Donna Ison's Blog, page 11

Intern Needed. Sane Need Not Apply.

I need an intern. 

Duties will include: 
Freshening drinks. 
Freshening metaphors. 
Petting cats/dogs when my hands are typing. 
Determining if plot twists are too twisted. 
Helping me choose which caftan to wear. 
Keeping me from drunk eBaying. 
Sharing pizza so I don’t eat the whole thing. 
Stopping me from shin-kicking people. 
Posting bail when I can't be stopped.

Please apply in the comments section. No monetary compensation, but you will receive enough fodder for cocktail party conversation for years to come and gain a deep understanding of opossums. 

The Shocking Link Between Cereal and Conservatives

Three events have happened this week that have made me think the apocalypse just might be a real thing that is happening in the not so distant future. In one of the most horrifying scenes I've witnessed, the Pope assisted in releasing two peace doves which were then brutally attacked by a crow and a seagull. At the Grammy's Madonna disappointed the majority of my gay friends by dressing like Boss Hogg and singing an entire song using one single note. And, it came out that Froot Loops, regardless of the color are all the same flavor.

This is not the first time I have been deceived by a cereal. One of the most disappointing experiences of my childhood was my first bite of Cookie Crisp. What could be better than tiny cookies drenched in milk and eaten with a spoon? Pretty much painted cardboard with possum piss. I admit I haven't given them another try. I just can't take that kind of let-down twice. Grape-Nuts will screw you over too. The first two crunchy bites are healthy grain glorious. Then the third bite turns to paste. Every time. No matter how fast you eat. No matter what kind of milk you use, you will wind up with a mouthful of mush. Captain Crunch is perhaps the biggest offender. It is like a cruel weapon...it tastes so good you can't stop eating despite the fact that every little delicious nugget is slicing up the roof of your mouth. By the time you've finished bowl three...cause you can't eat just one bowl of the Captain...your palate is a patch of torn and bleeding pink flesh. What kind of sadistic person could be behind all this. I'm fairly sure it is Sarah Palin, though I don't have proof. 

But this obviously goes so much deeper than cereal. Think about it...all of last week's dreadful incidents were obviously planned and perpetrated by the Tea Party in protest to same-sex marriage. It makes perfect sense. The Pope asked "Who am I to judge?" Madonna is a gay icon. And, Froot Loops are rainbow-colored. No doubt, they trained and sent out the hawk, stole Madonna's fashion sense and vocal chords, and sucked all of the fruity flavor variety from Froot Loops, just like they suck the fun from everything they touch. I know it sounds far fetched, but I put nothing past extreme Conservatives.

Wild and Wonderful Ways to Stay Warm

I’m going to state the obvious here. It is colder than a Siberian nudist’s nut sack. So, I have searched the web for some innovative ways to stay warm.

1) Take a clue from the animals. According to Discovery News, whales build up a layer of blubber; red-sided garter snakes hibernate in a pile and then form mating balls; and Japanese macaques monkeys take hot baths. I personally like to employ all of these methods and add my own spin. My favorite way to stay warm is the get chubby/ snuggle-sex/hot bath combo with bourbon thrown in for good measure.

2) They say easiest way to stay warm is to make sure you never get cold. That’s where this recipe comes in handy. Drink one and you’re guaranteed to get so cozy in your core that you’ll want one more. And, one more after that. And, one more after that.  

Bourbonista Chiller Killer

½ mug Whiskey
½ mug Hot Water
1 Tbsp Honey
Lemon Slice (squeezed)
Pinch of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves

3) Take the Luke Skywalker approach and climb inside a carcass. If you don’t have a Tauntaun handy, you could slaughter and climb inside a buffalo, rhino, hippo, or Abby Lee Miller from "Dance Moms." If you can’t find any of these or don’t believe in killing an innocent animal in order to save on a electric bills, you could always just climb into this Tauntaun Sleeping Bag instead.

