stopped up. No, seriously. And WHY GOD WHY is it that the only time you stop up the toilet is when you're in a place that apparently has laws against keeping bathrooms stocked with necessities such as plungers, fans, and room spray?? I can guarantee that any bathroom you use in public (say at a dinner party, on a first date, at a wedding, whatever) that has a plunger discretely placed somewhere in the bathroom? Has perfect plumbing and the plunger will go unused. But if you look around first (which we NEVER do) and see nary a plunger anywhere in the immediate vicinity? Ohhh, that shit's spilling upward toward you at an alarming rate (in direct proportion to your widening, terrified eyes) which will then cause you to pray to the Potty Gods "ohhh no no NOOOOOO, no don't overflow, don't overflow, oh god, oh god, *look around wildly for something...anything...determine in your sleepy but rapidly awakening state that the sanitary shower cap proooobably ain't gonna help ya here...consider the plastic covered plastic cups as a possible water-scooping mechanism just long enough to gross yourself out and begin praying again to..* "PLEASE don't let it overflow...PLEASE go down, go down, go dowwwwwwwn!" and...

They heard you. It doesn't spill onto the floor. Oh thank christ. But....

It also doesn't flush. Not even that tense-few-seconds-of-possible-stoppage-but-then-blissfully-and-quickly-the-pipes-spring-to-life-and-we-can-heave-a-great-sigh-of-relief-as-the-contents-are-whisked-away-and-our-dignity-is-intact sort of flush. Nope. It just sits there...swirling. You try not to look at it, because then you have to face the fact that you are disgustingly human and male-like because you actually poop...AND badly at that.

So I perform much the same action as waitress above (complete with sagging shoulders and embarrassed sighing) and realize that This Will Have to Be Addressed. Also realize that even though husband is asleep, it isn't likely that I will manage to locate a plunger and fix this...this...'problem' without his knowledge (and input).

Freakin' SIIIIIGH

So I shut off the bathroom light before opening the door. I tiptoe out to my bed (hey! separate beds! just like our honeymoon!) and gently pick up the phone, intending to quietly dial the front desk and shamefully whisper my request to the clerk when...

Freakin' SIIIIIGH

I drop the phone. LOUDLY. It takes about a gawdam HOUR to fall between the wall and the nightstand, hitting everything along the way, again...LOUDLY, and in the middle of reaching out to grab the banging object, I freeze...paralyzed...waiting to see if George, whose back is to me, heard that and woke up. Juuuuust when I think I'm in the clear, I hear a sleepy voice say (almost happily) "Whatcha DOIN'?"

Gracie: "I, uh, I just need to turn the light on for a quick sec, okay sweetie?"

George: "Whhhuuu-howww come?"

Gracie: *Terse and firm, in a voice that she prays says 'Ask No Questions!'* "I need to call the front desk"

George: *didn't work* "Why?"

Gracie: *humiliated, I realize that I cannot escape the inevitable* "Need a plunger sent up."

George: "Heh."

Gracie: "Don't EVEN."

I help the phone escape the evil clutches of the Sticky Corded, Nailed to the Wall, Hotel Lamp and dial the front desk.

Front Desk Dude: *of COURSE it's a man. Of course* "Frondesss. Hep ya?"

Gracie: "Yes, uh...we need a plunger in room 210 please?" (and of COURSE I have to phrase each statement as a question. ...I don't know.)

Front Desk Dude: "Sure thing. We'll get that sent right up to ya."

George: *still laying in bed with his back to Gracie, who retardedly thought (hoped?) he had gone back to sleep, says in mildly offended tone* "What'd ya say 'WE' for??"

Gracie: "Oh you just shut. UP. ...besides, I HAD to. Girls don't poop. Everyone knows that."

George: "OOOhhhh, yes they do. You SO proved it. That first fart you let out in there this morning?? Woke me UP."

Gracie: *Realizing that divorce is clearly the only option available at this point, still chooses to play along, baffled that her wish to shrivel and DIE on the spot is going ungranted* "shut. UP!!!"

George: *still sleepy-voiced* "Thought we were gettin' attacked er sumthin."

Gracie: *covers face with hands*

George: "...by the JAPS er sumthin"

Gracie: *mumbles* "...hatechoo..."

George: "in big ole TANKS!"

Gracie: "fucker"

George: *still turned the other way, mind you* "Yep. Shook the BED."

Gracie: "It did NOT! Now get up!"

George: "What? WHY??"

Gracie: "Hurry! Before he gets here with the plunger!"

George: *realizes that she wants HIM to answer the door and pretend that HE performed the offending actions* "Awwwww no. NO. Nope."

Gracie: *Freak Out Rapidly Approaches* "DUDE. Get UP."

