Do you want to hear something gross?

It would seem I never learn my lesson.  I have the bad habit of starting conversations with the question, “Do you want to hear something gross?” even though I know that no rational person is going to answer that question, “Yes. Yes, Summer, please tell me something gross.”  (Especially considering since it’s me and all, it might be a story about the dog farting or it might be something that no one wants to know, like I found a raisin and I ate it and turns out it was poop… just, you know, as an example.)  The reason this question presents a problem is because it provides a false sense of security, as if you could answer no, and not hear the “something gross.”  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Rest assured, if you are unfortunate enough to be in my vicinity when that question is uttered, you will be hearing the “something gross.”  Don’t try to resist.  Just open wide and take a big spoonful of TMI.

Case in point, the other day I was speaking to my mother, the woman who birthed me, and asked her the above question.  To which she replied, “no” (ironic, actually, considering that this is a woman who feels free to discuss her bowel movements with me)  But I proceed to tell her anyways, because that is what I do and I really need to communicate to her the following fact:  quite often, our new apartment inexplicably smells like spicy diarrhea.  You know the type – the kind that comes after one too many tacos.  Or as we in the industry (ie, former Chili’s employees) like to call it, The Chicken Ranch Shits. I have come up with the following possible reasons for my predicament:

1.) The upstairs tenants have a weakness for spicy food and their bathroom vents into ours.

2.) There is a fat maintenance guy who, being as he can’t always make it back to the office in time, lets himself into my apartment when I am gone and fire shits into my toilet.

3.) My cat has kitty fart parties when I am gone to get back at me for his countless humiliations, see below:

The humiliations I have suffered this day will not be soon forgotten

4.) I just have really bad karma..  (see above)

And my mother, lord bless her, immediately goes to the following dark place,

“Oh, do you have ethnic people living around you?”

Now I know I have not always been the most culturally sensitive (see my experience with the shart donut) but I try, I really do.

This is also the woman who doesn’t believe me that calling people “Oriental” is offensive.  When I told her, she acted all annoyed that I had corrected her and then called me a week later to tell me she had asked some of her friends, and none of them thought that it was offensive.

Yes, mom, your white, middle-class, middle-aged female friends, in the south, are very likely the most culturally sensitive people you could go to for advice on this one.

Although it did almost make up for it when I asked her,  “If you are calling someone oriental, then where are they from?”

and she responded, “…   …  the Orient?”

All this to say, that I am on my way to GA to visit this crazy lady and introduce her to her little grandson.  Mr. Man is maybe going to need a lot of therapy.


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