Everybody Poops...but Not Like This

People tell me I’m legally insane  full of great stories. Today, I started thinking about things that I thought were normal, but which became bizarre ‘stories’ for people in America. 

Please note: these involve poop. All of them. I don't know why. 

• We didn’t flush toilet paper after wiping. Awful sewage systems meant clogged drains, and the only thing worse than poopy toilet paper in the waste bin was poopy-poop gushing everywhere.
• No one drank from the faucets. Ever. Unless, of course, they wanted poopy-poop gushing in a different way.
• We soaked our veggies and fruit in bleach water because of the amount of pesticides the farmers used. And because night soil, human waste watered down with human urine, was used as fertilizer.
• Public toilets make you pay for toilet paper (which is a scratchy, pink sheet of recycled cardboard bits that feels like sandpaper soaked in hot sauce). You have to tell them whether you are going “one” or “two” and are forced to pay more for going “two”. They check afterwards.
•  Amusement parks were amusing until the population realized that they could do their business in the house of mirrors and mazes. What's worse than 16 reflections of a massive dump? Wearing flip-flops and not knowing which one is real. 
• Children wear split-bottom pants and can usually pee/poop on command by the time they are a few months old. The command is a whistling noise the parent makes, usually while squatting and holding the child over a ditch (or anywhere. Literally). I once saw a lady squat her baby over a sink in a KFC and whistle-command her child to urinate. When reprimanded, she yelled that urine was sterile until a child turned four and so he could pee wherever he wanted.
•  Don’t swim in public pools. I once saw a line of boys have a peeing contest into the deep end. Plus, the water always tasted salty.
• Many times, in the countryside, pigpens are built adjacent to toilets and both animal and human waste flows freely into a large pit. This pit is what you must squat over, usually while balancing on two boards, while a wooden wall separates you from the pigs.
• A very kind-hearted lady ‘fixed’ my busted toe by soaking a mushroom in urine and tying onto the wound.

 *Disclaimer: this list is not exhaustive, and should not be used as an academic reference as to why I should be illegal what growing up in China is like for everyone. These are my memories.  Nothing more.

But what would we name the dragon?

James: I want to write a book about an anorexic dragon.

Me: What. The. Hell.

James: But what would I call the dragon...that's critical to the story. 

Me: Do you actually hear yourself talking right now? 

James: You know, it could be about how the villagers misunderstand him. There would be conquering of low self esteem. Tears. And Fire. And a freaking dragon.

Me [searching for a pen]: I have to write this down. This is too good.

James: Don’t! You always write down what I say and then I realize how strange I sound.

Me: The world needs to know.

James: You should make your blog readable by everyone, and everyone should not hear about this.

Me: Twain said that censorship is like telling a man he can’t have steak because a baby can’t chew.

James: That’s stupid. You should never give a baby steak.....stop writing this down!

Then, somehow, I'd get elected president.

**Disclaimer: I have the tendency to talk to complete strangers in whatever language or accent my mood dictates. 

This is a conversation I dug up from my archived “Never Admit You Did This” file. Apparently, I was in a store looking at dog collars--which is weird because I don’t even have a dog--and had an episode of verbal diarrhea on the nearest customer. 

Me: What if we all wore collars that shocked us when we did something bad? I’ll bet the world would be a better place.

Lady: Oh. I’m more of a cat person.

Me: But, I’m also sure we’d have to appoint someone to shock us so that people wouldn’t frivolously zap everyone. Except lawyers. Everyone would be able to zap lawyers.

Lady: That’s…interesting (takes a step back).

Me (yelling): The president! We implant shock chips into everyone and only the PRESIDENT can shock everyone.

Lady: Is this some kind of prank?

Me: I need to be elected president.

The lady walked off, looking over her shoulder once or twice.  

I called my sister.

Amy: Hello?

Me: Amy, change of plans. I'm running for president. Remind me, when do people start voting on stuff?

Amy: Who is this?

Me: It’s Jessa, stupid. Are you free this weekend? We need to talk campaign strategy.

Amy: I’m hanging up now.

*click

Why James Is Not Allowed Near Fish Tanks Anymore

Typical pillow talk between my (completely lucid, sober) husband and (completely lucid, sober) me.


