Safe for Septic Tanks

            I am going home tomorrow, and I am looking forward to it. I did not see any family for Christmas or Thanksgiving but will be visiting both my parents and my in-laws this weekend. It will be nice to see my parents in person for a change, instead of constantly talking to them on the phone. I like talking to them on the phone for many reasons, but one reason people may or may not know is that my parents amuse me. They have been married for so long (30 years) that they argue about the stupidest things. I like this, because that means they don’t have anything serious to fight about.

            The other day I was cleaning my toilet and I smiled, because I thought of my parent’s heated argument over toilet paper.

            Not too long ago, when I still lived in Omaha, I was talking on the phone with my mother, which is almost a daily occurrence. It was a couple of days before my parents were supposed to come visit my husband and me.

            “Oh my god, your father is driving me nuts,” my mom said.

            “Uh huh,” I said, unphased. This was normal. “What did he do?”

            “Well,” my mother began. “I was at the grocery store the other day and I bought some toilet paper. The quilted kind.”

            This is not the kind my mother normally buys, but I was glad to hear they were treating themselves.

            “Yeah, so? What made you spring for the good stuff?” I asked.

            “They were out of our normal kind. And I bought the quilted stuff by accident. So, your father had a goddamn fit. He comes storming out of the bathroom asking me why did I buy this toilet paper and didn’t I know it was going to clog up the septic tank? Well, I marched right into that bathroom and got the package out, turned it over, and showed him where that it said right on the package ‘safe for septic tanks,’” she said.

            I was loving this. Clearly she had anticipated his response, did her research, and bought the stuff anyway.

“And what did he say?” I asked.

            “He said it didn’t matter. Like I was making it up. So I told him that from now on, he can buy his own goddamn toilet paper,” she hissed.

            This argument answered a question I had been asking myself for years. Why did my parents always have such shitty toilet paper? I never thought it was shitty until a certain conversation with Josh. It was around the time we got engaged, and we were casually talking about certain household brands we liked.

            “I have to have Charmin,” he said. “The ultra-soft kind.”

            “Really? I had no idea you were so delicate,” I mocked.

            He ignored my tone. “That’s the kind my parents always have. You had to have noticed when you’ve come over, compared to what you have at your house,” he said.

            “What do you mean?” I asked. I was very busy at college and my trips home had become infrequent.

            “Pay attention next time you’re home,” he said.

            And he was right. The next time nature called at the farm I was staring right at a roll of single-ply sandpaper hell. You never notice these things until you are forced to face a comparison. From that point on, I wondered why my parents were so loyal to this type of toilet paper. Apparently, it had something to do with the septic tank.

            A couple of days later, my parents came down to visit. I took my father to the gym with me and we had a rare moment alone on the way back to my house.

            “You know, your mother really ticked me off the other day,” he said.

            “Yeah? What did she do?” I said.

            “She went out and bought some fancy, super thick toilet paper! The quilted kind! I couldn’t believe it. It’s like flushing a towel down the toilet. That is going to back up our septic tank!” he said.

            Barely keeping my face composed, I said in an even tone, “I was under the impression that it was safe for septic tanks.”

            My words had the desired effect and my dad became instantly agitated. “You sound just like your mother! That’s exactly what she said! I said, ‘Dammit Linda, NOT MY SEPTIC TANK!’” he said in a raised voice.

            I couldn’t help it anymore, I was giggling. “Jesus, Dad, calm down. There are millions of people who use that toilet paper, is it really a big deal?”

            “Do you know how much it costs to fix a backed up septic tank?” Dad asked me.

            I flash back to when I was 16 years old. I was standing in our only bathroom, doing my hair and make-up. “Putting on ammunition” was what my dad called it, and he would make corny remarks about how those boys didn’t stand a chance against all that ammunition. When he approached the door, I was ignoring him, anticipating his usual comments. It was his serious tone when he said my name that made me turn and look at him.

            “I need to talk to you about something,” he said. He looked nervous, maybe even angry. His face was red and he was shifting his feet, not quite looking at me. Had he found the beer in my trunk? Had he heard me talking on the phone to Josh? Did he know I skipped church last week? (The last one was the worst offense.)

            “Yes?” I said weakly.

            “You need to…” he paused. “Not flush your…things…down the toilet.”

            Relief washed over me, but I didn’t let it show. Instead, I kept a straight face. Clearly, my father was extremely uncomfortable talking about his, and I felt like messing with him.

            “What things?” I asked.

            “You know, your things. That you and your sister use,” he said.

