Maripat Robison

Maripat Robison

Apr 15, 2016

Why Women Hate Viagra**

The Top Ten Reasons Women Hate Viagra

10. Can’t count on aging to get a good night's sleep

9. As if doctors didn't have god complexes already

8. Plausible alibis for dirty old men

7. Makes a penis look super angry

6. There goes your free time

5.  Pants tents everywhere in the nursing home 

4. Doesn't prevent guys buying embarrassing muscle cars

3. Humiliating ER visits where staff asks: "But did you try a blow job?"

2. Those simpering, chiffon-clad fake nymphos in the commercials

1. Now any the right time??

**This is not about my husband

Mar 28, 2016

Special Force: Toilet Seat Down

"John! You left the seat up again!"
"Of course I did."
“I don’t want to touch that germy toilet.”
"Wait. Didn't you make contact putting it up?"
"That's different. I washed my hands after."
"Can’t you wash them after you put it back down?"

I’m pretty sure that the guys who leave toilet seats up don’t appreciate the fact that we have to regularly scrub away all traces of their using them. Even with industrial strength gloves and a two-foot-handled brush, it’s a disgusting task.

Once, a boyfriend asked me: “Why do I have to put it down? Equality means women should have to put it up.”
“Here’s your equality, ” I answered, handing him the cleaner and a brush. He refused, and continued to leave the seat up, while I fantasized about killing him for money.

Some people have a calling to volunteer at soup kitchens or help the elderly cross the street.  I learned that my calling was to be the special force that evens the score on toilet seat position. Special Force: Toilet Seat Down. And I do this for all women, not just myself.

Like many such awakenings, I realized my new spiritual mission while on the golf course. And, it was the same course where Trump did his first comb over, after he looked in the men’s room mirror and saw:

A. A tiny row of really smart women growing on his head.

B.  Mini illegal immigrants jumping over a fence on his part.

C.  Teensy hair-pulling terrorists being tortured insufficiently.

The day of my avocation, my sister and I had been golfing for hours and regularly quaffing water, so we wouldn’t get dehydrated*. Finally, a bathroom appeared, but it was occupied, and there were three other women waiting in line, all tapping their toes and counting pine needles to divert them from having an accident. I looked over at the men’s room. The symbol on the door wasn’t wearing a triangle and neither was I, so I went in. That’s fair.

Well, it didn't smell good in there, as you might imagine. There was a urinal, with a strange round disc in it. I understand these are called urinal cakes. I think they smell like mothballs so drunk guys using the bathroom literally don’t eat them. There was a toilet too, reasonably clean, with the seat up.

 Grabbing a paper towel, I lowered the seat and attempted to go without actually sitting on it, because I was raised to pee only if it was absolutely necessary, and I was never to really touch the seat. After, I momentarily struggled with the feeling that I should put the seat back up, to be considerate of the next user.

That’s when the room went dark. Suddenly, a faint light appeared, accompanied by a rush of fresh air. As the light got brighter, there appeared a fairly hairy and hefty woman (with wings!) pushing open the window.

“God, it stinks in here!” she said.
“Who are you?” I said.
“Uh, the wings?”
 “Angels aren't supposed to be fat and have chin hairs,” I told her.
“It’s my job to make you feel better about yourself,” she answered.

The angel told me that I had been selected to rebalance the toilet seat universe. From now on, she told me, I was to enter men’s rooms everywhere and put the seats DOWN.
“What?” I was almost speechless with disappointment. This was my special purpose?
“Every day, millions of women are praying they don’t kill some guy who left the seat up, so it’s an important job,” she explained.
“More important than being rich and famous?”
“You’re not thin enough for that.”
She faded away, winking, and stroking a line of wiry hair on her jaw, which made me reach up and do the same, but only after I washed my hands.

Known the world over as restroom deserts, golf courses became my specialty. Soon, I was sneaking into men's rooms all over the state, gleefully dropping the seats down, one by one.
The first time I got caught, I walked out, and almost collided with a beefy, red-faced guy wearing ridiculous plaid pants, with a spreading dark spot along the leg.
“You made me spill my beer!” he yelled.
“Sorry," I mumbled, laughing inwardly at his euphemism.

A few holes later, the golf course ranger pulled us over on the cart path, and said, "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you ladies to stop using the men's room. We're getting complaints.”
"I’m the one that did it,” I said. “I’ve been getting a little confused lately."
"She has early onset dementia,” my sister whispered, “sometimes it's hard to keep an eye on her."
"ANOTHER HOLE-IN-ONE!" I shouted, for believability, while he sped off looking scared.

I may have started with free standing bathrooms on golf courses, but by the end, I was slamming down seats in men's rooms everywhere. I used to be happy with just one stall, but then I started craving the two and three stall models you find in hospitals and restaurants.

Never able to replicate the first high I got with my seat flipping, I had to think bigger, so I picked up rubber gloves, a bucket, a ‘closed for cleaning’ sign, and headed to the airport.
"All clean!" I’d chirp at the men waiting in line innocently for their now toilet-seat-down thrones.

