I Tried

If you hang around me long enough, you’ll hear me say – in a strictly non-pejorative way, I swear – “Either you’re part of the solution or you’re part of the problem”.

Or something like that.

After writing about the pending increase in Oregon’s Bottle Deposit last year, I knew that I was a part of the problem and committed to action. 

In my own charmingly procrastination prone style.

$.10 a can or bottle is a good chunk of change to literally throw away.  

Well, recycle.

Whatever.

Fine, it’s a good chunk of change to figuratively throw away.

What I ended up with was a utility room chock full of empty cans and bottles.  Heck, some were even non-alcoholic!  I was even bringing home the empty soda bottles from my lunches at work.  I was Xtopher in action.

Which, with the slightest amount of effort becomes:  Xtopher inaction.

A new problem.

Luckily, attempting to live on a budget and save money on my…quaint lil paycheck finally lit the fire needed to get me to recruit The Silver Fox as a driver and haul my recyclables to the Safeway.  

Call him conscripted.

I had fully intended to just walk to the Safeway every other week or so with a bag of empty cans and bottle jingling over my shoulder.  I try to go every Friday to stock up on lunch supplies for the coming week, anyway.

I couldn’t shake the mental image of me doing my best homeless person shamble there the streets of Portland’s swanky Pearl District.  My natural procrastination was well fed by this imagery.

Which is how I ended up in The Foxes SUV for a ten-ish block trip.  He dropped me off, parked and made the most of the inconvenience by going inside the store for some much needed oranges…

“When life gives you lemons, exchange them for oranges!” – The Fox.

Ok, he didn’t say that.

But about the time he was walking down the stairs from the parking garage to the store, I was standing in front of the Pearl Safeway’s two reverse vending recycling machines.

Oh, excuse me…the two broken reverse vending recycling machines.

Fuck me.

A homeless guy I’d woken up by walking in groggily said that someone had gone into the store to alert them to the crisis.  That sounds helpful until you factor in my uncertainty in his ability to tell me what day it was.

A very nice employee showed up as I was hauling my bags toward the ramp to the parking garage and offered to hand count my returns for me.  I gratefully accepted.  Then she suggests moving somewhere less stinky.

So I’m standing outside on the sidewalk watching helplessly while she counts my empty cans and bottles.

Of course, a crowd of homeless people with a couple bucks worth of cans each starts to gather ’round.

Oh, the optics.

If I harbored any hope of a future relationship, this would be the time our paths crossed.

$11.40 worth of counting later, I’m on my way.  I’m feeling rather unaccomplished and briefly consider drinking even less beer and soda than I have lately.  

Wine bottles are somehow exempt from the Bottle Bill.

That night, I’m wandering by The Brodega by my house and notice their new taps are featuring Barley Brown’s Pallet Jack and make a date with The Fox to grab one the next night.  

Hashtag: brainstorm

They also fill growlers.

That’s the key to my participation in improving the recycling issue: refillable growlers instead of six packs.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle after all!

So, in I walk with my growler the next night.  They fill it with an extraordinary amount of waste, but I’m kinda ok with it since The Brodega is she-she expensive and this growler will probably cost $19, based on their normal over-pricing.  By comparison, a growler fill at The Big Legrowlski is $16, I think.

$12.

That’s what my growler fill fist at The Brodega.

My favorite goddamned beer at bargain basement prices AND I just juked the whole bottle tax vs recycling conundrum.

Yes, please!

Hashtag: winning.

I Tried

That’s Just So Carlos!

Today was a tough day at work, falling somewhere between “complete shit” and “uphill battle”.

My MAX ride home after 11 hours of giving my nose a good grind put an unexpected smile on my face…but it, too, ended well after getting off to a touch and go start.

What I typically enjoy about my time off from work is that it’s solitude.  After spending however long tending to the needs of customers and staff – I call them my internal customers – and most importantly, the needs of the business, well…I can get a little…Garbo-y.

The luxury of choosing who I will spend my free time with and what I will or will not do doesn’t start as soon for me as it does others.  Mine starts not when my car door slams, rather when my front door does.

Ish.

I’m usually greeted by Myrtle screaming at me after being gone literally half a day.  Particularly when I’m working an alt-schedule as I am this week.  Sunday was 10 am to 1 am, today and tomorrow are 10 to 8…although I failed by an hour in my departure time today.  Mistress Myrtle let me know as soon as I came off the firewell stairs – yes, I can walk up stairs again! – with a frantic mewling that I could hear in the hallway.

