The Beauty of Slop-Pots

Holidays sure are funny. Not really funny "ha ha (although they can be that as well)," but it's a time of sharing and gathering with family and loved ones and you never know where the conversation will lead.

Oh, sure, I can bring up how corrupt Donny Trump is, but when your family is all on the same team, where's the fun in that?

So, I suppose it was inevitable that our holiday chatter eventually wound its way around to outhouses.

"Man, it sure is cold out," I said with an extraordinarily lousy segue. "I would've hated to have to go out to an outhouse and perform my duties. I mean, freezing cold and butt splinters."

Forks were dropped all around the table, but interest rose.

"I would've hated it, too," said my mother-in-law. 

"And why in the world did they have half-moons carved into the doors?" I asked. "Is it to give ventilation? Maybe a spot of moonlight to guide your through your bidness?"

Like magic, electronic gadgets were whipped out. My wife being the fastest supplied the answer. "Yes, the moon was for ventilation and moonlight, but also it was widely acknowledged as a sort of sight language for those who couldn't read. The crescent moon represented a derriere."

While I couldn't quite see how a crescent moon resembled a butt, I said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh," anyway, not wanting to be the dumbest guy at the table.

"Well, another option for certain families was a 'slop-pot,'" offered my mother-in-law.

"Oh? Tell me more," I said as I shoveled a forkful of casserole into my mouth.

"They were ceramic jars with lids for people who didn't want to go out into the cold."

"Huh."

"And sometimes they'd be beautifully decorated."

Suddenly, a whole new world of wondrousness opened up to me. I began to see slop-pots everywhere, planning my next bodily function. Besides there were seven of us and one bathroom.

"So that's what that is in our bedroom," I shouted in a very Sherlockian manner.

"No...that's a spittoon. You'd have to have very good aim," said my mother-in-law.

"And in the hallway...it's a bigger slop-pot!"

"Don't you dare use that, Stuart. That's a butter churner."

See what I mean? Slop-pots everywhere. And before that fateful day, I'd never even heard of them!

Soon, the dinner conversation drifted to potty chairs. "For the wealthier women at high society tea parties, it was considered polite to excuse yourself and use a potty chair," explained my mother-in-law.

"Wait...what?"

"It was usually a wooden chair that had a hole cut out in it with a ceramic bowl beneath to catch stuff. Some of the bowls were beautiful."

"You mean...these hoity-toity ladies were soooooo caught up in their tea parties, they just dropped trou right in the middle of the she-bang and let it drop because they didn't want to miss anything? And no one cared?"

"Well...the chairs were in dark corners of the room and--"

"Gross!"

See what I mean? A whole new world of essential information. Soon, I had another "A-HA" moment.

"Wait a minute..." I said. "My mom had one of those potty chairs in her basement. When my brother and I moved her into an apartment, we secretly threw it away because she didn't want to throw away anything."

Jaws dropped, but forks still remained high.

"You didn't..." gasped my wife. "You threw out... It was a very valuable antique!"

While I mourned my perhaps hasty decision to toss it out, the notion of a "potty chair" going up at an expensive antique auction absolutely fills me with delight. Beauty surrounds us!

The more you know...

Speaking of essential information, while researching the first book in the Zach and Zora comical mystery series, Ms. Google led me down some dark alleys regarding male strippers, places that I'd care not to revisit ever again. So please help my hard-earned research pay off and check out one of the books, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, Murder by Massage, and Nightmare of Nannies. Only YOU can help to erase the horrific imagery and videos that's scarred me for life!

 

Stooping to a New Low

Recently, I knew the neighbors across the street were going to be away for a couple of days, so I snatched a newly delivered box from their stoop. (Not that they asked me to, mind you...it's just during the holidays Amazon is the gift that keeps on giving, even when you haven't paid for anything! Of course, I'm kidding. Or...AM I?)

So, I said to my wife, "Wife," I said, "I just grabbed a package from the neighbors' stoop."

She stared at me. Of all the responses I expected, I had somehow overlooked amused silence.

Finally--FINALLY!--at long last, she says, "That's twice now you've used 'stoop' today. Nobody says that anymore. It makes you sound like a redneck."

