Things I Don’t Do: Stand Up When I Pee, Publically

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bathroom, female, gender, humor, ladies, letter, pet peeves, public places, restroom, toilet, women

Note: See other items on a list of Things I Do and Things I Don’t Do here: Cook Dinner, Watch TV, Make the Bed, Return Phone Calls

After the ceremonial belt-loosening and pant-dropping, I walk right in and I sit down for a pee. There are times, due to conditions far beyond my control, when I cannot perform this simple and sensible procedure. Thus begins my open letter to the women’s restroom users who do not believe in sitting:

Women, unite! This is what we were made to do in the restroom, sit down there, have a quick pee, freshen our faces, and return to the lines of battle. But, alas. This is too much for some of you out there. You marginalized sect of stubborn women. You stander-uppers. You who are too grossed out and dressed up, oh-my-god-ing when he leaves the seat up type women. I’m here to say I’ve had enough of you. You’re the problem with the entire women’s public restroom scenario.

I will not stand up when I pee publically, and neither should you. This would work out fine for all of us, were it not for insistence on doing the standing squat. The problem with this, ladies, is that you’re too busy (or lazy) to actually squat at all. You pretty much stand developing world-style over the toilet while fixing your hangnail or your hair.  And since you’re working with a vagina and a bunch of crumpled up labial lips down there instead of a straight shooting penis, you shoot your urinary goods over every inch of the stall in your I think I’m squatting, but I’m actually standing and also checking my iphone stance. Satisfied that your high-faluting rear end is free from any parasites that were germinating on that putrid toilet seat, you pull your stockings from your armpits and strut out, leaving the stall desecrated, dripping with your juice, marked like a hydrant from hip to toes.

You, ma’am, are the reason the rest of us cannot sit down. If you would subscribe to the simple formula of sit, pee, flush, the public porcelain throne remains as clean as your queen’s seat at home, where do you, presumably, sit. Your bum, though I have not seen it, only what it can do, is surely not diamond studded. No more than mine. Let us, then, all sit our sparkly bums on the seat and put our pees in the bowl.

Regards, no, Best Regards,

Linda Anne Dennison

Visit her page to meet the collaborator of this post’s initial idea.

An Open Letter to the Current Owner of My “Heart is Greater than Money Sign” Wallet

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coffee, credit cards, letter, money, morality, new york, NYC, open letter, Starbucks, stolen, wallet

Dear person who has my wallet: Due to the twelve business cards inside bearing my name and email address, my personalized Starbucks card on which you are free to have a drink (on me), and the pretty picture of me on my New York license (though I am not a New Yorker), all your excuses are morally inept. Should you require a reward for the return of my wallet, that can be arranged. The reward for keeping it has already been vanquished with a few phone calls.

Come on dude/dudette, it’s 2012 and I’m oh-so-quick like that. Buy yourself a venti soy something and give it back.

Regards,

Linda Anne Dennison

Cut Off

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bold, Chicago, communication, falling in love, friends, Godly man, letter, love, mail, past, relationships, visits, words

I’m always the one doing the cutting off. I don’t know why, exactly. I’m not necessarily the type. I’m a pretty likeable person, they say. Unless no one tells the truth around here. I love to have fun, love to love–sometimes too much. But I tend to see my weaknessess and hesitate to step in too far where I’ll falter. That’s where I find myself cutting off. You’d say I cut you off, right?  Or, tried.  It was the way I thought things should go.

I try to be clear. I use my words. I remember to never make promises, because that’s not fair. I sit at kitchen tables, in parked cars on the street, on the steps of some church down the street from your place, all to explain why I think this way will be better. You fight it, you don’t hear me, only I understand.

Memories and loneliness make me turn the choice over and over, make me make sure it’s right, in the months that follow. We write letters because I said we could. I frown when you call. And when you send messages meant to make me laugh. You are breaking the rules we made, but really only I made them. I’m the one cutting off because only I understand.

Your words are as clear as these months are long. You’re stuck on me, which is not good.  So to be clearer still, I tell you about the man I fell in love with years ago. Whose salvation I involuntarily wait on. Not because it has anything to do with you and me, but because the way I wait on him is the way you’re waiting on me. And I can’t figure who’s the bigger fool. You don’t see what I’m saying, but you see something else. Something more. Because you love me, you see the way I’m stuck on this stubborn man and you see how it’s crushing me. In the end, because of it all, you cut me off.

I’ve never been cut off before. Not really. Not unless I was the one building the wall between us. I’m stunned at your finality. I will not expect a letter from you, you say. I do not think it’s a good idea to see you–and you underline do not. The ball’s in my court, you tell me, but only if I want to love you. And I can’t make myself love you.

The stiff arm you give me is bold and sure. You’ve not spoken to me with such confidence before. With such assurance. With such leadership. When I asked you for leadership–and I asked you for leadership–you never gave me this. But I ask you not to wait on me, and you give me a man of God that I could fall for. The distance of being cut off feels so isolated. And isolation is not a feeling with which I am well-acquainted.