How dare you leave me unattended so long!”

“Need I remind you that dinner is at 6 pm, sharp?!?”

Or, being merely human, she worries about my ability to survive in the wild for prolonged periods.  Either way, all is forgiven once I crack open that Fancy Feast!

Until she remembers that she hates all food, all the time and starts complaining about my cooking.

But!

Let’s get back to what I just realized is my respite from needs and demands…my MAX commute home.

I’m waiting on the MAX platform, resisting the urge to consider what ball I could have let drop that would have prevented my seeing a train pulling out as I came out of the airport.

13 minutes.

That’s how long I get to tap my toes until the next train.  At this hour, the Red Line trains are single car affairs.  I surreptitiously assess the size of the crowd trickling in as we wait for the transit security guy to inspect the car before we load in.  

It’s not too bad.  It won’t be crowded.

I also use this time to gauge which end of the car to head to, preferring the front of the train.  There’s several people with clunky bags at the rear and just one single fella with a small bag at the front door.

I’m actually only one of three people that aren’t jockeying for position outside each open door waiting for the inspection to be complete.

Human nature…when I think of it as an individual, he’s that kid that runs headfirst into walls with a bucket over his head for…protection?

It’s not like we’re going anywhere for – I check the departure clock – 6 minutes.  What is the friggin’ rush to board?  Simply being told to wait until the inspection is over?

<eye roll>

Anyway, I start sidestepping my way toward the front of the train and arrive there to see the somewhere-on-the-autism-scale inspector come off the train and bow slightly while making a surprising sweeping gesture toward the doors, welcoming the passengers on board with a flourish.  I’m not sure of the actual intent behind the gesture, but I feel myself grinning.

There’s only four of us in the elevated front of the train.  I think there’s 19 seats, five rows of two on either side of the aisle.  One in the front row on the right side of the driver’s compartment to allow the driver room to enter and exit.  

We’re pretty spaced out.  The guy with the small roller bag is on the left in the third row, I sit on the right in the fourth row.  He gives me a strange glance as we’re each settling in.  The other two people that didn’t rush the doors are in front of me.

Ever since the MAX stabbings just under three weeks ago I tend to not sit in the fifth row.  The front of the train is elevated, but someone from below could easily reach over the unprotected seat back.  

I may have a little MAX PTSD.

My stop is the 12th stop.  There’s a lot that can happen in 12 stops.  It’s the retail witching hour:  the stores have closed and many of the riders coming on board look as if they are just leaving work.

Mostly, people Mother Teresa would bitch-slap get on.

The guy that sits behind me after boarding at the third stop sounds like he’s snoring through his nose.

I just sit there and try to look normal as I imagine nails on a chalkboard with each breath.  

He gets off two stops later.  

A few stops later I hear someone – someone who sounds permanently stoned – talking behind me.  I put up my mental buffer against street urchins panhandling for change, but realize that’s not what’s happening here.

I turn around.

There’s a kid hanging forward up the stairs from one of the yellow support poles.  He’s asking the new, silent breathing rider behind me if he knows where the Roseland is and whether this will take him there.

He sees me and looks plaintively up at me, asking me if this bus goes to the Roseland.

I check my desire to tell him he’s on a train while also registering his peach fuzz mustache and yellowing bruise around his left eye.

And his friendly, lost eyes.

I tell him it does take him there, but stop short of telling him how many stops there are…I’m not sure he’s really in any shape to keep track of stops.  He heads back to the other end of the train with a genuinely grateful “Thank you, sir!”

I’m mentally preparing myself to go out the rear doors when I get off and tell him the next stop is the one he wants.  Doing something nice for a stranger almost always makes me feel good.

I can hear him talking in the back with his friend about how great the show is going to be.  

We get to the Rose Quarter stop and I can hear them start talking about whether or not this is their stop.  I’m mentally answering them with a “no” as the doors start to close and I realize one of them decided it was their stop and ran out.  The kid who had asked me if this was his bus had not made it off and we’re pulling away.  

I’m hearing people tell him he can get off at the next stop and come back over and thinking their show must have been at the Moda Center in the Rose Quarter and not at the Roseland.  

He’s yelling that he has to get off.

Suddenly, he runs puts me and lands chest first against the driver’s door, fists balled and beating the door over his head, yelling at the driver to stop.

