Category Archives: Bathroom Humor

How I Met Your Other (Too Hot Mama)

Kids, over the years, many of our faithful readers have asked the thought provoking (and thoroughly legend…wait for it…dary) question, “How did you two meet?”

The simple answer is, we were standing in line for an awards ceremony at a writer’s conference (where Wendy was—as usual—up for an award) and I offered her some anxiety meds (which she politely declined), then I blathered on about my acute stage fright, and my total fear of vomiting or fainting in public to such an extent that the woman behind us (an anxiety counselor) offered me her business card.

If Wendy had been smart, she’d have picked up the skirts to her stunning cocktail gown, grabbed her husband by the hand, and rushed to her seat. But instead, we got into this hilarious conversation about how social anxiety gives us both humiliating verbal diarrhea, and a lifelong friendship was born.

Because this story is in fact, rather longer and more miraculously wild and wonderful than either of us can recount in a single blog, I’ll be tackling it in little Bob Sagget-esque flashbacks over the next few weeks.

So, kids, I’ll be back on Thursday, with my part of the beginning. Carolyn

 

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, aging, Bathroom Humor, Children, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Older writers, Writing

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No…no…wait…it’s toohotmamas?

They said we wouldn’t be back until this happened and lo and behold…

What?  Pigs are flying?

What? Pigs are flying?

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Bathroom Humor, hot flash, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Wendy and I have really great husbands.  No, they are not perfect, but they are perfect for us.  Wendy is fond of saying that Tim is her best friend.  I’m not jealous.  Okay.  Maybe a little.  My husband, Matt, is amazing.  He gets up every morning at the crack of dawn, goes out and works like a dog so that the 5 kids and I can eat, and then, he comes home, and helps out with the chores and homework.  He is an amazing cook (his “Leftover Surprise” soup is to die for) and he even does the laundry, which can be very confusing for a man with 3 teenage daughters and a wife.

Especially, concerning underwear.  Mine was disappearing into my daughter’s drawers, and since they would all rather die a thousand deaths than be caught wearing granny panties, it gets shoved to the back of their closet and I can’t find my underwear…

“I’m telling you, I washed your undies and put them away!”  (he gets a little testy when quizzed about these matters).

One day, while foraging for a pencil or something, I ran across a pile of my undies, stashed in some junk drawer or other, thank you girls.  So, now, I write MOM in black Sharpie on the back inside waistband  so that my hubby can get them back to me in a timely fashion.  This works very well for him.  And the girls.  But most especially for me, as now, when I go potty, I look down and see that MOM, upside down, is WOW!  And, there is nothing like getting that WOW! feeling, when you are seated on the pot.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Matt.  You rock!

Carolyn

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Texting for the menopausal

I got a new iPhone.  Still trying to get the hang of it.   Found these handy shortcuts for my generation…

BFF:  Best Friend Fainted—or—Best Friend’s Funeral

BYOT:  Bring your own teeth

DWI:  Driving While Incontinent

FYI:  Found Your Insulin

LMDO:  Laughing My Dentures Out

LOL: Living On Lipitor

OMG:  Oh My!  Gas.

ROFL…CGU:  Rolling On Floor Laughing…And Can’t Get Up.

TTYL:  Talk To You Louder

 

Carolyn

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Ben & Jerry Drop The (Schweddy) Ball

Recently a good friend gave our daughter a generous Groupon coupon to Ben & Jerry’s, so after Christmas we trooped to our local store, where the trees out front were still festooned with twinkly lights.  I ask you:  Could any outing say “family” more than a winter trek for ice cream, the kids giggling inside their hooded coats, swearing they can eat two waffle cones each despite the frigid weather?

This is just like It’s A Wonderful Life, I thought, grinning as we approached the door.  On the glass was a big sign advertising their newest flavor.

Nice work, B & J.  Care to explain your latest creation to a few curious nine-year-olds?  Yeah, me either—especially to the ones who aren’t mine.

Pretending I needed to use the entire right side of my body to shove the door open, I blocked the sign as best I could and started brainstorming an excuse to stand in front of it on the way out.  It’s not that I’m prudish…’kay, maybe I am, because after we got into the store and I saw the sign below the cash register, on the glass above the ice cream case and behind the counter, I felt a hot flash coming on—the kind that accompanies a dangerous spike in blood pressure.