Not only have I saved countless lives, but also as a toilet seat mastermind, I have the foolproof method for never getting caught. After all, I'm pretending to clean guy's toilets. They never think they're dirty.  

*On the other hand, I weigh less when dehydrated.

Oct 23, 2015

Male Grocery disease - A Public Health Statement

If you're confused because your guy came home from the grocery store with everything but what you had on the list, you are not alone. A new study shows an epidemic of Male Grocery disease, and in response, the NIH has published this statement: 

Since its first description, Male Grocery disease has gone from a rarely reported disorder to one of the most common causes of marital discord. It was first termed in the early 1970s when women, questioning gender roles, began rejecting elements of the domestic servitude standards of marriage and insisted their husbands were capable of buying groceries (later studies disproved toxic fumes from burning bras as a root cause).

The increasing proportion of women seeking treatment in the U.S. population from the trauma of Male Grocery disease reinforces the urgent need for prevention and treatment of this chronic illness.

To date, numerous studies have attempted to describe the causes and factors associated with Male Grocery disease, generating an abundance of theories on potential risk factors and therapies. An elevated Testosterone level is the strongest known risk factor to date.

In the absence of a cure, it is strongly suggested that women refer to the Braxton-Beergoggle Key for a better understanding of the disease, and as a protective measure for their mental health. 

Eggs=Nacho Cheese Dip
Butter=Ice Cream
Fruit=Pop Tarts
Diet Coke=Regular Coke
Chicken=Frozen Hot Wings
Pasta= Chef Boyardee Ravioli
Laundry Detergent=Bleach

The only 100% effective treatment is abstinence, so plan accordingly.

Aug 18, 2015

Margaret Robison, Unfiltered

Of course I was supposed to despise my mother-in-law. Everyone expects that. MIL hatred is mostly society-sanctioned, and MILs rank high on the scale of those we love to hate. Cosby high.

I was barely six years old when I met my first MIL on The Flintstones
“I like my mother-in-law, I like my mother-in-law,” Fred chanted while psyching himself up for her visit. She isn’t likeable at all, I thought with my kindergarten brain. 

Later, I squirted milk from my nose laughing at MIL jokes:
Q:  What do you have when your MIL is covered in concrete up to her shoulders?
A:  Not enough concrete!

Then too, I had Running With Scissors and Look Me In The Eye to consider – bestselling memoirs written by both my brother-in-law and my husband. One was sensationalist and one was just blunt, but both are indelibly imprinted on society’s perception of Margaret Robison, perhaps unfairly, depending on your perspective.

Appreciating Margaret was simpler for me.  Without childhood hurts coloring my view, I didn’t have to climb the hill of forgiveness first, like I did with my own mother (and she with me).  Margaret was a seriously talented artist and poet, parented by a generation that valued those skills in only the tightest of contexts; parameters she would not be able to meet.

Margaret was raised in Georgia, a kind of pseudo southern belle (which she abhorred - except for genteel manners and the drawl, which she adored). Like the rest of her peers, she was expected to find a husband in college and defer to him. It was a tall order, even before she knew she was gay.

 Wives in the 60s forsook other dreams to become domestic servants and mothers, whether they were suited to it or not. Plainly, servitude was not Margaret’s forte. Was she a good mother? Who gets to judge that? I wouldn't have wanted to walk in her shoes. Back then manic depression was not a celebrity-endorsed mental illness. It was shameful, and you got locked up.  And despite her bipolar disorder, Margaret had plenty of parental regrets, like the rest of us who’ve raised kids. 

Saint? Hardly. Like others of Margaret’s generation, when the floodgates of personal freedom opened in the 70s all of the ‘don’t do’s’ became possible.  Now, you could get divorced. You could be an artist, a poet, a lesbian. Now, you didn’t have to defer, you could create your own context, and be true to yourself. Selfishness was a common overcorrection, paving the way for the Me Generation to come. 

What I admired about Margaret was her talent and her sheer determination to overcome: the death of two siblings;  marriage to an abusive alcoholic (he sobered up and successfully remarried ); her mental illness, hospitalizations, and misplaced trust in a crazy therapist (who later lost his license); having a stroke and being wheelchair bound for decades; public humiliation over not one, but two famous books by her children; a sad estrangement from her younger son.

Margaret contributed her own pain demonstrating forgiveness. She did forgive, completely, and she did it without redemption or by being forgiven herself. That's more than a hill to climb. 

It might be hard to reconcile the woman I’ve described with the dramatic portrayal of mother as monster in print. But at the end, with nothing to gain she told me: “I'm so grateful for you,” running the back of her fingers along my cheek and looking deeply into my eyes. 

Margaret taught me that being with someone who’s dying is the most important job I might ever do; that sitting quietly, or whispering: “Everything will be all right,” is a feat to be cherished, to be proud of, to be grateful for.

Leaving this world is harder than coming in. Helping someone go is a lifetime of compassion learned.

Thank you Margaret. I loved you.