4) Put clear shower curtains over your windows. It utilizes the sun to heat your home. But remember just because they’re curtains doesn’t mean you can prance around naked celebrating you’re new found warmth…which leads me to…

5) Last week I developed the kind of cabin fever that compels you to burn the cabin down and then run through the streets wearing nothing but red cowboy boots and mittens with your hair teased out like Einstein’s singing “Boogie Wonderland.” DON’T. According to The Week’s article “How to Keep Warm Outside: 5 Science-Based Tips,” the less skin exposed the better. However, I was spot on with the mittens. They keep you warmer than gloves. I suggest donning a turban, gorilla mask, and footie pajamas, which I credit for keeping me alive last year on the lake.

BONUS – I know you have seen this DIY video KeepTurningLeft floating around the web on how to use terracotta pots and tea lights to heat a room. Watch it. It is fascinating. 

Horrifying Dangers of Growing Up in the '70s.

If you were a child in the seventies and are still alive to read this blog you should thank your lucky stars to have survived such dangerous times. Here are just a few of the things that could have killed you on a daily basis.

1) Refrigerators. I was constantly warned about the risks involved with empty refrigerators. According to my mother, hundreds of children every week suffocated because they either climbed into, fell into, or were chased down and grabbed by fridges. It was as if armies of abandoned refrigerators sat in every basement and garage just waiting to smother some naive child.

2) Worms. The only thing my mother feared more that refrigerators was internal worms. She was convinced that I could get them from nearly every activity including going barefoot outside, consuming fruit without first washing it in Clorox (there’s a reason I hate apples), wearing the same tights twice, just looking at stray animals, and eating raw cookie dough. To combat my exposure, she kept a bottle of Worm Rid liquid medicine at all times. It was bright pink and sickly sweet. By the time I was ten. I had ingested more of that disgusting crap that I have bourbon to this day.

3) Razor blades. And, not just at Halloween. Any food could be compromised at any time with either a razor blade, needle, or broken glass. Eating one of these tainted treats would result in your cutting off your tongue and bleeding to death. Therefore, everything that was not prepackaged must be dissected to ensure that no foreign objects had been hidden inside by some sadistic grocery guy. And sometimes, even the prepackaged goods could be guilty. Remember the boy in Toledo who ate cotton candy with pink insulation woven into it and then his stomach dissolved?

4) Alligators in the Toilet. Someone from the Bronx took a trip to Orlando, Florida and smuggled an infant alligator back to the city. They flushed it down the toilet. At this same moment, a lady from Brooklyn flushed her pet alligator, as well. The two reptiles grew up, mated, and populated the sewer system. And, then they migrated all over the United States. Playing too close to an open sewer grate, exploring a creek, or using a commode in a public place could all result in having your ass eaten off—in the last case, literally.  

5) And as if the decade wasn’t horrifying enough, in 1979 Pop Rocks hit the shelf and kids across the country began to implode. All it took was one pack of Pop Rocks and a bottle of soda and KABAAM!

Considering all of these threats, we who survived growing up in the '70s should feel as though we made it through The Hunger Games. I’m going to have tee shirts made up saying, “I was a child of the ‘70s and lived to tell about it.” 

I Believe in Magic...Magic Erasers.

Do you remember the episode from Seinfeld where Elaine buys the entire case of sponges. I, too, may be guilty of that, except my sponges are not of the contraceptive variety. They are of the cleaning variety. I am obsessed with The Magic Eraser. So much so that I am putting together an entire performance piece entitled “Grime” where I will lash erasers to each boob, both butt cheeks, and my Snazzy (yes, that’s what I call it) and then roll around on some filthy surface thus creating art. I just need of a Kickstarter campaign to fund it. 

How did this love come about? Recently, Frank and I moved in with my best friend, Kyle. Frank and I are not complete slobs, but compared to him we might as well be dwelling in a trash can on Sesame Street. He washes a plate as soon as he’s finished eating from it. He never throws his clothes in the floor. They go straight to the hamper. And, he wipes out the sink every time he brushes his teeth. I, on the other hand, have been known to do dishes in the shower if I was running short on time, have disguised a pile of clothes by throwing a blanket over it and calling it a dog bed, and sometimes just swallow the toothpaste spit so I don’t have to clean the sink.