I can tolerate a lot, but nobody gets away with calling me a redneck! "Harumph," I snorted. "Ain't nothin' rednecky about saying stoop. What would you call it? 'A landing deck?'"

"It's a porch. Call it a porch. Civilized people call it a porch."

I took a peek out the window at the neighbors' so-called "porch." "That is not a porch! A porch constitutes s a gathering place where you can hang out with a friend, sit in a rocking chair, drink hard lemonades, and yell at the neighbors' kids. THAT is nothing but a one step up, 6 by 6 foot hunk of cement. Hence, it's a stoop!"

Things got pretty heated in the great stoop versus porch debate, so I walked away, mumbling, "Sometimes a stoop is just a stoop."

But it got me thinking even though I forgot about it for a couple of days soon after. Until my wife sent me an article.

Helpfully entitled "The Difference Between a Stoop and a Porch," I felt my heart slowly dropping into my stomach for I was certain the article in question would certify my wife as the winner of this bout (and she usually is). Otherwise why would she send me incriminating evidence she was wrong?

(Then I thought, "Huh. You mean...there're other people in the world where this fine distinction is debated over?")

With great trepidation, I began to read.

A porch is typically a roofed area that projects from the exterior wall of a house or other building, while a stoop refers to the steps leading up to an entryway.

Wait...what? Whazzat??? Could I be misreading things??? Did I finally--FINALLY, FOREVER FINALLY--win a battle of the words with my all-knowing wife?

HUZZAH!  Shout! Raise the roof (but not so much as to disturb what's very oh-so-obviously a PORCH)! Smack the cat and put the kids out! I was right!!!

But I'm a humble winner. When my wife got home, I kept my glory down to a dull minimum (Fireworks! Attempted cartwheels that ended up with me in traction! "In your FACE!!! BWA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA!" Banging of pots and pans! Phone calls to my friends applying bragging rights! "STOOP! There it issss...STOOP, there it isssss..." Okay, okay, maybe it was overkill. But you gotta understand something...I'm not used to being right! HA HA HAAAAAAAAAA!)

I think I'll go sit on my porch and bask in my victory (while opening up my new gift from the neighbors.).

Speaking of men behaving badly, meet Shawn and his mentor/bad penny buddy, Redmond. Stuck in corporate hell, their days are spent in walking, mind-numbing comas, while their nights are spent in bars, trying to forget their days. But if you think that's bad, wait until a werewolf starts ripping Shawn's coworkers to shreds. Could the werewolf be one of Shawn's coworkers? Maybe someone close to him? Or...could it be Shawn himself? Find out in Corporate Wolf, available right here!

 

The Name Game

What's in a name? Quite a lot as I discovered this past Thanksgiving.

Ever since the holiday, when my relatives dropped some great names and stories, I've been thinking about it quite a bit.

Let's take college sports, for instance. My nephew told me that the name of the University of Oklahoma's quarterback is..."General Booty." Yep, not a typo, not a bad dream, not a military title, but more than probably parents with a sense of humor. Or they hated their son.

I mean, I can hear the game announcements already: "Looks like we've got General Booty on the field!" or "Would you look at that General Booty!" or "The ref just made a Booty call!"

Poor guy. No wonder he had to excel at sports. (Although I suppose it's better than being named "Specific Booty.")

Then here in my stomping grounds of Kansas, ripped straight from the basketball team of my alma mater, KU, comes...Gradey Dick! Now on the surface, the Jayhawk guard's name isn't that unusual. But it's become kinda a Big Deal with people on the intronets, trying to one-up each other with naughty posts on Gradey's name. It's even become part of the lexicon of the game announcers (whether they realize it or not). Things I've read or heard include: "Dick is driving it hard on the floor!' and "What we need right now is some Dick!" and "Looks like Dick is pummeling the other team!"

(But don't feel too bad for Mr. Dick. My niece told me some less than pleasant things about the guy. Clearly trying to live up to his name-sake, I suppose.)

