Another Toto-Lee Ridiculous Japanese Product

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I must be missing something.

Don't get me wrong.  I know that dealing with unsanitary bathrooms is nasty business.

But we already have 4 excellent alternatives for dealing with treacherous toilets!  

First there's the The TSH (toilet seat hover- pictured at right).  And if your thighs aren't up for a TSH workout (or perhaps you are flying in turbulent conditions), you could attempt toilet seat origami (covering the toilet seat with TP).   

And don't forget about the two more ingenious alternatives, each of which I have previously blogged about:  The GoGirl portable urinary device for women (http://notesfromanerdling.blogspot.com/2011/05/wake-me-up-before-i-gogirl.html)

And for those of you who don’t mind having a urine filled catheter velcroed to the inside of your thigh, The Stadium Gal (http://notesfromanerdling.blogspot.com/2010/05/what-gal.html)

So I ask you this.  With all these potential options for putrid potties, why would anyone need a portable electric bidet?

Nah. I’ll pass.

Here’s what the Japan Trend Shop says about the Toto Travel Washlet:

Never fear unknown bathrooms again with the TOTO Travel Bidet. If you've become accustomed to the luxury of Japan's automatic washing toilets, it can be hard to deal with unsanitary bathrooms elsewhere in the world. How do you know the toilet paper is clean?

Hold it right there. "How do I know toilet paper is clean?"  

Listen, I’ve got enough crap to worry about (no pun intended)!  Please don’t introduce another irrational fear to my long list of "watch out fors".

According to the advertising materials, the Toto Travel Bidet has an “electric steam operation.” 

Hold it right there. Again. Is it just me, or would anyone else be a bit uneasy about any kind of electric steam operating anywhere around your….um…toilet areas?  

Wait!  There's more!  The Toto Travel Bidet has an adjustable strength stream, with both 3 hole and 5 hole options, which, kind of.…well, I’d just better not go there.

The main thing I don’t get about the Toto Travel Bidet is that it appears you have to be in sitting position, with your pants down, to operate the tool.   

Am I missing something?  If you are in an unsanitary bathroom, just where would you sit to operate the Toto Travel Bidet?  Say, for example, the Delta Airlines bathroom was not up to your sanitary standards.  Will you take your Toto Travel Bidet back to seat 35C to restore your...um...toilet areas to the pre-lavatory trip standards?

Nah.  This isn't for me.  Just give me a good old fashioned Stadium Gal and I'll be happy.

Going Gangsta

"There's a lot of good Rap music with good messages," my daughter Linda was explaining to me in the car.

I rolled my eyes, all the while keeping them on the road. (That's how good of a driver I am.)

"But it's not singing!" I said. "Rap is more like acting. All they do is read words to monotonous music."

That's when I went out on the limb. Precariously far out.

"In fact, I could do Rap! Easy."

And that's how I became a middle-aged white female Gangsta Rap artist.

I know this will shock you, but it took less than 15 minutes to write The Multicollinearity Rap. Linda found the background music and I was ready to produce my first video.

Except I needed the right look. I put beads in my hair and a do-rag on my head. Then I threw on an over-sized t-shirt. I'm not sure whether it was the pastel beads or the flowers on the do-rag, but It just wasn't working. 

It wasn't Gangsta enough. 

I tried my Buffalo Bills baseball hat - backwards and forward.  Nope.  I still looked like a middle-aged white chick trying to look like a Gangsta Rap artist.

Then I found Dave's hoodie. Perfect. It was time to produce the video. Since I didn't have my rap song memorized, I had to read it off paper. 

"Mom!  You can't wear your reading glasses!" Linda said.  "You look like a librarian!"  

And she was right.  They distracted from my Gangsta look.

So instead, I printed out The Multicollinearity Rap in size 48 font so I could read it without glasses.  

And here it is:

Thank you.

It's already gone viral. I have 33 views!

Keep in mind that Justin Bieber was discovered via a You-Tube video. And I'm probably next.   Don't worry.  I will never forget my loyal readers after my Gangsta Rap career is propelled to the next level.