Enter the Magic Eraser, a water-activated sponge that claims “you just wet it under the tap and then swipe away the dirt and grime and grease and whatever else you can find.” It doesn't lie. This bad boy can clean anything with very little effort including tub scum, Doc dog dirt from the wall where he lies and leaves an outline, and red lipstick stains from all the places I leave them...don't ask. ! Now, I think Mr. Clean is the sexiest bald man alive...aside from Patrick Stewart, of course. 

*On a side note...apparently you should not let young children play with them. When I was Googling images, I kept finding these sad-faced, raw-skinned tots who had run-ins with the eraser. It made me laugh, but should make probably make parents cautious

My "Like"/Hate Relationship with Facebook

From time to time, I feel the need to take a sabbatical from the sauce just to see if I can without any repercussions. Okay, to be honest the last time I tried that was about six years ago, but in the summer of 2008, I took a month-long break from bourbon with no problems. Now, it seems more more people feel the need to take a sabbatical from perhaps the most addictive substance around today--social media. 

I totally get it. At the boat, I had craptastic internet reception, so I only spent a few minutes a day on Facebook and then forget about it. But now that I am once again equipped with high speed internet, I am completely out of control. I have become a Facebook freak. Here are a few examples:

1) I have one “friend” who I’ve nearly blocked on several occasions just because of the fact that it seems everyone hits “like” to every single one of their status', no matter how mundane--though even their mundane is fairly witty. I admit that I envy their Facebook popularity. I’ve even developed an elaborate theory on why their posts are so f-ing well-received. It involves nepotism, autism, vodka, bacon, a kitten, and the occasional inspirational quote from Gandhi...how pathetic is that? I have taken the time to develop a theory! Worse, I must admit that my self-esteem is somewhat affected by Facebook. 

2) I cyberstalk Frank’s ex… for no good reason other than morbid curiosity…just to see what she is doing on any given day. Don’t panic, it never goes further than Facebook. I’m too lazy to ever be an actual stalker. 

3) Sometimes I go to events that I don’t really care about attending just so I won’t be left out of the flurry of Facebook photos that I know will follow. 

4) I have a Facebook alter ego replete with photo and elaborate background including favorite quotes and an imaginary family. 

5) I’ve been tempted to adopt a puppy, a child, a hobby or start a controversial religion just to have more Facebook fodder…okay, this is not true, but it could be the wave of the future if I don’t get this under control. 

6) No matter what online task I start—researching, studying, marketing my books, filling out important forms, necessary shopping—within five minutes I am checking Facebook. 

In lieu of my bizarre behavior, I decided to do a little research to see if I was the only one. The good news AND the bad news is, I’m not. Findings documented in two recent articles, “Why Facebook Makes You Feel Miserable” and  “Facebook is Bad for You. Get a Life” both found “the more someone uses Facebook, the less satisfied he is with his life.”  

Basically the lesson is that just because you know what someone ate for breakfast (and have seen an Instagram of it), it doesn't mean you really know them. In order to do that, you must actually sit down and talk over a cup of coffee and that Vegan Eggs Benedict. Scrolling through someone's vacation photos from Amsterdam can't compare with hearing about the trip first-hand. And laughing at a meme on a friend's wall doesn't come close to sharing one of those contagious belly laughs that gets louder and louder until somebody snorts. 

Also, just because something isn't posted on Facebook, doesn't mean it didn't happen. There are those life experiences and revelations that are more powerful when kept private.

All that being said, will I give up social media entirely? Hell, no! Will I be more conscientious about getting off the computer, picking up the phone, and making an effort to spend face-to-face time with those I love. Hell, yes!  

