Well it has come to this, Dear Reader. I have written about forehead bugs, toilet spews, flossing, laundry duties, double dipping and a host of topics regarding Bad Manners. This day has been a long time coming. Today I must vent to you about that social taboo, Plumber's Butt. I hesitated there with the apostrophe, I am tempted to put it after the S because it is a malady that affects more than one plumber. Plumbers are actually given a bad rap here, as this is a problem that spans all occupations, regardless of color, age, religion, gender or political beliefs.
Summer is a particularly bad season for exposing the intergluteal cleft because clothes typically become thinner and shorter on top, while looser on the bottom. This creates a highly dangerous convergence zone in which, at any given moment, the Subject may bend or reach, thus advertising what one former co-worker referred to as the "pencil holder".
We can thank British designer Alexander McQueen for designing the "bumster" jeans, those low-slung denims that barely cover one's derriere, but we can't lay all the blame on him. I maintain that the Subject must have an inkling that his (purely a neutral possessive) buttock cleavage is being bared.
He (in the most gender-neutral sense) has got to know that he is flaunting his fanny! Surely he can feel that coolness on his crack, breeze on his butt, chinook on his cheeks, gust on his glutes, tempest on his tush, air on his ass, puff on his pompi. I have considered this for quite a while, and I have come to the realization that he Doesn't Care.
He doesn't care about his indecent exposure, but he also doesn't care about the feelings of the unexpecting viewer. He has no remorse for the horror and embarrassment that he has inflicted upon the innocent onlooker.
The accidental audience really is just that. It could be you, Innocent Reader, minding your own business, when the Subject leans down to pick up something he dropped, crouches to peer in a low space, bends to assart a plot of land, or whimsically reaches for his toes. Polite Reader that you are, do you quickly avert your assaulted eyes? Do you turn your head and pretend to look at something else? Do you say anything? Do you let him hear your gasp? Do you cover your child's eyes? Do you calmly assay the offending situation?
He Doesn't Care because in the last decade, Alexander McQueen's bumsters and all of their copycat brands have become asininely popular and it has become fashionable in some circles to display one's lower crevasse. There is no shame in showing one's seat. It has become so commonplace that late night TV has created a commercial for Coin Slot Cream. Popular culture has assented to this practice and acts as if there is nothing wrong with assailing one's assets.
I assert that we put a stop to this practice. I hereby asseverate to assiduously monitor those with whom I associate. My indignation will only be assuaged by an assumpsit from the Subject to assume all responsibility and rectify the problem, assuring that it will happen No More. Only then will I have assythment.
FLOSS FIASCO
This blog has been a parade of confessions for me. Today is no exception. I hate to floss.
Unless there is a nugget wedged between my teeth, I try to avoid it at all costs. My teeth are packed together very tightly, and it is hard to get the filament between them. Forcing the thread between my teeth jars my brain and nearly cuts my floss-wrapped fingers to the bone. Removing the strand from between my teeth is a lesson in experiencing whiplash.
You need to understand my aversion to flossing in order to continue reading and fully appreciate the anxiety that I felt in the following installment of My Life's Mishaps.
Girl8 and I were on a road trip. I love road trips even more than I hate flossing. To me, road trips mean loud music (I consider the Steve Miller Band the ultimate road trip music, closely followed by U2), great scenery and an all-around wonderful time away from home. We crossed Snoqualmie Pass early in the morning and I thought it would be beneficial, in more than one way, to stop for breakfast at the Cottage Cafe in Cle Elum. In a previous lifetime, it had a telephone, as well as a wall-mounted jukebox, in each booth. It is a place frequented by truckers, which is a sure stamp of approval.
We both ordered eggs over medium, hash browns and sourdough toast. It was everything that a road trip breakfast is supposed to be. The hash browns were wonderfully crisp, the eggs were perfectly over medium, and the toast was tan and buttery. I had water with my breakfast only because I'm funny about my coffee, ask anyone.
Afterwards we made the mandatory trip to the bathroom before resuming our long journey to the East. I glanced at myself in the mirror while waiting for Girl8. I was thinking that I looked quite respectable for being on a road trip - we had decided to wear our "travel skirts", which had proven to be very comfortable while making the wearers appear presentable in any situation. I had put on earrings and for once, was rocking a decent hair day. I gave myself a smug toothy smile in the mirror and was shocked by a piece of black pepper stuck smack between my teeth.