Maybe my tour will stop in Columbia. 

And I can return to the hood and see my homies.

Costume Conundrum

Famous last words: 
"Look how good my orange and green striped sneakers look with my pajama pants!"  

Dave and I were on our way to my secretary's 70's theme party.  I just assumed it was at her house, but the GPS was taking us to...where? 

W.T.H.?  

"HOLY CRAP!" I told Dave. "This isn't Bettye's house.  It's her church!"

I really messed up this time.  (I think I've been spending too much time with my theater friends.)

We pulled into the parking lot and noticed guests getting out of their cars. They were not dressed up in 70's costumes. They were wearing church clothes. From 2012.

"Are you sure you were supposed to dress up?" Dave asked, clearly amused.  I wasn't (amused).

We walked into the church hall, which was overflowing with members of Bettye's predominantly African American church.  Everyone was dressed to the 9's.  And only one person was wearing pajama pants.

Me.

And the guests who were wearing 70's costumes, were wearing hip, fancy and stylin' 70's apparel.

There I was wearing my "peace and love" pajama pants. And a tie died shirt that slipped off my shoulders revealing a matching green Ahh Bra. And my orange and green striped sneakers.

I looked like I stepped out of the 70's, alright: out of a bad Jimi Hendrix acid trip.

I managed to find some familiar faces at a table, two of whom were in costume. Elle was dressed as an adorable Annie Hall and Patty was wearing a cute 70's party dress. I sat down and joined them in my PJs.

"I thought you guys were wearing tie die shirts!"   I said to Patty with disgust. "I look like I just left Good Will!"

I tried my best to blend into the scenery.  Then they announced the costume parade.

What a conundrum.

If I joined the costume parade, everyone would see my "costume".  But If I didn't join the costume parade, they might suspect that I always dressed that way.

So, reluctantly, I got in line.  The DJ lady announced my name and I swear I heard rumblings, "That's Bettye's boss? Is she wearing pajamas?"

But then I decided to make the most of it. I strut my 70's stuff like there was no tomorrow.  When I got to the front of the stage I performed some of my best Body Jam moves.

"Yep, that's her boss alright. And I thought Bettye was exaggerating."

Maybe Next Time, Groupon

Um.

I don’t think so.

Let me start by saying that I’m the first person to buy a Groupon or a Living Social deal. $10 for $20 worth of cupcakes? Count me in! $15 for $30 worth of Mexican food and margaritas? Let me pull out my credit card!

But $29 for $200 worth of CrossFit or Kettlebell sessions? At an 86% discount?

Are you stinkin' crazy?

Look at that photo! I need to schedule a massage as a result of LOOKING at that thing.

It looks like a weapon Conan the Barbarian or some other medieval fighter would flail around in a battle between the Trojans and the Hatfields.

And what the heck am I supposed to do with a Kettlebell? Lift it up? Again and again?

Kettlebell, my foot.

How about KettleHELL?

Who invented that thing, anyhow? Adolph Hitler? Mussolini? And why would anyone want to lift it?

Well, maybe if there was $1,000 underneath it. 

Or tickets to a Broadway play.

According to Groupon, my time is running out.  I only have 1 day, 13:22:21…20…19..18. seconds left to buy my Kettlebell Groupon.

Well, guess what, Groupon.  Ain’t gonna happen. 

 If I’m lifting anything, it’s gonna be Marble Slab ice cream cone. 

Or a glass of wine.

Test Driving Tresses

I'm thinking about getting my hair cut. Short.

I've had the same "hairstyle" for years. And I use that term loosely.  Regardless of how I leave the house, my hair is in a pony tail within an hour.

And both of my daughters think cutting my hair short is a horrible idea. Although they didn't specifically use the word "hag", their message was clear.

Then I had the most scathingly brilliant idea EVER.

I went to one of those websites where you can upload a photo and it will superimpose various haircuts on you, so you know exactly what to expect.

Here's how I'd look with a Jennifer Hudson hairdo (and some breast implants).