            I was not satisfied. I wanted to make him say it. “You mean like toilet paper? That’s gross. I know back in the day they used catalogs but…”

            I had gone too far and Dad caught onto my game. “LOOK,” he cut me off. “The septic tank guy was out here yesterday, and the entire tube was stuffed with them.”

            “Oh, you mean tampons,” I said, faking a moment of realization.

            Dad grimaced and exhaled in disgust and relief. “Yeah, those. So, don’t flush them.” He turned to make a quick exit, but turned back and said, “Tell your sister too,” before shuffling off into the kitchen.

            Nearly ten years later in my car, I realized pumping a septic tank must be mighty steep for dad to have that most awkward conversation with me.

            “You know, Dad,” I said. “It’s like your septic tank is from the dark ages.”

            “Well, it is,” he relented. “I’d love to have fancy quilted toilet paper, but we just can’t.”

            “It’s really not a fancy thing, Dad. It’s a normal thing. We buy Charmin. Josh won’t go for anything else,” I said.

            Dad seemed intrigued. Hours later, Josh, my mother and I were watching TV in the living room. My father came out of the bathroom with a satisfied smile on his face.

            “Boy you are right Josh, that is some real nice toilet paper you got in there,” he said.

            “Yep,” said Josh.

            “Jesus Dad, close the door!” I said, covering my nose and mouth.

            He did and sat down next to my mother.

            “See?” she said. “You like it. There’s no reason we can’t use nice toilet paper.”

            “No no no,” Dad said. “It’s just for these fancy city folks.”

            Mom rolled her eyes and Dad smiled.

            We’ll see what’s waiting for me at the farm.

A Christmas Letter

It seems like all of my friends and family are sending out Christmas cards this year. I guess I’m reaching the age where people are mostly married, maybe even have kids, or going through their first divorce. Apparently, standing in with their parent’s pictures is no longer sufficient. Until, that is, one sibling undoubtedly crashes and burns in their life and reverts back to being under the parental umbrella of holiday cheer. Most families have one of these cases. Characteristics include, but are not limited to, being over 30, lack of spouse, lack of career development, living at home, and, of course, denial.

The overall confirmation of this is taking family photos, such as Christmas cards, grouped in with your own parents, either because it is too embarrassing to stand by yourself, or your children resent you. Either way, Christmas is a cruel mistress who makes your sad place in life becomes painfully evident. You may or may not be holding the family pet for solace, knowing at least Fluffy is still happy to have you hanging around.

Which one will it be in my family? It is between the three of us: myself, my brother, and my sister. This is yet to be determined. That’s the kicker. There are families out there, even extended families, without these characters. Give it time, someone will step up to the plate and become the family deadbeat. Until then, enjoy your boring, Norman Rockwell-like holidays devoid of jealous tension and passive-aggressive remarks fueled by stress and booze. Your day is coming, if it has not already arrived without you noticing. It may even be you.

But it is all smiles on the holiday cards. I know my mailbox is about to be very full of these cards, because everyone keeps asking for my address. I am repeatedly texting my new address to just about everyone I know, a side effect of moving so often. I’m starting to get annoyed, but I feel kind of bad about that because, for some reason, these people care about me. And, they must also think that I don’t care about them, since I am not asking for anyone’s address in return, since I have nothing to send. Unless you count the picture of Josh and I submitted to his mother three weeks after she asked for it.

I am starting to notice that more people do not feel that a card is enough, but must send a letter. I would like to joke about how much I don’t give a crap about these, but it simply isn’t true. I do enjoy reading them. That being said, I have decided to write my own Christmas letter.

Dear Everyone,

If you are getting this letter, you either already know everything that is already in it, because we communicate on a somewhat regular basis, or I do not care about you to enough to call every once in a while but still feel you should be interested in my life. Either way, Happy Holidays and I am going to update you on everything that happened this year!

The most notable thing is that we moved to Texas. We do not miss snow but do like to brag about everyone here being a baby about mild temperatures. However, it is not pleasant to feel like you are sitting in a sauna every time the temperature goes over 65 degrees.

Josh and I bought our first set of cowboy boots. Mine are simple leather, while Josh’s are handmade ostrich and elephant hide. I know refer to him as “The Poacher,” a nickname he ignores. The Poacher and I are considering buying a handgun. We realize that is does bring us down to the white trash level of many Texans, but the good news is we can read AND we aren’t related to each other. So, we have that going for us, which is nice.