James: I'm amazed that humanity hasn't bred tiny animals yet.

Me: I'm amazed you think that's a thing.

James: You know in the "Game of Thrones" books, how there are huge dire wolves?

Me: You mean the fake world created with magic, yes. Do go on.

James: Well, why can't they breed tiny dire wolves? Or other animals.

[I roll over]

James: A tiny zoo. You could have a tiny zoo...in a BUILDING! People would ask me, "What are you doing?" and I'm all like, "Nothing, just taking my mouse-sided zebra on a walk."

Me: If a pigeon came in, it would harrasse all the animals.

James: We could breed tiny animals EVERYWHERE! It's like with fish, when you take a big fish and put it into a bowl and it shrinks. Wait...it's the other way around.

Me: You are officially not allowed near a fish tank. Or animals. Or people.

James: Think about it. People can't keep baboons in their houses because the monkeys would rip their faces off. Tiny baboons....oh my gosh, they'd be called Babbets. What are they going to do, pick at your fingernails?

Me: Or breed in your hair cause they think it's a jungle.

James: Wait, I just figured it out. I know why we don't do this. All the miniature animals would give birth to eraser-sized babies. And I can't ever keep track of erasers.

Me: I feel like I'm talking to a twelve year old. No wonder I go to bed frustrated and questioning my parenting skills.

James: A twelve year old couldn't satisfy you.

[long. long. pause.]

James:....wait, I don't think I should have said that. Don't put this on your blog.

My Husband Wants to Eat Rocks, and I'm Not Sure I Can Stop Him

The Dogwood Festival is an annual conglomeration of both the dregs and anomalies of the locals around here. 

Women walk around with sleeveless shirts so stretched you can see their 30-year-old bras. The men, too. 

Kids...kids just don't realize that the entire thing is  supposed to be an economy boost for the town and tug their parents' arms for deep fried butter.

Deep Fried Butter -- It's a real thing.

People come out and sell strange things, eat diabetic-coma-inducing food, and put their children on rides.

Vendors bring out their best, overpriced items and glare at you from within their hovels.

Then I saw this:

He is obviously named Billy Bob, and he costs way too much. Not only that, but the toad behind him looked enormously happy at the view of Billy Bob Cock-A-Freakin' Do's sad, yellow cloud butt.

This made me not trust the toad or Billy Bob, because I instantly knew that they were in cahoots together and would probably wake up and pee on my face in the night.

James and I walked by a booth selling scented rocks. Bright, florescent and floral smelling rocks. I’m not even sure what you would do with Hawaiian Punch Scented Rocks. I would be afraid that someone would try to eat one, which my husband actually did try to do (no joke).

James: Can you eat these?

Old Man Selling Rocks: No.

James: Can I eat one?

Old Man Selling Rocks: No.

James: Then what's the point?

Old Man Selling Rocks: They smell good. You put 'em in your house.

James: But then I would want to eat them, and I'd probably forget that I couldn't, so I would. I'm pretty sure that I don't want florescent poop or Hawaiian smelling burps. Wait...that sounds awesome. That is EXACTLY what I want.

Old Man Selling Rocks: [stares]

James: I mean, they look like giant pop rocks, which everyone loves...oh my gosh now I want pop rocks.

Me: Honey, we need to leave. I think his wife is getting out a shot gun.

James: But...I want pop rocks.

No Sheep Were Harmed in the Making of this Post

I worked at a call center for three and a half years while in college in some feeble attempt to ward off student loans. They’re coming for you—student loans, that is…not call centers. Maybe. Jury is still out on that one.

People tell the most amazing, deeply personal things to complete strangers. By deeply personal, I don’t mean the latest gossip in their lives (which I wouldn’t understand anyway because, hello, we are strangers).

I heard about urology visits, lewd divorce details, foreclosure stories, coming-out-of-the-closets, college secrets and battles with any number of diseases.

Perhaps they thought I was a priest, absolving them of their sins behind the thin shield of plastic phone, never to be seen.

The stories that stood out the most over the years were ones I would tell to new recruits.