What does Too Hot Mamas have to do to teach you folks some manners, Ben?  Jerry?  Dudes! Did you even read my blog about farting at the dinner table? Ah, never mind, you boys probably get a kick out of that sort of thing.

My husband, you will be happy to know, has been singing a little ditty about your ice cream flavor, set to the tune “Lonely Is The Man Without Love,” ever since our trip to your store.

Listen, I know you’re not going to take down a few thousand signs across the nation, because one mother in Oregon questions your sensibilities.  But, if you’re going to hawk Schweddy Balls in front of impressionable youths, then how about giving equal time to your menopausal friends?  We could use the media attention.

On that note, I’d like to see a flavor called Droopy Booby.  Perhaps vanilla ice cream, overripe peaches, maybe a few Jelly Bellies?  We hot mamas are buying as much of your product as anyone else.  Probably more since we like ice-cold treats in the depth of winter to counter those hot flashes.

Think about it, fellas.  Droopy Booby could increase sales among the senior crowd and spark insightful conversations about body image.  How many insightful conversations do you think you’ve elicited with that other flavor?

Be the change you want to see, Ben and Jerry.  We’re counting on you.

Wendy

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DUDE, THAT’S RUDE!

In an ongoing effort to transform our dinner table from a trough to a haven of grace and civilization, I recently purchased the books DUDE, THAT’S RUDE and TABLE MANNERS FOR KIDS (of all ages).

When gas is released during the meal and elicits cackles of hyena-like laughter from all present (except me, and kindly do not refer me to Walter, The Farting Dog; I’m not gonna laugh at flatulence when I have slaved over lasagna Florentine)…well, that’s when I think we’ve gone too far.

I decided to read aloud from DUDE over a dinner of spaghetti marinara.  I chose that entrée deliberately as our spaghetti feeds typically resemble the Brown Derby scene in I Love Lucy, wherein Lucy tries to manage giant balls of pasta or endeavors to suck up endless strands, and Ethel resorts to snipping the noodles with a pair of scissors.

With the book as a guide, I modeled twirling a manageable forkful lightly against my spoon.  Twirling—that’s fun for kids, right?

Apparently not.

“I can’t do it,” my daughter complained, letting her fork clatter to her plate.  “Not to be rude, but I don’t like spaghetti anyway.  May I be excused?”

“Of course not!  We just started eating.”

Tim patted her on the arm.  “Mom doesn’t want you to take a huge mouthful, that’s all.  Here, try this.”  He forked up a couple of strands, puckered and inhaled—with agonizingly slow glee—so that the spaghetti looked like live worms, attempting to wriggle away and splattering marinara along the way.  Now our daughter liked spaghetti.

I kicked him under the table.  “Let’s work on our napkins.  They should be placed on our laps–”

“I don’t have a napkin,” dear child pointed out, searching around her placemat.  “You never give us any.”

“All right.”  I got up, scrounged in a drawer and slapped a few wrinkled napkins on the table.  “From now on we’re using napkins, and they should be placed on our laps.”

My husband wiped his mouth delicately then tucked his napkin under his plate.

“Your lap,” I reiterated.

“It’s easier to get to this way.  You don’t have to reach below the table.”  He demonstrated.  “Besides, did you notice how I raised my pinkie when I wiped my mouth?”

He and our daughter proceeded to entertain each other by seeing who could keep their pinkies raised longest while performing various tasks, most of them not dinner related.  I felt a different finger trying to rise, but that would have been rude, so I practiced not speaking with my mouth full.

Flatulence and cackles followed.

It may look like I’m defeated, but I’m not giving up on those books or on us.  And if you think I’m being a stickler, invite my family to dinner sometime.  You’ll thank me.

Wendy

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Golden Girls

Blanche:
“I have writer’s block. It’s the worst feeling in the world.”

Sophia: “Try ten days without a bowel movement sometime.”