As usual, Josh is working a million hours a week and I was lucky to find work almost immediately upon arriving to Texas. I am working for a school that I worked for when I lived in Kansas City and am happy to be back with that company. I commute about 45 minutes each way, weaving my way through people who drive like they are playing Grand Theft Auto.

Killebrew is nursing a paw injury that is kind of unusual. Over Thanksgiving, he ripped the top off of one of his nails and licked it to the point of infection. I came home to find my dog with a cone secured to his harness which caused him to constantly run into things. I also found his bandaged leg secured with duct tape, which Josh implemented to ward off Killebrew’s chewing of his foot. There is something so sad, yet so very funny about seeing a dog who is balancing on three legs repeatedly beating his cone against a cabinet to get at a potato chip on the floor.

For the first time in months, Texas decided to have a rainstorm that weekend, which presented a problem. Killebrew could not get his bandage wet. So, every time he wanted to go outside, we had to duct tape Ziploc sandwich bags to his foot and carry him outside. In fact, we have been carrying him quite a bit, and his new favorite game is to wake me up in the middle of the night to lift him into bed.

For the holidays, Josh and I prefer to celebrate in our Grinch way, by sitting on our couch and doing nothing. No Christmas tree, no presents. Just celebrating with our new addition to the family, our smoker! That is right, no children. This gut is all beer.

So what else is new? Absolutely nothing. New state, same shit. Oh, except we can find about ten different types of queso at the local grocery. That’s new. Other than that, nothing. I go to work, I do homework, I work out either that my glowing gym or the small 1970’s style fitness center at the top of our office building. The contrast between the two is astounding, but activity is activity even if you are bench pressing on something out of Happy Days.

Until next year.

Money Services

Dear U.S. Bank,

            Thank you for saving my ass. Literally. I have recently moved to the Houston, Texas area which happens to be a dead zone for your company. There are no branches within a hundred miles and there is one questionable ATM in an area I know nothing about.

            I am now two months into my new job and for some reason my direct deposit is still not hitting. Every time I call my HR representative, they verify my information, followed by a long puzzled silence. They have processed my information twice, and promise me that my direct deposit should hit not this pay period, but the next one. This has yet to happen. I do not blame them, as I tend to be unlucky sometimes.

            My husband’s bank is down here, but I, the queen of Internet transactions, like my internet banking. All of my bills and purchases are set up with my own banking information and I do not wish to change this. Plus, I like having my own account, as my husband and I have very different spending habits and would much rather argue over who is really messing up the sheet alignment on our bed.

            So, I elect to go to Wal-Mart to cash my check. This is something I have not done before, but I hear of people doing it all the time. After work, I drop by one on my way home. Wanting to get this over with, I stalk to the desk labeled “Money Services” and wait.

            At this point in my life, I have tired of most of my iPod Selection. Sure, my library has whittled down to 1,356 songs and I constantly download, but I have a short attention span. My new obsession is listening to comedy stations on Pandora, where I can listen to 3 to 5 minute segments of fantastic comedy. This is what I am doing while I become the seventh person in line at Wal-Mart.

            Upon meeting a friend of a friend a few weeks ago, he remarked that I seem “very well adjusted” to living in a city considering I grew up in a tiny farm town. Let me just say that is not my perception some of the time. In situations where I am thrown in with varieties of people unlike myself, I become extremely paranoid. My earbuds stay in, but I am vigilant in observing my peers in line. I tighten my grip on my purse and try to look bored. I avoid eye contact but maximize my peripheral vision. I feel extremely out of place in this line because other than the person behind me wearing a “McDonalds” polo, I feel like the only one who might have a steady job. This feels wrong. I do not have nearly enough ink on my neck and too many teeth in my mouth.

            I shut my eyes and try to tell myself not to be such a judgmental bitch. Who cares what these people look like? Who’s to say they don’t work? They are in line with me aren’t they? Don’t you wear sweatpants to run errands?

            Actually, I normally don’t. I try to look at least halfway decent every time I am leaving the house, unless I am leaving from the gym. But, I try not to be so narrow-minded and just continue to observe.

            After a few people visit the counter, I realize my suspicions are right. They are not cashing paychecks. They seem to be presenting some documentation and swiping a card. I am confused. What the hell are they doing? I start to read the list of services offered and realize these people are cashing in government assistance.

            Now, I am not against people who get government assistance. I have family members who legitimately needed it and benefited from it. However, I do feel it gets abused. I don’t know any of these people in line, but they look like able-bodied people. However, I can’t make that call, but when I step up the counter this becomes relevant.