While we leave the world of sports behind, let's turn to real-life, shall we? Over the holiday, there'd been some reminiscing about stories from many years ago in Oklahoma. I'm thinking specifically of "Egghead Dinger."

"Egghead Dinger?" I said. "Why was he called 'Egghead'? Or was that his real name?"

"Well," said the anonymous storyteller, "his head looked like an egg."

While I was busy giggling over the poor Dinger, I tried to imagine just how egg-like his head was.

Quickly, my relative added, "But he was a good-looking guy!"

Now, I really was curious to see a handsome egghead.

Perhaps feeling guilty about disparaging Egghead's head, my relative continued trying to make Eggy seem palatable. "He was so good-looking, he married Fannie Mae, who--"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! 'Fannie Mae?'"

"Yes. Fannie was the school teacher who all the guys--and the kids--were gaga over. She rented an apartment with another local teacher that overlooked the school-yard. All the kids gathered around the yard at a certain time because it became wide-spread that Fannie liked to dress with her curtains open."

Yow! Now I REALLY wanted to see a pic of Egghead and Fannie, two of the best names ever! If I wrote them into a book, all credibility would be lost. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

So I started thinking about horrible names. And why the parents of these horribly named offspring felt the need to punish them for all their lives.

I uncovered Phat Ho, Dick Swett, Mr. Perv (a grade school teacher), Chris P. Bacon (wouldn't you think he'd drop the middle initial by now?), Mike Litoris, Moe Lester, Major Dickie Head (And how is that better than "Richard?"), Dr. Wett Fartz, F. You, and so many more.

You can't tell me these poor long-suffering people were unaware of their names, even with a language translation barrier. There are plenty of bilingual bullies out there. And what kind of sadistic animals are their parents? I suppose some parents find it cute. Then again, most of my cited examples involve (intentional or unintentional) potty humor.

In my ever-diligent research (Hello, Ms. Google!), I found a recent British study of 1,772 parents, with the majority of them claiming they gave their spawn weird names to help them stand out on social media! Dayum! Since when do parents want their kids to be noticed on Tik-Tok, where the likes of "Mr. Perv" goes by the handle of "Sunshiny Unicorn" or whatever? Why, I remember the day when parents wished for their kids to have better clothes, better schooling, and an all-round better life. 

Even more startling is 94% of the respondents claim that made-up nonsense names are "in" for kids!

Huh. So if I were to have another child, I think I'd name it "Poo-Poo Platter." Because I would want my child to have nothing but the best and most visible internet presence. Ever.

While we're on the topic of bad names, my protagonist (of three novels, so far!), chooses to go by "Tex," rather than  his birth name of "Richard." Because bullies early on let him know that "Dick" was short for Richard. But you can't explain bullies' behavior. Never mind all that. Tex has just discovered he's a witch. And there's a serial killer targeting his friends at school. And a lotta other stuff. Check out Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series.

The Return of the Human Lab Rat!

It's been some time since I filled you guys in on my amazingly unfathomable necrotic, skin-eating disease (which has thus far stumped my regular doctor, a dermatologist, several nurse practitioners, a legion of allergists, and my UPS guy {Hey, he had "Resting Therapy Face."}). And the ensuing human lab rat "study" that my allergist talked me into enrolling in for an experimental drug. (For all the horrific details, refer back to my older post. I'll wait right here until you're done reading.)

So, between being turned into a human pin cushion by sadistic nurse Carla (I kinda think she might have been blind whenever she tried to find my veins on a weekly basis), and then having two--count 'em, two!--mystery drug infusions, I still have my incomprehensible series of rashes. Oh sure, after the first infusion, I was miraculously healed up! Hallelujah! For about three weeks, then the itchiness and bumps came back with a vengeance. I suffered until the next infusion, hoping for the best. Again, it healed my skin, but this time for only a week.

Despondent, I asked the fresh-faced, fast-talking, hipster-slang-slinging, straight outta diapers research kid, Darren, what happens next.

Darren shrugs and says, "That's it. Now they want you to lay off any kind of drug that might help you for eight weeks."

"Eight weeks?!!? But...but...lookee!" I pulled my sleeve up to show him a gruesome run on my arm. "How am I gonna hold out for eight weeks?"