“I have to get off!  My friend is back there.  Let me off!”

I’m low-grade alarmed at the outburst, but I can see his energy waning as quickly as he burst by me.  My alarm turns to concern that the driver will call the cops, ruining the potential concert he was so excited about.

He leaves and heads back to the rear of the train,

I can hear him mumbling about how he has to get off the train.  I turn around and he’s leaning on a pole by the rear doors, dejectedly moaning his defeated mantra about getting back to his friend.

It’s kind of heartbreaking.

I realize that he’s been holding the driver call button down while he talks.  He lets it go and the driver is in the middle of a surprisingly calm reply about getting off at the next stop to go back to the Moda Center as we come off the Steel Bridge, this is my stop.

I get up and move to the back of the train.

He sees me coming, locks eyes on me and blurts out, “Hey!  Sir!  I know you’re the manager…can you make the driver stop and let me off?!?”

What?  Lol.

“Is your concert at the Roseland or the Rose Quarter?” I ask.

“The Roseland!  And my friend got off and the doors closed and I’m stuck and I have to get back there!” he frantically rambles.

He sounds like an upset toddler, I expect instant huge tears to erupt from his eyes and streams of sudden mucous to run from his nose at any moment,

I tell him his stop is two away.

“What?!?” he giggles with relief.

“Your friend got off too early”, I say.

“Oh my god, that’s so great!  Gimme a high five.” he yells.  Manically happy again.

I high five him and he asks my name, extending his hand and telling me his name is Carlos.  I tell him my name and he pumps my hand vigorously, saying, “I’m so faded man!”

Before he releases my hand, the train jostles and he’s thrown off balance, his grip on my hand being the only thing keeping him upright.

I help steady him, mentally registering the odd freeze frame we must have been.

I move toward the now open door, tossing a “You get off at the next stop, ok?” over my shoulder as I exit.  

He followed me off the train, still babbling his thanks.  I’m not entirely sure he realizes he’s no longer on the train.  I gently turn him around – don’t make it weird, Diezel – and tell him to get back on.  “Just one more stop”, I say, worried he won’t make it and I’ll somehow end up in charge of him.

“Just one more stop!” he replies as he stumbles through the door.

As the doors close, bouncing off his head before reopening to let him board.

I turn and head home, grinning like a fool.  My cruddy work day pushed to the rear of my consciousness.

Oh, Carlos

That’s Just So Carlos!

Fitfy: 49.19

I think it’s time.

I’ve been focused on preserving my physical well-being and developing some routine around structured exercise.  

I’ve been cleverly denying curbing my bad dietary choices at the same time.  Sure, challenging myself to cook at home versus eating out – which has become more of a necessity since tax time, too – but I’m still cooking more comfort food to soothe my emotional self than food that supports my entire self.  

It’s time to focus on integrating diet into this hopscotch toward success in my exercise regimen I am currently on.  I do feel better for the once weekly fit of exercise I get outside of my 6-9 miles walked at work daily…but that ain’t slimming the old silhouette, if you get my drift.  I know a diet based more on lean protein and vegetables will improve that result.  Further, those foods with their added latent results will probably mentally and physically stimulate more of a post-workday activity mindset.

I’ve been avoiding supplements to help reduce my body fat.  I don’t want a crutch.

I’ve been stalwart in my resistance to far diets, whether it be a juice cleanse or going paleo.

I’ve been contemplating a return to a diet prescription an obnoxiously fit gym owner my age once gave me.  He recommended only chicken and green veggies like broccoli after lunch…he’ll why not for lunch, too?

I’ve been glaring at my iced lattes, mentally preparing myself for a return to home made cold brew.

Making those moves would be a jolt of support toward my goals.

Ironically, I realized that diet regimen has been given a trendy and modern name:  a sugar detox.

Plus, it’s a fairly stripped down version of a paleo diet, too.

So, starting Wednesday…three days of hardcore focus on this diet plan and the layering some different foods in while maintaining that base.

After all, what’s in a name, as long as it works for me?

Fitfy: 49.19

Every Day is Like Monday

On my way into work for what will probably be a 15 hour and 10 mile day.
I decide to grab coffee on the way in.

Coffee shop is closed.

I somehow muster the fortitude to go on and head for MAX in a slightly meandering path from this unusual starting point.  Plus, now I’m 15 minutes early since I just saved a bunch of time I budgeted for flirting with the barista.