            Two employees man the money services counter. One appears to be actually working but is engaged in Wal-mart employee gossip with the other, who appears to serve no purpose other than bashing some chick that didn’t show up that day.

            “Well Taquanda called in today, again,” says the Worker Bee.

            “Huh, doesn’t surprise me. Probably one of her kids is sick,” says Worthless.

            “Girl, you know she ain’t stayin home for no kids. She just didn’t feel like comin’ in. One more time and she gone. She ain’t given enough notice” says Worker Bee as she scrutinizes my check.

            “Well, she don’t do nothing anyways,” says Worthless. “She probably got another boyfriend.” She catches my eye like I should add something. I just yank my earbuds out and avoid her gaze.

            Worker bee seems to be struggling with my check. Apparently, she doesn’t run a lot of these through her machine.

            “It don’t seem to be workin’,” she says. She takes me over to another machine and runs it through twice. She continues to chatter with Worthless, who tells Worker Bee, “she don’t know how to work it.”

            Finally, Worker Bee figures it out. She runs the check through and asks me to input my social security number. I do it as discreetly as possible as I realize…this lady is going to count all this money in front of all these people. I don’t make a fortune, but I’m sure it’s considerably more than these people see on government assistance. She pulls the money drawer open and I extend an envelope to her.

            “just put it in…” I begin.

            But no, Worker Bee has other plans. Worker Bee decides not only to loudly count my money out loud to the whole world, but holds the bills eye level, so myself and all of Wal-Mart can see.

            “ONE HUNDRED, TWO HUNDRED, THREE HUNDRED,” she counts out two weeks worth of pay for me. As she finishes, she says the total loudly.

            I scowl at her and shove the money into the envelope. I shoot her a look that says, “thanks, now I have to worry about getting stabbed in the parking lot.” She does not pick up on my irritation, and I don’t say anything to her. What’s the point? Everyone within earshot, a considerable radius with the volume of her voice, is now a threat, even MickyD who is next in line. I am tempted to ask her to direct me to the pepper spray aisle, but I just stalk off. I don’t replace my earbuds, as I am now focused on my goal. “Get to the truck, don’t get stabbed. Get to the truck, don’t get stabbed.” This is my mantra.

            I get halfway to the truck when the cart attendant whistles at me and I break into a run. Good thing I have been hitting the gym. Not everything is bigger in Texas. I get in the truck and calm myself down.

            I relay this to the girls at work the next day and they suggest I go to a different Wal-Mart next time. It is smaller, less busy, and close to the office so I can do in the perceived safety of daylight.

            Two weeks later, I pull in to the parking lot of the oldest, shittiest looking Wal-Mart I have ever seen. Since I grew up in rural Iowa, this is a tall statement. However, my colleagues were right about it not being busy. I walked and went to the customer service counter, where a guy was waiting to return diapers and plastic flowers. The guy behind me kept asking me questions like, “have you been here before? Do you know if they sell socks here?”

            I pretend like I don’t hear the crazy guy behind me and he eventually disappears into the bathroom. The guy in front of me arguing about the price of the diapers so I get some time to witness a conversation going on between a patron and a manager.

            The patron has her arms crossed. “Did you see him take the item, did you see the gun?” She asks the manager.

            The manager shakes his head and put his hands up. “Look, there was a commotion, and I was asked to call the police. The police came, and he was arrested. It was reported he had a weapon on him,” he says.

            The patron is irritated. “No, I didn’t ask that. Did you see him take it? Did you see him point a gun?”

            “We had to file a police report,” the manager says.

            “Did you see it!?!?” shouts the partron.

            The manager again throws up his hands and walks away.  Cool, apparently something went down here today. I’m about to leave when the attendant motions me forward. I must admit, I am impressed. She handles my check flawlessly. Upon open the drawer, she surveys the area, and sets up a barricade of money orders. I giggle when I see they are money orders for sending cash to Mexico.

            “I’m going to count this down here. Ok?” she whispers.

            I smile. “That will be fine,” I say.

            She counts them off in hundreds, but avoids saying the word “hundred” or “thousand.” She keeps her voice low and keeps the money on the counter behind the barricade. She discreetly puts the money in the envelope for me. I’m still nervous, but she’s done her best. I thank her and shuffle out. Wal-Mart, just like any other company, has it’s good employees and bad ones. One of the best happens to be my father-in-law.

            Despite the good attendant’s efforts, I was thankful to find out that U.S. Bank now has a mobile app that allows me to deposit checks through my phone. I do not need to carry around envelopes of cash and feel like I have done something dirty to get it. I am glad I decided to keep your business.