Sometimes, you wonder what goes through people’s minds when they tell you things. You wonder if the filter’s on. Today is one of those times.

So get this. I walked into my coworker’s office this morning to talk some engineering and before I had the chance to pull up a chair and sit, these words were hurled at me. Straight up, no editing.

I have to apologize in advance…(gets up and turns on a little desk fan)… I am having some serious digestive problems. I could blame it on the HVAC guy.. but let’s just say that I need a lot of ventilation in my office today.

Wow. Just…. wow.

A few weeks ago, my friend and I decided to get our ears pierced. She wanted a rook piercing, and I wanted the helix. We were both operating under the assumption that any tattoo parlor would do. Turned out it wasn’t so. We called a few tattoo parlors, and were met with :”We’re a TATTOO parlor. We don’t do piercings.” Finally, we narrowed down our options to three locations.

Hello, do you do piercings?

Yes. But our piercer isn’t in today.

Okay. Is he/she going to be in tomorrow?

Well I hope so!

Such professionalism!

Nevertheless, we found another location that had reasonably good reviews. After work on Friday, we drove to the tattoo/piercing parlor, and waited at the front desk after we signed our release forms. A rather large gentleman stood next to us, and struck up a conversation with me.

So, you here for a tattoo?

No, just a cartilage piercing.

Oh yea? Well I’m here to check out my tattoo sketches. I want a ring of skulls around my neck. 

And mind you, these were skulls that were the size of a fist each. Around his neck. To each his own, I guess.

Yea, and I just bought this really awesome gun. Here, let me show you how awesome it is.

Apparently, this guy totes his gun in a mini briefcase around town. He retrieved it from its carrying case, and shoved this revolver in my hand. I was speechless. Images of the mafia playing Russian roulette came to mind.

Isn’t that the most awesome gun you’ve ever seen?

Uh, yea. Well, I don’t know much about guns. But it’s very nice. Here.

And then I handed it back to him, tout suite.

The artist behind the counter saw the exchange, and chimed in.

Are we showing off our guns now? Cool. Hold on a second, let me get mine.

Then he proceeded to open his drawers to show us his gun. Now there are not one, but two guns within 2 feet of my personal bubble.

Guy number three walked up to the counter. Somehow all three men got into a pissing contest over how much upper body art they possessed. In one felt whoop, all three men disrobed and showed off their rather rotund upper bodies for our admiration.

My friend and I, at this point, were staring wide-eyed at each other, communicating telepathically.

Where the hell are we??

So revolver guy carried on the conversation, as if shoving a gun at a girl and baring his torso were the most normal things in the world.

You’re not a real man if you don’t drive a dachshund.

Excuse me? Huh? A dog?

I must have given him a really confused look.

No, a Datsun. I have one, just downstairs.

I had no idea wtf that was. I assumed it was some type of a muscle car. I also assumed that he was trying to assure me of his masculine prowess.

Nodding politely, we edged further and further away to a corner of the parlor and split like grease on wheels immediately after we got our piercings. Major ouch, btw.

And that, is how a simple ear piercing excursion turned into a whole can of WTFs.

Sometimes it is the littlest things that put a smile on my face. Like executing a perfect arc while making a left turn at the light.

……keeps the doctor away.

But apparently, according to my dad, there is too much of a good thing.

In 5th grade, my favorite snack was apples. For some reason, the grocery stores back in Indonesia carried sacks and sacks of miniature apples like the mini clementines that are sold in American grocery stores these days. They were adorable, and delicious, and adorable. Great marketing ploy for the kids. Boy did I love those apples. I was chomping down on my third one of the day when my dad stopped me in my tracks.

How many of those have you had?

Um, three?

That’s the last one that you’re having for the day.

But I thought apples are healthy snacks and they keep the doctor away!

Have you taken a shit today?

Um. No.

Well then. No more apples til you take a dump.

Apparently, apples = lots of iron = constipation = me.

Growing up in Indonesia (and this was the early 80s y’all), every household had maids. And a chaffeur. And a live-in nurse if you had babies. And also bidets. That was the way everyone rolled. It wasn’t that we were rich – because we weren’t – it was just that human labor was really really cheap. Think monthly salaries of the equivalent of 25 USD.

In rural Indonesia, after one goes number 2, one squats next to the toilet, cranks up the faucet, collects the water in a plastic saucepan-lookalike, and washes oneself carefully. With soap AND water. And also only with your left hand. (This is why you NEVER hold out your left hand for a handshake in Indonesia.)  Seeing as we lived in the city, we had bidets that were installed below the toilet seats that aimed a jet of water straight to the bulls-eye. How they figured out the precise water-to-starfish angle, I’ll never know. But that was how everyone cleaned themselves after their business.

When I commented on the lack of bidets in US of America, pretty much everyone of my friends thought me mad. They couldn’t fathom why I was so shocked at not seeing them anywhere.

Well. Let me try to explain this. If you accidentally smeared shit on your hands, would you just take a piece of toilet paper and wipe it off? No. You wash your hands in soap and water (and probably remove a few layers of skin in the process), and THEN you wipe your hands dry with the paper. Why can’t your starfish be extended the courtesy?

Silence. And then a few tentative Perhaps you have a point looks.

Do you know that you are in fact, walking around all day with invisible skid-marks?  You are rubbing shit all over your ass and let’s not even get into the bacteria issue.

I like pushing my points. And then after that, I get no more arguments. Go out and buy yourself bidet toilets from Japan. They’re called washlets these days. With advances in technology, I hear they now have temperature-controlled water jets and air dryers that blow hot air and keep your tush warm too. And Toto? You’re welcome.

I digress. My fondest memories of toilet-associated stories in Indonesia is one of my sister’s. She was around 5, not yet completely toilet-trained on full-sized toilets.  Barely tall enough for her feet to reach the floor while she was on the toilet. In fact, I think her feet were still dangling at that age. We had just moved into that house and hadn’t installed the washlets under the toilet seats yet. She’d go do her business, and then open the bathroom door and wail out our maid’s name.

WAREEEEE-YA…… I’M DONE!!!!

Wariya would drop whatever she had going at the time and come running to clean her tush.  As in – squat, soap, rinse THEN wipe.

I love the expressions on everyone’s  face when I tell this story. Priceless.