I mean, his name is Phillip.  How could I not?

I encounter a forgotten murder mart along the way and opt in for a Monster.  I forget about this Old Town convenience store because they – inconveniently – don’t carry beer.  Also, they only carry the original Monster, I like the lo-carb.  Of course.

Somehow…I carry on.

And, seriously.  Would you believe me if I told you Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On came on my Indigo Girls Pandora station as I walk out?  

Shit you not, I do.

Or do not?

I got lost in a tangle of Yoda-speak and double negatives.

Obviously, I haven’t opened the Monster yet.

My path drops me off at OCOM (Oregon College of Oriental Medicine) where I get my acupuncture, which is right between my normal Old Town stop and the stop under the Burnside Bridge.

I see my Red Line sitting under the Bridge…ten minutes early.  Each stop is a block away, but I turn and hustle toward my normal stop for two reasons:

First, Saturday Market and Rose Festival crowds instinctively drive me away from the Burnside Bridge stop.  Usually, the Saturday Market crowd would make me steer clear of that stop.  

No thanks, Bridge and tunnel people double whammy.

Second, I presume the train is due to depart for the next stop at any moment and would be pulling away as I approach.  A presumption that basically exposes my deepest secret that I’m Superman…faster than a MAX train I am.  Not.

Go ahead, roll you eyes at those fine examples of Xtopher logic.

I notice there’s a Blue Line train at the Old Town station, which is unusual since these trains generally run about 3-5 minutes apart for…safety?  They don’t run two blocks apart, that’s for sure.

That’s when it hits me.  

Rose Festival.

The friggin’ bridge is up and trains are delayed.

Me, inside:

Also, me inside:

Today is my normal Monday, but since I worked yesterday, too, it obviously thinks it can try and push my buttons.

Nope.  I’m bringing full Joan Crawford today, so watch yourself, Sunday!

<pops open Monster>

Every Day is Like Monday

Next Stop, Crazy Town

On Monday, I got a text from a friend that simply said, “Maybe you should take an Uber to work”.

This was in response to a post I’d made on the Facebook that morning.  I’d been on MAX heading into work at about 5:30 am.  The train was largely empty, just me and another airport worker, a guy that was dressed for construction work and a bloke with a suitcase.  We were all keeping to ourselves.  

Public Anonymity.

As you can usually depend, a crazy guy got on at the stop after mine.  There’s always a crazy person on MAX.  It’s like the toy surprise in a box of cereal.  

Sometimes they stink.

Sometimes they sleep.

Sometimes they dance.

Occasionally, they vomit.

On the very rare occasion, they go on a murder spree.

That’s what had happened the prior Friday during the evening rush hour.  The crazy person in question was – in an especially heinous bonus – also a radical racist.  As the very brave are wont to do, he started picking on a young woman wearing a hijab.

He was verbally abusing her and causing a scene.  Several standers-by intervened, only to learn our bully wasn’t only a crazed racist.

He was one of those knife carrying crazed racists.

Two of these good samaritans ended up dead for their trouble and a third was sent to the hospital in grave condition.

So, the few of us this Monday morning were a bit on edge…unified in our discomfort with the shambly, smelling toothpick of a human in Hammer-style pants that were shredded up one side.

The key is not making eye-contact, I reminded myself as the train pulled into the Hollywood stop – the site of Friday’s misfortunes – and our shaky friend made his way past me and presumably got off the train.  

I was reading about the murders on my phone as we pulled away from the memorial for the fallen.

He hadn’t gotten off.

I know this because he shambled back to the front of the train and sat right in front of me, deep in conversation with himself.  I leaned back in my seat, contemplating a quiet move to anywhere else on the train.  Once he turned sideways and put his feet up on the seat, my opportunity for a stealth move was gone.  Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I sat tight while he finished his argument.

I was relieved when he got up to move.

I was horrified when thumped the back of my head after passing out of my peripheral.  I turned to see what was happening and he was standing there, body canted toward me aggressively and his hand held in the shape of a pistol.

Do.

Not.

Touch.

Me.

I said.  I think I scared the construction worker guy with the impressive display of eye-whites I was sporting.  Seriously, visible sclera all around my irises, I’m sure!

Obviously, the situation warranted this display of crazy eyes.

Not a great start to my day.

Just for fun…the return commute wasn’t any less maddening.

