9
Turd Talk & Shoulder Sex
Another covert habit I have on cleans involves a tennis ball but no dog. Julie, my hero of a massage therapist in training, showed me how to pleasure myself with one of these guys. Dude. Seriously. It is the bee’s knees for shoulders. I back up to a wall and position a tennis ball in a good spot and just work that shit. Eyes rolling back, trying not to groan too loud: full-on shoulder-gasm. There’s pain, and then there’s Goddamn good pain.
This is so helpful that I don’t even mind that she didn’t get the frozen shoulder diagnosis right. Thankfully, it’s tendonitis. My tendon is being pinched by the muscles around it that are overworking while the little muscles in the background are drinking Mai Tais. The Mai Tai comment was from her supervisor Tobin who came in to check on me. I have no idea what this guy looks like, but he had clean feet in sandals. Thank you Tobin! He mentioned doing I, Y, and T exercises while lying on my belly. I love that neither of them mentions the extra 20 lbs I’m packing around... my belly. Cheers guys, really.
I’ve been told that in newly finished homes, there’s often a clearly defined hammer hole in a wall—a calling card from the construction crew. I have been known to violate a fresh, perfectly sanitized toilet before leaving a clean. Timing is everything. After that fourth-degree episiotomy, I can’t hold things in like I used to. I wonder what the average age is for humans to learn to control their farts. And yes, I have crapped my pants before. When I get the message that something’s knocking on the door, I have less time than I used to, to make arrangements. The strange thing is, my snatch muscles are strong, but then again, they aren’t holding back a fart force to be reckoned with.
I’m sure I’m not the first one to feel a fart coming on while on the massage table. I bet they actually address this in their massage course. ‘When your client farts, do not react, even if you’re feeling faint.’ There I was, having her dig into my armpit, which is a huge part of the shoulder issue, and I feel a fart knocking on the door. Now, I am no rookie in fart-holding finesse; I know how to do the butt cheek clench.
But something unexpected happens. I’m doing my part by keeping it from slipping out my ass-crack, then it bubbles up past my taint and pops out between my pussy lips. I actually HEARD it, not just felt it. You can’t make this stuff up!
Scrappy Coco can go for 8 to 10 hours without peeing or pooping! To get home and go directly to the can while my sweet dog looks at me with at least his bladder full, if not more, feels inhumane. If I feel like I have to crap when I’m headed for home, I find a rec center or other easily accessible, clean bathroom/washroom, whatever we’re calling it now, that I don’t feel obligated to buy something at. Not that I’m against paying for it, but I have few precious moments before that movement has a mind of its own. ‘Where’s your shitter?!?’ Thank you Fat Bastard.
Scrappy has bulbous fat deposits, as many old dogs do. His are strategically placed, giving him ‘perky breasts’ right under his collarbone and near his armpits. I do find myself enjoying them, and he seems to like it too. I purr ‘What fine breast-es-es you have.’ It’s a little cringe-y but not straight up perv.
Sometimes at a clean, I do feel like ‘Why can’t you people clean your own Goddamn house?’. But it doesn’t last too long thankfully. If I had the financial means, I wouldn’t clean other people’s homes or even my own. Why would I? The other day I was leaving a job and saw another ‘cleaner’ leaving across the street. No one calls us ‘cleaning women’ at least not within earshot. I look her up and down and did a quick tally: Is she younger than me? Is she thinner than me? Is her car nicer than mine? Get a grip. Elbow Grease Girls unite, don’t divide.
I notice when I see a woman who is heavier than myself, I think ‘Whew, at least I’m not that fat!’. That’s so shitty of me. Hey Alexine, just stop shaming people, stop shaming yourself, or anyone else for whatever reason! Some of us are cleaning toilets, some are collecting garbage, some are dishwashers in busy restaurants. Some of these jobs are valued and have a wage to reflect that. Some aren’t. Some of us are salvaging recyclables for the deposits. Some of us are doing what we can do until we find something else to do that feels better. At least we are able to do something.
In Clelia’s bathroom, I pick up every bottle, every cream, every utensil, and wipe it and the entire area. I see her palette of neutrals: makeup, clothing, shoes, bed linens, carpet and drapes. Jeez, this woman can’t do color or emotion. She tries to make small talk while she asks me to vacuum under the couch cushions. She lifts each one up for me. Maybe she’s not a robot.