Wait a minute. I just realized that I wasn't supposed to smile in my photo. 

I started over, with a new mug shot. (I am not going to share that image with my readers, for I don't want to cause any permanent emotional scarring.)   

You're welcome.

Here are some of my hairdo options. I'm not so sure about Taylor Swift.

Halle Barry? Maybe a bit too short.

I decided to go a bit longer.  Victoria Beckham is quite a beauty.

Holy crap!   I look like Adolph Hitler after a shave.  

Maybe that Twilight girl's hair.

Or not.

 I know!  I think Rihianna's hair looks great on her!

OMG.  Sorry, about that, readers.  That was almost as bad as my original mug shot.

You know what? Madonna's more my age. Maybe I should just go with her hair.

 

Holy stinkin' cow!!!

Please forgive me for subjecting you to such inhumane torture.  This blog should have come with a warning label.

Perhaps I should listen to my daughters, after all. They are right every now and then. 

This might be a good time to trust them.

Exploiting my House-abilities

Linda was the perfect infant.

She went to sleep happy. She woke up happy. She was an exceptionally peaceful baby.

So you can understand my terror when 3-week old Linda woke up from her nap that day screaming her lungs out.

There was clearly something horribly wrong with her. Something life threatening: a burst appendix, a strangulated hernia, breast cancer. I wasn't sure what, but I knew it was bad.

Poor Linda could not be consoled. I changed her diaper. I tried to feed her. Nothing would soothe her.

Thankfully, the pediatrician was able to squeeze her into his schedule.

I could not believe the magnitude of the screams coming from that 9-pound child as I rushed her to the doctor. Linda announced our arrival as I frantically ran into the clinic carrying the distressed infant in her car seat.

A nurse rushed us to an exam room and removed Linda's pajamas. She carefully examined her, gingerly pushing on her stomach and other baby parts in search of the source of her pain.

"I don't see anything wrong with her," she shouted over Linda's howling. "Dr. Pintner will be back in a minute."

She left us alone. Me and my pathetically inconsolable Linda.

I said silent prayers for my poor dying child.

But suddenly, my "House-abilities" emmerged.

I looked at her foot. 

What's that?

Her second toe looked like a... could it be??

A little sausage?  Actually, 2 sausages connected by a link.

I took a closer look.

Baby Linda had a string tied around the middle of her second teeny tiny toe. 

The string apparently had come from her footy pajamas (which had just come out of the dryer).

Poor Linda must have been dreaming about break dancing or Body Jam or something, because somehow the string got tangled around her toe in a knot of epic proportions, resulting in a Vienna toe sausage.

I found a pair of scissors and carefully cut the string. Her crying stopped immediately.

The doctor came in, prepared to break some very serious news to us about a burst appendix, a strangulated hernia, or breast cancer. Linda smiled at him. He looked confused.

"She had a string tied around her second toe," I announced, matter-of-factly.  "Take a look."

Her little toe still bore the indentation of the footy pajama string. In fact, It took days for it to fade completely.

Yep. That was ten years before House started getting credit for solving all those medical mysteries.

But, I had my priorities.  I was way too busy being a working mom to exploit my talents as a nerdling genius pediatric infectious disease detective.   

But now that House is retiring, I might reconsider that decision. 

 In fact, if you're from the networks, please contact my agent directly.

Breaking Through the Glass Ceiling

My brother Tom suggested that I blog about my career as a Mr. Softee Ice Cream Truck Driver. He considers me a pioneer of women's rights.

And you know what? I suppose I am!

In fact, now that I think about it, I should be on a coin! I mean, Susan B. Anthony had a dollar. I should at least get a dime. Or a nickel.

You see, I was the first female Mr. Softee Ice Cream Truck driver in Niagara County.

Thank you.  

At the risk of dating myself, I got my Mr. Softee job before Al Gore invented the internet. To find a job back in the olden days (as my daughter Linda calls them), I looked at the help-wanted ads in the Niagara Falls Gazette.