I tried to remember if I had flashed anyone what I thought to be my pearly whites on the way to the rest room, but I couldn't remember. The pepper seemed to be perched right on the edge of my teeth, so naturally, I went after it with my fingernail. This did nothing for me except to drive the pepper further into the crevice and make itself felt. Not being a dedicated flosser, I did not have my mandatory supply of Glide tucked in my purse. I looked around the sparse bathroom and my eyes lighted on the paper towels. At that moment, it seemed a brilliant idea.
I ripped off a rectangle of the standard brown paper towel and immediately got to work on that piece of pepper. The paper wasn't as stiff as I had hoped, and, due to the close-fitting teeth involved, it wasn't as effective as I had imagined. In fact, the longer I worked at it, the paper got more and more wet and limp. For one miraculous millisecond, I met with success, but then the unimaginable happened. I suppose if I had given it a little more thought, I could have realized this outcome. The paper towel ripped and left a tiny shred between my teeth, next to the pepper. Not only could I feel the pepper, but now the paper towel was making its presence known as well.
I employed my tongue to no avail. I tried to use the laws of physics and suction to release the offending paper towel (the pepper was no longer such a great concern), but this method did not end in fruition. As Girl8 stood in front of me and washed her hands at the sink, my agitated glance fell upon her hair. For a nanosecond I actually considered it. I was able to save myself from certain embarrassment with the vision of myself walking through the Cottage Cafe, grinning wildly in every direction, with a piece of black pepper between my teeth, snuggled next to a piece of brown paper towel, and a rogue hair poking out from between them, like a hair on a mole.
It dawned on me that I did not have to smile with my teeth as I sailed out of Cle Elum's best breakfast spot. I could paste on my satisfied Mona Lisa and escape to the car, with the fantasy of finding some dental floss in the glove compartment, or under the back seat.
I marched proudly out through the cafe with Girl8 in tow. I attempted what I thought was a pleasant smile, but really I think my lips were pursed tightly together and my mouth may have been turned down at the corners while my eyes darted to and fro, looking at the various customers to see if they knew my secret. They were all very polite about it, keeping straight faces and averting their eyes apologetically. I know they felt my pain.
Empathetic Reader, I know you are commiserating with me and thinking of that long drive I had, with nobody but the unsympathetic Girl8 on her Nintendo DSi, struggling with that paper towel battened between my two front teeth. You are imagining the many long miles of tongue contortions, lip smacks and torn fingernails, and you are wondering how I ever bore it. Well, I am going to the dentist next week.
Unless there is a nugget wedged between my teeth, I try to avoid it at all costs. My teeth are packed together very tightly, and it is hard to get the filament between them. Forcing the thread between my teeth jars my brain and nearly cuts my floss-wrapped fingers to the bone. Removing the strand from between my teeth is a lesson in experiencing whiplash.
You need to understand my aversion to flossing in order to continue reading and fully appreciate the anxiety that I felt in the following installment of My Life's Mishaps.
Girl8 and I were on a road trip. I love road trips even more than I hate flossing. To me, road trips mean loud music (I consider the Steve Miller Band the ultimate road trip music, closely followed by U2), great scenery and an all-around wonderful time away from home. We crossed Snoqualmie Pass early in the morning and I thought it would be beneficial, in more than one way, to stop for breakfast at the Cottage Cafe in Cle Elum. In a previous lifetime, it had a telephone, as well as a wall-mounted jukebox, in each booth. It is a place frequented by truckers, which is a sure stamp of approval.
We both ordered eggs over medium, hash browns and sourdough toast. It was everything that a road trip breakfast is supposed to be. The hash browns were wonderfully crisp, the eggs were perfectly over medium, and the toast was tan and buttery. I had water with my breakfast only because I'm funny about my coffee, ask anyone.
Afterwards we made the mandatory trip to the bathroom before resuming our long journey to the East. I glanced at myself in the mirror while waiting for Girl8. I was thinking that I looked quite respectable for being on a road trip - we had decided to wear our "travel skirts", which had proven to be very comfortable while making the wearers appear presentable in any situation. I had put on earrings and for once, was rocking a decent hair day. I gave myself a smug toothy smile in the mirror and was shocked by a piece of black pepper stuck smack between my teeth.
I tried to remember if I had flashed anyone what I thought to be my pearly whites on the way to the rest room, but I couldn't remember. The pepper seemed to be perched right on the edge of my teeth, so naturally, I went after it with my fingernail. This did nothing for me except to drive the pepper further into the crevice and make itself felt. Not being a dedicated flosser, I did not have my mandatory supply of Glide tucked in my purse. I looked around the sparse bathroom and my eyes lighted on the paper towels. At that moment, it seemed a brilliant idea.