I was sitting alone most of the way, there was once again just a handful of folks in my part of the train.  Ironically, at the Hollywood stop – the scene of Friday’s tragedy – a group of five kids got on.  A couple sat behind me.  A young man in front of me.  A young lady beside me and her friend across the aisle from her.

Yay…surrounded.

Plus, they brought with them the pungent odor of cheap weed.

I was also about to learn she was far from lady like.

They were as oblivious to social skills as you’d expect of a group of kids in their late teens or early 20s.  Icing that cake, my neighbor decided it was completely acceptable to blast music from the portable speaker she was holding.  Sixty percent of this pack being black, you can imagine where the musical tastes lay.

Damn.

Bitch.

Fuck.

Nigger.

Of all the words in the English language…why so many rap songs have to include such a limited range of words is beyond me.  But I had had enough.  I popped out an earbud and asked if I should be able to hear her music over my headphones.

“What?”, followed by nervous laughter.  

The guy in front of us turned around and suggested that maybe my music wasn’t loud enough.

“Turn it down.  I don’t want to hear that word yelled out.”  Not my most eloquent phrasing.  

“What word?” 

“TURN OFF YOUR MUSIC.  NOW!”, yelled our driver, who had stepped out of his cab to put a stop to this stoner madness.

You’d think we would have ridden in silence.  At least for a bit.  

Nah.

These kids had to be all disgruntled and mumble objections for a few stops.

Shortly thereafter, the kid behind me flicked my ear.

Seriously.

What the hell, people…are we not even teaching kids boundaries any longer?

For the second time in a day a stranger had put hands on me.  Still trapped by these five kids, I refused to take their shithead shenanigans silently.  I turned and told the kid to keep his hands to himself.

He tried playing innocent, but his girlfriend’s giggles betrayed him.

“I’m not kidding, you’re already on the driver’s shit list.”

“What about her, can’t I touch her?” he asked doing a palms up with both hands, one of which was draped over his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“What people with questionable judgment allow you to do is their business.  Don’t touch me again.”

Of course he did…before bravely slipping out of his seat and out the train doors at the Rose Quarter stop.

Friggin’ punk ass kids.

The most disturbing thing about the day of commuter hell was that it highlighted how vulnerable we are.  Sure, my ordeal was nowhere near the magnitude of the previous Friday…but there wasn’t much separating the two events, aside from weaponry.  

It was unnerving.

I vented about it to The Silver Fox and thought that was the end of it.  I anticipated a return to my assumed safety in short order.

Yesterday we went out to the Big Legrowlski for a beer and on the way home I saw something that made me doubt that restoration of my peace of mind.  

We were walking back toward our homes through the North Park Blocks and out in the park in the block behind us there were a few homeless peeps sunbathing.  

Well, camping.

Except.

Two of them were chasing each other and yelling.  One of them was brandishing a knife.  Seriously, who hasn’t learned not to run with sharp objects?

“Should we call the cops?” I asked, realizing after I said it that my phone was already in my hand.  

“Nah…how are the cops gonna find a homeless guy?” was the The Fox’s paraphrased reply.

That’s when I realized that Crazy Town isn’t the next stop…culturally, we’re already there.  Some of us just enjoy it.

Next Stop, Crazy Town

The Three-Way of Abject Sorrow

First off, get your mind out of the damned gutter.

But as long as we’re talking about sex, this title would totally work for a story about a lackluster sexcapade with two other people.  We’ve all had that bad three-way, amirite?

I’m not?

We haven’t?

Just me?

Ok, moving on then…

I was talking with the Needle Man last night during my acupuncture and we started discussing movies.  We were – no idea why – veering all over the place and I commented that he really had a wide range of cinematic tastes.  

Naturally, I had to ask, “Bit if you were stranded on a desert island with only one type of movie…”

He kinda verbally processed his response.  Slowly he disqualified each class of movies until he landed somewhere between comedies and inspiring biopics.  It was interesting to me that he specifically tossed horror films and scary movies out because the creepiness followed his mood out of the theater and he liked to go to movies to feel good.

I knew what he meant.  Still, I’d totally take comedies between the two, because I had a bad experience with biopics a couple decades ago.  It could have been because the movie in question – Shadowlands – was the third movie in a row that was just sad.

I think the first in this miserable movie ménage a trois was The Piano.  I mean, a movie about a mute woman sold into marriage, loaded onto a ship with her daughter and belongings and then shipped off to New Zealand – Australia, maybe?  How could that not be a thrill ride of a movie?