Get that Ass Up and Take that Tree Down

Did you know that if you leave your Christmas tree up past Twelfth Night (January 5), the tree-spirits that dwell within will cause mischief in your house, like replacing your bourbon with fairy piss, until the next year? So, if you haven’t, get your ass up and take it down now. I, personally, derive an almost sadistic satisfaction from taking down the Christmas tree and destroying any remnants of the holidays, no matter how delightful they’ve been. Here are some thoughts I had this year while tearing up the tannenbaum.
Observations:
1) The tree I chose had almost the exact same slight curvature as my husband’s penis. Definitely something subconscious at work. 

2) Same husband must have used some form of wizardry while putting on the lights. They were wrapped around and around and around the tree in ways no mere mortal could accomplish. Seriously, how the f**k?

3) On that note, as much as I love a live tree, next year we may have to resort to a pre-lit artificial one so I don’t spend 2015 in prison for murder.

4) Along those lines, I am highly superstitious. For our wedding, his mother bought us an ornament  with our likenesses and the date of our marriage. This year it fell and shattered on the ground. I should have swept up the shards to use in some spell to counteract the damage, but I didn't. Now, tradition demands that I sacrifice a bull to the goddess Venus.

5)  Erecting what is essentially a giant cat toy with feathery, sparkly, tinkly temptations and somehow expecting our feline friends not to play with it is essentially like taking me to a bar and telling me I have to drink warm milk.

6) When the Christmas tree is watered after midnight, the silver balls multiply like gremlins. It’s the only explanation, because I know I did not put as many on the tree as I had to take off.  

7) I imagine putting up/taking down the tree is akin to childbirth. By the next year, I’ll forget what a pain it was and be willing to do it all over again. 

She's as Badass as Montaigne and as Cool as Virginia Woolf

Welcome to our first Tête-à-Tête Thursday of 2014. Today, I am blessed and blissful to be Bourbonista bantering with Bobbi Buchanan, and with all the alliteration that goes along with it. 

Bobbi is the author of Listen: Essays on Living the Good Life , published by Ginkgo Leaf Press in September 2013, and founding editor of New Southerner , an e-zine that focuses on self-sufficiency, environmental stewardship, and local economies. She received the 2010 prize in nonfiction from Still: The Journal for her essay "In the Woods," which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her essays have appeared in The New York Times, Brain, Child Magazine, Sojourners, the Motif anthologies Come What May (MotesBooks, 2010) and All the Livelong Day (MotesBooks, 2011), Greenprints, Literary Mama, and Flycatcher, among other publications. She teaches writing at Jefferson Community and Technical College’s Bullitt County Campus. A member of the advisory board for the Green River Writers, Bobbi is co-founder of the Homegrown Art, Music & Spoken Word Show, an open-mic and arts exhibition series held bimonthly in Shepherdsville, Ky.

The Bourbonista: In honor of a Bourbonista/Bobbi Buchanan blend, I will bombard the blogosphere with a bevy of B’s throughout this bandinage. Let’s get started, tell me about yourself in 50 words or less. At least one word must begin with the letter “X” and none can begin with the letter “S.”
Bobbi: I’m a writer, college professor, lover of nature, literature, art and flea markets. People may have mistaken me as being xenophobic for derogatory remarks I’ve made about buying cheap Chinese junk for the love of our consumer-driven economy. I’m mostly a homebody. I binge on people and then crave isolation.

The Bourbonista: Binging on people is much healthier than my bacchanal binges on bourbon, bacon Bleu burgers, and Breaking Bad reruns. Moving on, if you were a circus performer, what would you be and why?
Bobbi: Circus work is my secret dream, and I’ve always loved entertaining people. Although there are several jobs I’d probably love, I think tightrope walker would be the best fit for my personality. I want to be riveting and suspenseful. I was fascinated by the documentary “Man on Wire” about Philippe Petit’s tightrope walk between the World Trade Center Towers. However, I think I would naturally gravitate to the role of ringleader because I love to orchestrate events and boss people around.