I ripped off a rectangle of the standard brown paper towel and immediately got to work on that piece of pepper. The paper wasn't as stiff as I had hoped, and, due to the close-fitting teeth involved, it wasn't as effective as I had imagined. In fact, the longer I worked at it, the paper got more and more wet and limp. For one miraculous millisecond, I met with success, but then the unimaginable happened. I suppose if I had given it a little more thought, I could have realized this outcome. The paper towel ripped and left a tiny shred between my teeth, next to the pepper. Not only could I feel the pepper, but now the paper towel was making its presence known as well.
I employed my tongue to no avail. I tried to use the laws of physics and suction to release the offending paper towel (the pepper was no longer such a great concern), but this method did not end in fruition. As Girl8 stood in front of me and washed her hands at the sink, my agitated glance fell upon her hair. For a nanosecond I actually considered it. I was able to save myself from certain embarrassment with the vision of myself walking through the Cottage Cafe, grinning wildly in every direction, with a piece of black pepper between my teeth, snuggled next to a piece of brown paper towel, and a rogue hair poking out from between them, like a hair on a mole.
It dawned on me that I did not have to smile with my teeth as I sailed out of Cle Elum's best breakfast spot. I could paste on my satisfied Mona Lisa and escape to the car, with the fantasy of finding some dental floss in the glove compartment, or under the back seat.
I marched proudly out through the cafe with Girl8 in tow. I attempted what I thought was a pleasant smile, but really I think my lips were pursed tightly together and my mouth may have been turned down at the corners while my eyes darted to and fro, looking at the various customers to see if they knew my secret. They were all very polite about it, keeping straight faces and averting their eyes apologetically. I know they felt my pain.
Empathetic Reader, I know you are commiserating with me and thinking of that long drive I had, with nobody but the unsympathetic Girl8 on her Nintendo DSi, struggling with that paper towel battened between my two front teeth. You are imagining the many long miles of tongue contortions, lip smacks and torn fingernails, and you are wondering how I ever bore it. Well, I am going to the dentist next week.
WORD FUN
I left a note to myself in the previous post to do two things. First, I looked up the masculine form of laundress, and I found launderer. I also found the word underlaundress, which is very intriguing to me. I wonder if it is the junior laundress, or is it the lady who washes the underthings????
Second, I investigated the origin of the phrase "the bee's knees". That proved to be very interesting. The Oxford Dictionary reports "The phrase was first recorded in the late 18th century, when it was used to mean 'something very small and insignificant'. Its current meaning dates from the 1920s, at which time a whole collection of American slang expressions were coined with the meaning 'an outstanding person or thing'. Examples included the flea's eyebrows, the canary's tusks, and one that still survives - the cat's whiskers. The switch in meaning for the bee's knees probably emerged because it was so similar in structure and pattern to these other phrases."
On the website Future Perfect, it is claimed that the phrase originated with the saying, "The be-all and the end-all." This was shortened to say, "The Bs and the Es" and if you say it fast, it sounds like "The bee's knees".
Still other websites attribute the phrase to that famous Charleston dancer, Bee Jackson, as a nod to her wonderful legs.
Some claim that a plethora of expressions employing animal anatomies cropped up in the 1920's, as a kind of "flapper talk". Besides the Bee's Knees, have you heard of the Elephant's Adenoids, the Ant's Pants, the Tiger's Spots, Bullfrog's Beard, Cat's Meow, Dog's Bollocks or Bear's Ears?
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Second, I investigated the origin of the phrase "the bee's knees". That proved to be very interesting. The Oxford Dictionary reports "The phrase was first recorded in the late 18th century, when it was used to mean 'something very small and insignificant'. Its current meaning dates from the 1920s, at which time a whole collection of American slang expressions were coined with the meaning 'an outstanding person or thing'. Examples included the flea's eyebrows, the canary's tusks, and one that still survives - the cat's whiskers. The switch in meaning for the bee's knees probably emerged because it was so similar in structure and pattern to these other phrases."
On the website Future Perfect, it is claimed that the phrase originated with the saying, "The be-all and the end-all." This was shortened to say, "The Bs and the Es" and if you say it fast, it sounds like "The bee's knees".
Still other websites attribute the phrase to that famous Charleston dancer, Bee Jackson, as a nod to her wonderful legs.
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| Bee Jackson, World Champion Charleston Dancer |
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| Those are teeth in there, not adenoids! |
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