Another shrug, this time accompanied by a sly grin. "I know, right? It's kinda crazy."

Well, "crazy" doesn't supply relief. Don't get me wrong, the allergists never did cure my ailment, but at best, they were able to mask the symptoms with a succession of drugs (at least for a little while) by applying kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers' "throw-it-all-against-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks" methodology. Highly scientific. But, hey, I was desperate for relief. Even though a constant diet of Prednisone had turned me into the Michelin Tire Man.

I went home and suffered for another couple of weeks until I'd finally had enough and pulled the plug. I felt guilty, like a namby-pamby quitter, but to me it was unfathomable to sit and suffer for another six weeks for no particular reason. On the bright side, I wouldn't have Nurse Carla digging into my arm every week, spelunking for gold or whatever. Bonus!

So, I launched into my apology tour. Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers was compassionate and kind (just like his late TV namesake), of course. But then he hit me with some insanely bad news.

"Unfortunately, your last blood test showed some truly weird anomalies in your blood. The drug development company would still like to monitor your blood work."

"Wait.. What?... WHAT?"

"Your blood work showed something really strange..." While he went on to explain it in boring scientific bla-bla-bla that I wouldn't understand anyway, images of a creepy, maniacally laughing, giant Nurse Carla coming at me with a bazooka sized hypodermic with a needle the size of a bayonet burned into my brain. 

"...and while I don't *think* (inserted finger quotes) you're dying, everyone thinks it'd be best if we continue to draw your blood for the next couple of months and--"

"Dying? Wait...what? What's wrong with my blood??? TELL ME DOC!"

"It's just a weird anomaly that we've never seen before, but there's no need to panic. They just want to make sure--"

"YOU'VE NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE??? WHAT HAVE I BECOME?"

"There, there..." I barely felt his lame pat of condolences on my back. "Nothing to worry about, it's just--"

"AND IS CARLA STILL GONNA DIG INTO MY VEINS???"

"Hang on just a second." Suddenly, kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers zips out of the room and zips back in with a very inquisitive young woman. She introduces herself as the new nurse practitioner and starts questioning me about...well, everything.

Kindly Dr. Mr. Rogers finally says, "Well, she just wanted to see you. At first, based on your blood work, she thought I'd made you up. That there was no way you could be alive."

"Wait...I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE???"

"There's nothing to worry about. We just--"

"BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID! ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS QUIT THIS STUPID STUDY AND SUDDENLY I'M DYING!!! I'M NOT EXACTLY INSTILLED WITH CONFIDENCE NOW!!! I JUST--"

"There, there, there. Nothing to worry about. We just bla bla bla..."

This went on for a while. And I STILL didn't get what was up with my blood. However, after two further months of Nurse Carla jackhammering at my veins, the "anomaly had cleared up."

Now calmed and relieved, I had one more stop to make on my apology tour, this time to Darren, research whiz kid.

Grinning oddly, Darren mumbled something nearly indecipherable. Either that, or I pretended not to hear what he said, the horrors just too much to process.

"What? I'm sorry, I didn't get that."

"I can get you into another study," he repeated, still grinning like he knew a very special, fun Big Boy secret.

"Great GOOGLY-MOOGLY! You gotta be kidding me! Why in the WORLD would I ever consent to doing another one of these??? The last drug turned me into some kinda weird-blooded, 50's sci-fi monster and didn't even work! Then having Carla use me as a voodoo doll every week is just--"

"We'll pay you."

"Okay."

(Stay tuned for the further adventures of "Stuart, World's Worst Human Lab Rat!")

While we're chatting about colossally stupid decisions, my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, is full of people making them. There's the cranky old woman who decides to battle three demonic children on Halloween. Hey, there's the young woman who decides to go underground--deep, deep, dark underground--in search of her missing brother. How about the man who believes his wife is cheating on him, so decides she must die? The list goes on and on. If nothing else, my protagonists should make you feel pretty good about even your worst life decisions! (If that's not a Must-Read plug, I don't know what is!) Check it out here.