The Bourbonista: And the ringleader gets to be bombastic and boastful and be bedecked in a bedazzled bolero, black boots, and bullwhip. What would you do if you won the lottery?
Bobbi: I would take my husband, David, to Italy. In fact, we’d probably move to Italy for a while. Then we’d move back to Kentucky, buy a letterpress printing press and start a publishing company.

The Bourbonista: So, you'd become a bibliopegist...that's a baroque word for book binder. If you were on death row…don’t act like you don’t know who you killed to get there…what would be your last supper?
Bobbi: Vegan pesto with a shitload of garlic and pasta. Or mountains and mountains of pad thai. Third choice would be enough peanut butter and banana to put me in a tryptophan-induced coma for the execution part. By the way, I oppose the death penalty. Can I be political here? There are so many flaws in the logic of killing people for killing people I would need a soapbox and a separate blog to air them all. Maybe a more appropriate response to this question would be, I would eat nothing in protest of state-sanctioned murder.

The Bourbonista: I agree, the death penalty is barbaric and bootless. But, your bold beliefs are the badge of a beautiful, benevolent, and brilliant broad. Now, write a short “Thank You” letter to your future self for all the cool shit you’ve done twenty years from now.
Bobbi: 
Dear Old Bitch.
Thanks for leaving the corporate rat race 26 years ago. Now you’re getting a pension from the conglomeration—it’s not much but it helps the old starving artist. So glad you decided to hole up, away from the world for 10 years to produce several volumes of work. You’re as badass as Montaigne, as cool as Virginia Woolf. I’m happy that you took up teaching and that you still get inspiration from your students. Academia looks good on you. Congratulations. You are now officially a member of the literati.
Love,
Me

The Bourbonista: Being bibacious, I must ask this next question, If you were a booze, which booze would you be and who would you want to drink you?
Bobbi: Blanton’s bourbon, and I’d want Tom Waits to drink me—a double, neat—preferably while smoking a cigar and belting out “The Piano Has Been Drinking.” 
UPCOMING EVENTS

Bobbi will be reading from her chapbook at Carmichael’s Bookstore on Frankfort Avenue in Louisville at 4 p.m. on Saturday, Jan. 11. Check out the event is on facebook by clicking HERE.

She will also be hosting the 2013 New Southerner Literary Prize Winners Reading at the Bard’s Town in Louisville from 5 to 8 p.m. on Saturday, Jan. 18. More information, check out this LINK. 

Purchase your copy of Listen: Essays on Living the Good Life.

How to Lose Friends and Isolate People

On this day, I can't help but reflect. This time last year, we were getting ready to host a New Year's Day Going Away Brunch and then embark on the adventure of living on the lake. The goal was to spend a year residing on a pair of houseboats in an effort to gain self-sufficiency, hone  my writing, and discover my true purpose, while documenting the experience in a book called Bourbonista on a Boat: From Glamour Girl to Off-the-Grid. 

After serious contemplation, I have decided this book may never happen. Why? Because you are more likely to lose friends and family by writing about them than you are by leaking government security secrets, sleeping with their spouses, or having horrendous halitosis. 

I have no problem revealing warts and all about myself. Frank, by marrying a writer, signed on, too. But the rest of the characters in my life and on the dock did not. And, let's face it. It's our flaws that make us interesting fodder. But not everyone wants to see their idiosyncrasies in print. 

Is it worth it to risk alienating your loved ones for the sake of "art?" I'm still not sure. But I'm offering you the preface for your judging pleasure. .

*Disclaimer: Keep in mind that I am called the Bourbonista for a reason. My recollections of the following events are as accurate as I could make them while under the consistent influence of Old Fitzgerald." 

                                                   PREFACE
No one was surprised that I committed a federal offense. However, everyone, including myself, was shocked by the chain of events that followed. This is the story of a life-altering trip—future pun intended, but no LSD involved.

The Chinese philosopher, Lao-tzu once said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Mine did not. It began with approximately forty-three staggering steps that stretched over two downtown blocks and ended with me lying face-first on Church Street.