Later she asked if I read books. I’m like ‘Duh. Do you fart?’ Inside voice, Alexine, inside voice. She asked if I would like this book, The Alice Network. That’s where it got weird. She said she was given this copy, but already had a copy. It was like ‘here’s a gift, but it’s not really a gift because I’m giving it away because I don’t need it, but I don’t want you to think I don’t want to give you a gift, but I normally wouldn’t give you a gift….’ Awkward..
And what’s with these new bidet add-ons?!? I said it before, I’ll say it again, they absolutely SUCK to clean. They clamp on to a regular toilet, but now some areas could be drenched in piss that you need a pipe cleaner on steroids to get to. Or a fire hose. I get it, you not only ‘like a fresh bowl’ like Ally McBeal’s John Cage, but you want a fresh ass crack too. On-demand by remote command. Fair enough. But the designers of this handy dandy attachment for your existing john don’t care that it creates habitat with its many creavis’. What a nightmare!
I recently stepped in dog shit while wearing sandals in the park, throwing the ball for Scrappy C. It was just a matter of time before it would happen. It got on a couple of my toes. I managed to get most of it off with the damp grass by dragging my foot. I had to go deeper, but I am always equipped with rags and cleaner. At least, I didn’t have to drive somewhere to clean it off. Those rags went right into the garbage.
My Mazda hatchback usually has the last days’ rags and sponges drying in the back because I am the Mildew Nazi. My car has always been my safe place. I have nut bars from Kind: Almond, Sea Salt, and Dark Chocolate, and many water bottles for Scrappy C and myself. Napkins, plastic forks, perfume, sunscreen, lotion, dog blankets, air freshener (because old dogs stink), three kinds of tape, three kinds of phone chargers, jumper cables (I love jump starting cars!), a multitude of reusable shopping bags (I don’t have recycler’s guilt, but it’s not rocket science to do the right thing), engine oil, coolant, tons of cleaning rags, dusters, and cleaners, tennis balls of various colors, the almighty chuck-it ball thrower, dry dog food (in case we both have to eat it), rope for strapping those freebie treasures to the roof of the car, scissors, first aid kit, and a Narcan kit. Those save lives, and I am thankful for that.
I find my car is the perfect place to pluck facial hair. It used to just be eyebrows, but now there are chin hairs and the evil miscreant under-chin hairs, oh joy. Sunlight is amazing for seeing these thin scoundrels. Harvey used to do it for me. It was sweet. I do miss him.
I remember the first time I had to take him to the hospital. It was a Tuesday night, not too long ago, he was groaning in the bathroom like he was in labour. I asked him what was wrong. He said he couldn’t pee and was panicking. I called the Nurses hotline, and she asked me questions that I asked him through the door. After 10 minutes of back and forth, she told me I should take him to the emergency room.
He didn’t want to go, but I told him we were going, now. It was 10pm, and I had my first day of occasional catering shifts at 7:45am the next morning, downtown. Yes, I was on a roll of chaos. I had been fired from my job a few weeks before, car died the next week, and now I was taking my son to emergency the night before a shift that would pay me a bit while I looked for more work.
In the cab, on the way to the hospital, he told me that he had taken some ketamine earlier. What the hell?! Ketamine? I didn’t know anyone that did a drug like that. I thought it was something university students used after they got bored with acid. It’s a dissociative anesthetic that is often used on animals, especially horses. He seemed altered for sure. He had strained so hard, trying to pee that he popped a blood vessel in his eye and looked like hell. He was acting so strange.
After a not-too-long wait in emerge, they did an ultrasound and found that he had only a few teaspoons of urine in his bladder. The emergency doctor told him that ketamine can do this on occasion. She went on to say that for some people, it wreaks havoc with their urinary tract, and they end up having to use a catheter for the rest of their lives. Not Sexy.
I had already been talking to him about going to a counselor. Someone to talk to about why he wanted to escape so bad. He had previously told me that he had used acid, mushrooms, caffeine pills, molly (aka Ecstasy), and weed and hash, of course. Now he was adding ketamine, DMT, speed, and cocaine or any other random white drug to that list. He didn’t mention opioids, and I didn’t ask, thinking that was a ridiculous notion.
We had always been close. Now he shared less and less. He was so well-spoken, and everyone thought he was an amazing kid. Which he was and still is, when not being distant and irritable. What trip are you taking us on now, Harv?
‘Mom, you forgot Xanax and whippets but I drew the line at PCP and crack… I mean, Come on, I’m not that crazy!’