George: "Nope. You've gotta OWN that shit. ...heh. Shit."

Gracie: "No. I DON'T. I = GIRL."

George: "Yup. Aaaaand ya shoooook the walls and used too much toilet paper and stopped it up aaaaall on your own. ALL you baby."

And, as if on cue, there is a knock at the door.

And the bastard just lay there...warm and comfy and snuggled up in his blankets and left me to deal with it myself. Actually refused to pretend it was HIM that did this! Can you EVEN believe that shit?? (heh...shit)

Gracie: *becoming frantic and panic-stricken, hisses through clenched teeth* "Get. Up. Or. I. Will. BLAME IT ON YOU ANYWAY. I will tell him that you did it in the middle of the night and just LEFT it there and now you're all sleeping and not caring and you suck and shit!"

George: "Whatever. He'll know it was you."

Gracie has no choice at this point but to accept her fate (cause husband = evil fuckstick) so she rises, opens the door, and hangs head in shame. She does, however, retain enough presence of Female Mind to keep door closed far enough that only her face is visible so he can't see AssFaceHusband still half-sleeping. There is a man there...and not a maintenance man, no, no, but the gawdam front desk clerk himSELF (who we have to see each time we leave...and come back...oh kill me. kill me NOW) and he is handing me this hideous blue...thing...ohhh and it gets worse...they have the bottom...plunger part of the device covered in a grocery bag. a GROCERY BAG. and he is holding it out and away from him (with just his index finger and thumb...the rest of his hand daintily flung upward and away from the offensive contraption) and actually wrinkles his nose and has a look of DISGUST on his FACE, making my nightmare complete and says "Yeeeeah, uh, you can just keep that in here. The, uh, you know, MAIDS kin git it later theirselves."

Gracie: *Dying inside, squeaks* "yeahokthanks"

And then he literally runs down the hall away from Crazy Shit Woman.

I close the door and, as though the clicking of the hotel door lock is a director yelling "Action!" the grocery bag falls away from Scary Blue Accordian-like Plunger, and the thought briefly passes through my mind that I must be on some freakish, Bathroom Porn Candid Camera, and I see the reason the clerk put the bag there in the first place.

There were bits of toilet paper molded to the thing...from many, MANY other uses, and I feel the vomit rising and decide that I better get busy since I will soon be stopping up the toilet AGAIN, but this time with a much brighter, chunkier substance, so I lock myself in the bathroom and get down to business. I feel that I will be committed to an insane asylum soon because I cannot take much more and this is further clarified by my high-pitched, crazy giggles at the farting/sucking sound the thing makes as it performs its un-clogging action. I finally emerge from the bathroom a little while later, hands bleeding from all the soap and water used to wash away not just the nastiness of touching that hideous thing, but also in a vain attempt to wash away my shame, and notice that my evil, soon-to-be-ex-husband has now (NOW!) finally rolled over and is propped up on his elbows, and has the nerve to ask if all is well.

Gracie: *GLARES and replies oh-so-sarcastically* "Yes, dear, thanks. My humiliation is complete."

I punctuate this comment by angrily grabbing my Journal of Serious Injustice off the nightstand and begin my transcription of this joyous event.

George: "WHAT are you DOING??"

Gracie: "Writing."

George: "To the MAIDS??"

Gracie: *This is such a retarded question that I simply MUST reply in the affirmative* "Yes. Yes, of COURSE I'm writing to the maids."

George: "To apologize?" and he actually snickers

Gracie: *Further plots his gruesome death* "No, asshole."

George: "Just write: 'Stinky poo BAD. Paper...LOOOOOTTTTS. I fix! BYE!'"

Gracie: "SIGH"

George: "Seriously. What're you writing?"

Gracie: "After that 'What'd ya say WE for???' comment back there? Ohhh, this is SO going on the site."

George: *Sits up, swings feet to the floor and faces me full-on, prepares to get up and says, scratching his head* "I still think it's a VERY good question...."

Aaaaannnd off he trots to the shower. Gracie, of course, continues her furious writing and mutters:

Gracie: "Oooooo, I hate you."

Check back soon for the latest inquiry to our Advice Column

P.S., Do YOU have a question you need answered? If we get enough (serious) questions and this becomes a regular feature on the site, I will start sending gifts from the Angst Store to those whose questions are printed. And yes, I will send them to the past posters of questions, as well.

Someone Arrived Here Searching For:

my sister in law is stupid

female farts

naked wifes

alfred hitchcock's the birds why did the birds go crazy? [because of all the shitty acting?]

song nah nah nah

stupid naked people

da da da

"rage issues" husband

************************************************************

Search WWW Search AmericanAngst.com