Now, I am no stranger to falling. My first memory is of running across my grandmother’s driveway, staring down at my new tennis shoes. They had red uppers, a sunshine yellow tongue, and bright blue laces. Those Keds were perfection in primary colors. One moment, I was the wind and my feet were a rainbow. The next, I was a sobbing heap with bloody knees and a chin full of gravel.

Forty years later, there I was lying on the sidewalk bewildered and bruised. Again, shoes were the culprit. Except this time, they were a ridiculously expensive pair of gray suede, four-inch platform ankle boots with an open toe and a ruffle down the side. They represented everything that was wrong with my life.

I had known better than to wear them. There were never parking spaces downtown at midday near Café Lucinda. It was a Lexington landmark frequented by lawyers, ladies who lunched for a living, and people in town for the horse races at Keeneland.

Despite, being quite well-connected, I’d never met Lucinda the Legend…at least, not that I could recall. The chef that was as famous for her Bohemian behavior as her buttermilk fried quail. It was rumored she was a long-standing VIP at Studio 54; a spy during Vietnam; a muse for painter, David Hockney; and had slept with Golda Meir. In addition to the restaurant, she ran a halfway house for recovering addicts and had a veritable mermaid museum in her apartment, which housed over one thousand of the mythical sea vixens. If she and I had met, it would probably have been at the kind of party that didn’t lend itself to clear memories the next morning.

As the editor of a local lifestyle magazine, it was my job to photograph and profile her for an upcoming issue.

Immediately upon entering the cafe, I came to the conclusion that people must be able to reincarnate not only as cockroaches and Shirley MacLaine, but as rooms as well. In a previous life, this one had been a can-can dancer. The color scheme encompassed every shade of pink from bunny nose rose to flamingo fuchsia and shamelessly boasted flamboyant emerald green and cheetah print accents. Chandeliers and fringed fixtures, no two alike, hung over each white cloth-clad table. Napkins fanned out from the tops of crystal wine glasses. Reigning over the dining room, a semi-nude portrait of the proprietress seduced patrons as they gorged on foie gras. Despite its attempt to be casually avant-garde, it was the kind of place that always made me feel like I was using the wrong fork.

Lucinda entered from the back and explained that one of her “boys” had relapsed and gotten arrested. Between posting bail and coming up with the day’s lunch special, she hadn’t had time to put on her make-up. Using her reflection in the antique cash register, she slathered on a coat of lipstick and informed me that she’d prefer to wear just her chef’s coat and red patent pumps for the shoot. She climbed up on the bar, popped the cork on a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque, and poured a glass to use as a prop. I took a quick series of photographs of her toasting the camera and then began the interview.

Sometime in the course of our conversation, I mentioned that I was dating Frank Rose. She smirked and purred, “Really…I hope you don’t plan on getting serious.”

In response, I flashed my engagement ring.

“Have you ever met his ex?” she asked.

The ex was a constant source of insecurity for me. None of our friends or relatives could understand why I would be in the least bit intimidated by a woman who had done time for both possession and prostitution, and was by all accounts a succubus. People were constantly congratulating Frank on our union, as if a foul-mouthed alcoholic like me was a huge step up. I, however, couldn’t help feeling that he and she had some “Sid and Nancy, sex, drugs, and rock and roll” bond sealed in vomit and sweat that could never be broken.

“No, I’ve never met her.”

Another smirk. “She’s back in town, you know?”

The rest of the interview was a blur of kissing ass and asking questions. Finally, I had enough to write the requisite one hundred and fifty words. With a generic goodbye, I bolted out the door toward my office and the awaiting flask in my top desk drawer.

As I wambled down the sidewalk on legs as unsteady as a newborn giraffe’s, a barrage of thoughts flooded my head.

“Why do I care about what other people think so much that I will sacrifice my values to try to impress a stranger?”

“How did I get so frickin' fat?”