Secretly, I’ve decided that it was made simply to provide Anna Paquin with the acting Fred to later share screen time with Sir Patrick Stewart, Halle Berry and Hugh Jackman in the X-Men movies.

Anyway.

A bit later in that same movie season – I swear it was Christmastime and I saw these movies over the course of two weeks – I saw Philadelphia.

We all know how that goes.  But it was important to see, particularly for me as a 25 year old gay man still struggling to find my community and Chosen Family.  It might have helped if I didn’t move cities every couple of years.  Plus, this film was one of the first times a mainstream Hollywood actor played gay.  

At this time in my life, I was living outside Houston, TX.  The theater chains there had little wooden waiters outside the theaters holding giant bowls of mints.  I thought it was a nice touch since buttery popcorn and diet soda usually gives me bad breath.  I generally grabbed a couple on my way out.

The final movie in this series of movie misfortunes was Shadowlands.

I’d seen two serious drama, I wanted something a little more uplifting.  The story of TS Eliot finding love sounded like just the ticket.

Wrong.

Finding love in a marriage for the wrong reasons only to have that love suddenly ripped from him by cancer…yee friggin’ haw.

At least it was only Anthony Hopkins playing the lead.  Yeah, he fucking destroyed mourning and sorrow.  Watching him lose it wrecked me.  I remember thinking of how I must look in the theater:  hand hanging suspended over my uneaten popcorn, mouth hanging open, tears spilling from my eyes.

At the end of the movie, I was angry-sad.  I remember walking out of that theater, not caring that my face was slick with buttery smears and tears.  Dropping my mostly uneaten popcorn and soda aggressively in the trash, and angrily grabbing a handful of mints as I stomped past the wooden waiter.

That was how I felt after these three films:  wooden.

So, yeah…I like comedies.

The Three-Way of Abject Sorrow

Missed Poopertunity!

There I am this morning, tapping out a blog entry on my way to work.  Part of my effort to do something productive on my way to work instead of getting sucked into the Facebook.  Granted, it was about poop, but still…I never said my MAX Blog Challenge entries couldn’t be frivolous.

The challenge of writing on a deadline is that you may miss the opportunity to really reflect on your topic and make the most of the opportunity.

Case in point…or two.

I’m unusually triggered by things in my day to day life that pull me back to the pop culture of my past.  Or, the advertising campaigns of my past, I’m not sure those would fall under the pop culture umbrella.

I say “jinkies” more often than is probably cool.  I’m pretty sure zero is the number of acceptable times a cool person utters jinkies.  Here I’ve done it twice now in one paragraph.

Jinkies.

I’m also unusually attracted to the absurdity – and probable 70s era unchecked misogyny – of feminine hygiene ads of my childhood.  There’s two scenarios that frequently pop into my head.  Things I rarely say aloud, but are there, bouncing around my head as potential rejoinders in conversation.

It’s ridiculous, the inside of my head.

The mother/daughter walk on the beach scenario that starts off with the daughter vulnerably asking, “Do you ever have that ‘Not So Fresh’ feeling?”

Yeah.  That went through my head when my Needle Man was peppering me with questions about my digestion.

Consistency?

Color?

Clean up?

Gassiness?

“What was that third one again?” – Me

Equally absurd is the response that makes a run for my lips when I’m asked at the beginning of each session recently, “How have you been?”

You see, I’ve been quite well.  Pain, managed.  Previously unbeknownst digestion opportunities are…solid.

So, when asked, instead of saying, “Things are great!” my brain attempts to shove the words “I can ride a horse!” out of my mouth.

Because, apparently feminine hygiene products of days gone by – I hope…if not, my apologies to any frustrated equestrians – restricted ones ability to ride astride.

Yeah, Xtopher…ask yourself what topic could possibly be less comfortable to discuss than poop; which, as I recall reading…everybody does.

Apparently, before “wings” things were a little leaky in the feminine hygiene world, making ballistic activities a little haphazard.

Nonetheless, if the products haven’t improved, at least the advertising has?

But, there I am, randomly mentally sideswiped by the urge to blurt out “I can ride a horse!” when a simple “Everything is hunky-dory” will suffice.

What?

Cool people don’t say “hunky-dory” either?

Yeah, right.

Missed Poopertunity!