 

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Scenes you’ll never read in a romance novel

 Call me slow, but I am only just now realizing that the romance novels I’ve read (okay, and written) aren’t exactly realistic.  I know, I can hear you gasping from here.  Why, Carolyn, whatever could you mean?  Well, I guess I mean that people claim they want a real hero, but how real is too real?  As writers, could we be doing a disservice to the reader by painting a less than accurate portrait of a real relationship?  For example, I have never seen:

Stone sat in his sports car at the corner of 12th and Main, his mind idling along with his powerful engine.  His finger was buried up to its second knuckle in his nostril as he reflected on the short skirt his secretary had worn to work that morning.  She was one hot tamale he mused, as he flicked a booger on his car mat.  Yeah, she had some serious cellulite and a muffin top, but hey, nobody was perfect…

Flooded with relief, Hunter made it to the men’s room just before the diarrhea reared its ugly head.  Oh man, I hope I don’t break the porcelain
he thought as he perched on the toilet, his trousers down around his ankles.  Hopefully, being that this was their first date and all, Lucy wouldn’t leave before the cramps did…

Stag ambled to his motorcycle and straddled the seat.  It was a great day for a ride in the country.  There was nothing like the thunder that roared from between his legs as he fastened his helmet.  Then, he kick-started his bike and revved the engine.  Man, he loved eating at Taco Bell, but he was going to have to ride like the wind to get away from that smell…

As Suzy lay basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Rafe’s horrendous morning breath assailed her nostrils.  She smiled down at him.  He really needed a shave.  And about a gallon of mouthwash.  And then, there was the matter of that nasty gunk in the corners of his eyes…

Ah well.  Maybe I’m just ahead of my time.

Carolyn

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Filed under 35 symptoms of menopause, Bathroom Humor, Humor, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, romance novels, Writing

The art of the arm fart

Hi, Everyone!  It’s raining–surprise!–in the Pacific Northwest.  Actually, the warm drizzle and gray sky are upping the cozy factor tremendously.  And, hey, who needs more sun spots?

My daughter is home with a nasty cold, so as we prepare for a cuddly day at home, I thought I’d inaugurate Witty Wednesday–a day to share the wacky, wonderful, witty or just plain weird witticisms of our pwecious wee ones.  I’ll go first; you go next.  Here’s what we heard at our house this week:

Daughter:  “Dad, do you arm fart?”

Dad:  “Not since I married your mother, honey.”

Daughter (looking at me and shaking her head sadly):  “That’s such a shame.”

Okay, share:  What have the little people in your life said?

Wendy…off to watch Dora….

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Toohotmamas Celebrate Mother’s Day!

Wendy may be menopausal, but she can still swang her thang!        Carolyn

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A Dog’s Blog: As told to my new owner’s mom.

Gimme a break.

‘Mmkay.  So, I’m just doin’ some time in the OHS (Oregon Humane Society) chillin’.  I’m innocent.  Didn’t do nuthin’ wrong, but do I get a lawyer?  No.  No phone call, neither.  Anyhow, I’m layin’ there in my cell and people walk by.  Talk to me through the bars.  Look me over. 

Then, they see the ears.  So what?  I got weird ears.  Big deal.  But they move on.  Lookin’ for a ‘puppy’ or a ‘cute’ dog or somebody with ‘normal’ ears.  Whatever. 

Then this teenage fairy godmother-type stops by and does all this baby talk.  I’ve heard it all before, but I give her a few token wags and a wet one through the door.  She gets all squealy.  Says she thinks the ears are unique.  Says she’ll be back.  Yeah, heard that before, too. 

My new owner. I'm thinkin' I'll keep her.

 

Waddaya know?  She comes back! 

.

.

.

.

And she brings this big hairy mook with her (not her dad, her dog, chowder head) and I’m tellin’ ya it’s love at first sight. 

You know you want me, fatso.

 

I gotta have that fat boy.  He plays hard to get.  But I’m persistent, if you get my drift. 

.

.

.

.

After the paperwork is signed, they spring me.  I’m FREE, baybee.  Livin’ large.  I’ve buried 6 of those leather chew toys in the laundry, got jiggy with the fat boy’s head and made yellow water on the new carpet 3 times.

 The teenage godmother’s mother made all these squealy noises.

They live next to this heeyouge park and my new boy-toy takes me for a swim. 

Fat boy skinny dipping.

Me, skinny dipping

 

We mark a little territory. 

Good times.

Good times part duex.

 

It’s a good life.

Me, at the park.

 

My new master has named me Genevieve after that mutt in the Madeline books.  You know, the dog the orphan kid rescued in the children’s classic: Madeline to the Rescue.  Must be because my new owner’s name is Madeline. 

 Her mother calls me other names.  But when nobody’s lookin’ she scratches my belly.