“When am I going to finally find my purpose in life and stop wasting it? Do I even have a purpose in life? Does anyone? Or is that just feel-good, self-help bullshit?”

“How did I get so obsessed with his crack whore ex that I would drive all around town just to find a copy of Busted magazine to see her latest mugshot?”

“Why am I killing my ass in a job where no one appreciates me and I get paid less than the delivery drivers? Why don't I have the balls to ask for a raise?”

“Am I a genuine alcoholic or just a problem drinker? Should I stop? Could I stop?”

“Do I actually have the talent and discipline to write anything legitimate ever again?”

“Why do I wear high heels when they make me so fucking miserable?”

“Who the hell am I?”

As I was asking myself these questions, my heel slipped in between the bars of a sewer grate. First, I faltered, then I began a fall that was both epic in its length and symbolic significance. It was marked by intermittent periods of almost regaining my footing and composure quickly followed by pure panic as my face headed straight for the street.

After ricocheting between parking meters and cars, I crashed into a Mercedes sedan, setting off the alarm, and then succumbed to the sidewalk. Congratulations, concrete, you win.

From my gutter vantage point, it became clear that I needed to step back, reassess, and make some major alterations. Something had to change. Maybe, everything had to change. I just knew I never wanted to feel that helpless and humiliated and utterly lost again. I made a promise to find myself…even if I had to go to the ends of the earth to do it.

Blood from a gash on my shin had stained the dove gray suede of my shoebooties—the name was even more preposterous than the footwear. These shoes, and all they stood for, had to go. I vowed, then and there, to banish high heels from my new life. In a frenzy of liberation, I yanked off the sadistic stilettos and shoved them into the nearest receptacle, which just happened to be a United States Postal Service mailbox. Thus, I committed a felony, and embarked on a whole new breed of insanity.

How to Kill the Romance in Any Marriage

For Christmas, Frank bought me a Stanley Fat Max 450 Amp Car Battery Jump Start Starter + Air Compressor Pump. Going back and forth between the lake, I do regularly drive on some of the most treacherous roads known to man, so it is incredibly practical. But not exactly romantic, which led me to ask myself, is the romance in our relationship dead? And, if so, how did we kill it? I think I have the answer: By only having one bathroom. 

It is common knowledge that in order to keep the spark in a relationship, you also need to keep a little mystery, especially when it comes certain bodily functions. However, when you only have one bathroom, this becomes impossible. Frank has no issue with busting in right while I'm in the middle of a relaxing hot bath and plopping down on the toilet. He does, at least, bother to pull the shower curtain closed to block my view, but it doesn't block the smell. 

I refuse to succumb to this level of inappropriate intimacy, which led to one of the most humiliating experiences of my adult life. Recently, the situation was reversed. Frank was lounging in the bathtub and had locked the door. I was in a most dire need of the toilet facilities. I banged and screamed, but he had the water running and couldn't hear me. There was no time to wait. I had to find an alternative. With the trees bare and a clear view from the apartment building behind us, the backyard was not an option. A bag would work. It wasn't glamorous, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I rushed to the laundry room to find one. Then, I simultaneously doubled over with a cramp and spotted the litter box. I need not describe what happened next, except that midway through the ordeal, my cat Angus walked in. He just stopped and stared. First confusion, then disgust filled his feline face. 

"Don't judge me," I yelled. 
Angus just smirked and went to tell our other cat Oscar what he'd witnessed.

When Frank finally emerged from his bath, he opened the door and asked, "Did I hear you knocking?"
"Yes."
"What did you need?" 
"To use the bathroom."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll get out."
"No need, now."
"Did the urge pass?"
"Nope." I couldn't look him in the eyes. 
"I don't understand."

After another ten minutes of incessant questions, I explained what had happened. For the first time in our marriage I saw sheer terror in my husband's eyes. I could see him picturing the whole thing in his head, Since then, he has woken up in a cold sweat, whimpering on several occasions. I'm pretty sure what his nightmares are about. 

And that, my friends, is how you kill the romance.