- Some Southern lady told me that her cat read the Bible each morning. She got mad when I asked if it could just read in general (and could I please send her an autographed copy of the Koran) or was just able to read the Bible.  She hung up before I could explain that the whole title of the book was “Koran Kooking: Most Holy Meals” and that I found it at flea market in Ireland.


- I once called a New Zealand entrepreneur who was walking into a meeting to fire three people. His wife had cheated on him with a sheepherder. The details of retaliation are fuzzy, but he somehow bought all the seducing-sheepherder’s land and built a mall. I asked if the mall were made out of the sheep, and if it wasn’t then it should be. He hung up.


- A gay, Buddhist monk from New Orleans told me that weed was man’s panacea (his words, not mine). I asked him if he got his rosary bead thingys from Marti Gras by flashing everyone.

- Someone once picked up the phone, screamed into it and set it down. I listened to half an hour of the Dick Van Dyke Show in the background before hanging up.

- A sweet sounding old man picked up and told me that he would go get his wife. He then put the phone down and presumably wandered off into the woods because no one ever came back. No Dick Van Dyke Show to keep me company that time.

- A lady tried to pay me with her ceramic cat collection.

- In the middle of a fascinating conversation with a professional mountain biker, the man said, “My wife informed me that she would get naked if I came to dinner. I gotta go. Bye.”
Best. Call. Ever.


- A Navy Seal officer cried and confided in me that he didn't think he would make it back from his third trip to Afghanistan. He also thought Americans didn't understand what really went on and didn't appreciate the sacrifice his men made when they exploded next to him. 
I grew up without American freedoms, I told him. I appreciate what you do, and I can't ever, ever thank you enough. I don't know if he made it back.


- When a lady started speaking in Chinese and tried to hang up as an excuse, I introduced myself in Chinese and asked her what province she was from. She, obviously unprepared for a fluent Chinese speaker to call her out, told me to "fuck off" and hung up.

- A minister once called me a "bitch" when I introduced myself.

- A lady told me she was homeless and living on the streets, which is why she wasn't interested in the product. I called her cellphone and could hear "Friends" playing in the background while she told me she "did the cocaine" every night under a bridge. Of course, I assume that she was borrowing her other homeless friend's phone or had broken into some Presbyterian family's home and planned on eating all their potted plants.

- Someone told me that they couldn't buy what I was selling because they were dead. 
"So, excuse me, but do you mean the previous owner of this number is now deceased?"
"No, I mean I'm dead. Like, right now."
"You are Mr. Smith (name changed for legal reasons...meaning I can't remember)?"
"Yeah."
"And you are dead."
"Yeah."
"You have no pulse or brain waves? Are you really a ghost and standing behind me right now?"
"Look, lady. I'm dead, okay? Stop calling this number."

- I know what explosive diarrhea sounds like through a telephone. 

Ah, humanity. 
We can't tell the truth to our loved ones, but we'll tell a telemarketer what our gynecologist discovered at our last pap smear. 

This is a depressing post, but it has a point in the end, I promise

The more I try to write fiction the more I realize that stories in my own life are much more interesting than my imagination. Mostly because when I tell people about my life, they are often so bizarre people think I’m psychotic  I’m drunk  I’m high I’m lying.

I don’t lie about my past—it happened, and it made me an isolated freak who I am today.

Also, my husband has funnier stories than I do.

This happened yesterday:

James: Why are you lying on the bed?

Me: Because I’m sad.

James: Why are you sad? Is it because you finally realized that I’m ugly?

Me: [glare at him]

James: Well, what can I do to cheer you up?

Me: Nothing. The world has turned to gray ash in my mouth. And I’m not exaggerating.

James: Want me to tell you the story of “Butt, and the Slowly Fading Sunset?”

Me: No

James: What about “The Ding Bat Who Drank Too Much”?

Me: That’s not even real.

James: It’s a children’s book. Best seller. What about “McDoogle and the Inappropriate Orange Juice”?

Me: Leave before I do something that will get me on the 6 o’clock news.

Perhaps my husband is the more bizarre story I’ll even try to unwind. This is oddly comforting, because the prospect of me returning to China is fading quickly, and while all my stories of transvestites washing my hair my neighbors eating my dog adventures happened in China…maybe I’ll have unbelievable adventures again with him. Even if I am in America.