Genevieve

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More Bathroom Humor

  The other day I was just sitting there (telling you exactly where would be toomuchinfo) reading the can of Summer’s Eve Feminine Deodorant Spray

(Somebody tossed all the old Entertainment Weekly Magazines, so reading material was slim pickins). 

At home or on-the-go, feel fresh and clean every day. 

SAFE AND GENTLE.  Enjoy being a woman.

 Hmm.  Isn’t that nice?  Wait.  What’s this?  Cautions?

 WARNING:  FLAMMABLE.

 Okay, is it just me, or is that word not something you want in a product designed for your ‘nether regions’? 

 DO NOT USE PRODUCT NEAR FIRE, FLAME, OR SPARKS.

 Thank heavens I quit smoking.  ‘Crotch-rocket’ doesn’t just mean motorcycle anymore, eh Wendy?

 AVOID SPRAYING PRODUCT INTO EYES.

 Seriously?  There are people out there who spray this stuff into their face?  Now I’m doubly glad I quit smoking, you know, just in case I wanted my eyes to smell of ISLAND SPLASH instead of Maybelline while going blind.

 FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY.

 Good thing I also quit that fire-eating act.

 DISCONTINUE USE IMMEDIATELY IF RASH, IRRITATION OR DISCOMFORT DEVELOPS.

 Are they talking about the sparks that shoot from your panties upon ignition?  No more sitting on the stove for me.

Kinda takes the enjoyment out of being a woman.

 Carolyn

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Bathroom Humor, Part Duex-Duex

Planning a trip to Europe? Thank heavens you stumbled upon this blog! Before you go, you really need to consider a couple of handy tips my husband and I discovered that will help make your visit a more pleasant experience.

Take going to the bathroom for example. Did you know that you have to PAY for the privilege? Um hmm .50 Euros. That’s nearly a dollar American, down the toilet.

Unfortunately, we didn’t remember until we were in ‘crisis-mode’ so to speak.  Of course, we were waaay out of town, strolling through a picturesque German neighborhood, admiring the quaint architecture when my hubby felt a sudden need to find a McPoo. (Apparently, this is what European tourists call McDonalds, because its got free restrooms). I was miffed as his bowel functions were messing with my holiday but, since the matter seemed to be fairly pressing, we turned around and headed back toward town.

Whatever he was suffering from must have been contagious because I was also suddenly afflicted and we both picked up speed. Okay. Where is a McDonalds when you need one? There is one on every bleeping corner of the universe, unless you’re desperate. Luckily, there was a sign at the train station. W.C. (No, Wendy, this does not stand for Wendy and Carolyn, although at first I thought they’d heard of us over there. It stands for Water Closet).

Europeans have the audacity to keep these things locked until you have .50 Euro to plug into the door. Of course, we didn’t. I had a dollar. We hot-footed it over to a nearby bakery, waving our Euro and shouting “WC ! WC!” at the poor girl behind the counter. There was an elderly woman (a year or so older than me) at the counter, pointing at baked goods and jabbering in German. I don’t speakie the lingie, but clearly she couldn’t decide. And the girl behind the counter couldn’t open the register to make change, until she decided. My husband and I jogged in place while she deliberated. FOREVER. Sticky buns? Non-sticky buns. (I will refrain from the obvious pun). Finally, the elderly woman made her decision, the girl behind the counter flung our change at us and we were off to the WC.

There was only one open.

“Let’s share!” I screamed at my husband and we crowded into the WC (saved .50 Euro while we were at it, I might add). Luckily for us, the honeymoon was over decades ago. He let me go first (would George Clooney be so magnanimous, Wendy?) bless his heart. During his turn, I decided that I had to go again.

Eventually, there was an impatient knock at the door. “Occupied!” I strove to sound jaunty. There was some disgruntled talk outside the door. “Hurry,” I urged the hubby, during his second go round. “I think they think we’re in here…doing it!” “They wouldn’t if they could smell it,” he grunted.

Once we were both blessedly empty, we flung open the door and bolted. Behind us, more disgruntled (this time semi-nauseated) German talk. I’m nearly positive the words “Ugly American” were bandied about.

The British penny is sometimes referred to as a ‘p’. So, it may help to remember this handy saying: A ‘p’ to pee and two ‘p’ to poo.

Good luck, sojourner.

Carolyn

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