And back then (clearly, pre-equal opportunity employment era), there were 3 sections to the want ads: "Help Wanted-Male", "Help Wanted-Female", and "Help Wanted- Male or Female".

I looked at the Help Wanted-Female jobs: hotel maid... baby sitter...cook.... Lame. 

There were a handful of Help Wanted Male or Female ads, equally lame. 

I stole a glance at the Help Wanted Male section. And there it was: the ad for the Mr. Softee Ice Cream Truck Driver.

I should back up for a minute and remind everyone about just how much I LOVE ICE CREAM. 

OMG. Talk about a dream job!  I was salivating.

The ad said they were looking for someone who was self-motivated and had a driver's license. 

It said nothing about needing a penis.

I was not only self-motivated with a driver's license, but my love of ice cream made me the perfect candidate for the job!

I drove down to Luzi's Dairy to put in my application. Mr. Luzi, the Archie Bunkerish business owner told me they weren't hiring counter girls.

"I'm applying for the Mr. Softee truck driver job."

"Mr. Softee truck drivers are men. Mr. Softee. Get it?"

I stood firm. "I have a driver's license. And I'm self-motivated!" I said, trying to win him over with my positive attitude and charming personality. (I left off the part about my love of ice cream in case he was concerned about inventory control.)

Mr. Luzi shook his head.  It had clearly never occurred to him that a female could do (or want to do) this job.

"I advertised for a guy."

"I know but I can do the job. Give me a chance!"

And he did.

It was the best summer job I ever had.  And I never grew sick of ice cream, despite the fact that I ate it continuously every day of the summer.

Plus, I became kind of a local celebrity.  You see, the Niagara Falls Gazette did a human interest story about my success in breaking through the glass ceiling in the Mr. Softee truck.  

Yeah! 

I think Tom is right. I am a pioneer of Women's rights!  And I want a commemorative Lou Clyde dime. Or a nickel.

I'd even settle for a penny.

Betty Grable Legs

If you are a baby boomer, you probably have an Aunt Betty. And if you don't, your Mom's name is probably Betty.

I had two aunts and a mother-in-law named Betty.

What made Betty such a popular name in the 20's and 30's? Certainly, Betty Crocker played a part, as did Betty Davis.

But Betty Grable also influenced the popularity of the name. Apparently she had the best legs in Hollywood; they were insured by her studio for $1 million at Lloyds of London. In fact, hosiery specialists of the thirties often noted the ideal proportions of Grable's legs: thigh (18.5"), calf (12") and ankle (7.5").

I looked at my legs and wondered how they compared to those million dollar legs of Betty Grable.  

I couldn't resist. I went to my sewing kit and grabbed a tape measure. I measured once. And measured again. Are you kidding?

I have Betty Grable legs!

I examined my Betty Grable legs. 

They are pasty, white mom legs with bruises from running into the Grease bleachers eight too many times. And the skin isn't quite as tight as it was 10 years ago. Plus, my knees are a bit on the knobby side.

But if you squint, and I'm standing in the shadows, and I'm wearing tights, they look exactly like Betty Grable's!

I think we need to insure these puppies!

"Hey Dave! I've got Betty Grable legs!" I said excitedly.

"What?" he asked. He was watching the Brewers on TV.

"You know Betty Grable? The movie star with the million dollar legs?   I have exactly the same leg measurements as she did!"

He said, "Uh-huh", focusing 95% of his attention on the baseball game and 5% on my exciting news.

"My legs are the same size as Betty Grable's million dollar legs!" I repeated.

He glanced sideways, towards my extremely valuable and under-insured legs.  "You know movie stars in the old days were a lot heavier than they are today."

"Well," I said dramatically (as Betty, herself might have.)  "Thank you for that backhanded insult."

"What did I say?" he asked, completely oblivious to his offense. "Movie stars were a lot chunkier in the olden days."

Dave is the bird in the photo to the left.

I thought about my options. I could stomp away loudly on my Betty Grable legs. Or kick him in the shin with my Betty Grable foot.

But I decided to be more direct.  I accidentally turned off the TV with my Betty Grable Lou Clyde thumb.