Know Your Triggers

*Here’s a little known secret about Yours Truly:  Libraries make me poop.

You don't say.

I can’t explain it.  If I’m in a library for more than five minutes, I gotta go.

Part of the mystery that is my poop trigger is that it doesn’t matter  if I use the restroom before I leave or when I arrive.  Five minutes+a library=Poop. 

 When I was in elementary school, the computer lab which stored our Commodore 64s was located in the library.  I was too young, then, to pinpoint my poop trigger, but my teacher was all over it.  Everyday on my way to the library my teacher would make sure I visited the little girl’s room.  It was all in vain, however.  Without fail, five minutes into class, I had to go. 

In high school I avoided taking study halls because they were located in the library.  The hump back librarian (she literally had a hump back) was not very subtle. Every bathroom pass she handed out was accompanied with the announcement:  “You have five minutes.”    I’m sorry, but you can’t rush such things.   So, I didn’t take study hall.  I instead opted for Spanish V, which I didn’t need. 

College was particularly challenging as I was a frequent visitor to the library, and it’s bathrooms.  My favorite study nook was located in the music section of the library next to a window that overlooked the lake.  The problem was that my preferred bathroom was on the 2nd floor (the toilets on the 3rd floor were weak flushers, and the locks on the stalls never worked). 

Everyday, I would unpack my backpack, set everything up just the way I like it,  and five minutes later I would pack everything up for my shameful dash to the 2nd floor.  This happened every day.  Frustrating.

On Saturday Son informed me 15 minutes before our public library was closing for the weekend that he needed to check out some books for a paper he will be working on this week.  I knew I could get him there in five minutes, but he would need my help if he was going to find all of his books before closing time.  That would take at least……………………five minutes.

I had no choice. If we were going to be successful I had to explain my poop trigger to Son.   I explained to him that he needed to be on his game, attentive, and thorough on his search for the books.  We agreed to divide his list, split up, and meet at the checkout desk in precisely five minutes.  (It should be noted that Son did not bat an eyelash.  He is used to my weirdness and likes a challenge).  We pulled into the parking lot, made a bet on who would be done first, and went our separate ways.

Our mission was successful. 

We were celebrating our awesomeness on our way out the door when I heard someone call my name.  *Stopped dead in my tracks*  It was an old teacher of mine.  I didn’t have time.  It wouldn’t take long for my body to realize where I was.  If I stayed and chatted the only thing I would have heard was “blah, blah, blah, I HAVE TO POOP, blah.”

Son saw the panic wash over me and…..this brings a tear to my eye….he saved me.  He politely interrupted, introduced himself, and with a wink reminded me that we had to get to the store before it closed.  With that, we were free to go, and I was very grateful. 

Am I teaching Son how to lie?  Yes.  Yes I am.  However,  I’m also teaching him to someday save his wife or girlfriend from having to talk to someone she hasn’t seen in years when she really has to poop.  I think that’s a very valuable lesson.

*This isn’t true at all.  In fact, I think a lot of people knew this about me.  It’s also now on the internet so it’s not really a secret anymore.  So, nevermind the “secret” part.

Please Don’t Poo-Poo The Spray

I started off the day in a very good mood.  It’s my workout recovery day which means I didn’t have to get up early for the gym, I got tons of sleep last night, and got ready for work in record time.  But, my day is slowly but surely going to shit, and it’s because I’m starting to believe that some people in my office think their shit doesn’t stink.  I don’t mean that figuratively.  I mean it literally.

My office is very small which means we have to share a bathroom.   What’s even worse is that my desk faces that bathroom.  Lately, it has become difficult for me to ignore the poop smell.  But, today?  Today I’m convinced that some people may have gotten together yesterday to watch basketball, eat some broccoli and asparagus chili, and drink coffee. 

Yes, we have air freshner available, but some people feel as though they don’t need to use it.   I personally don’t understand this as I am someone that will give a courtesy spray even if all I’m doing is washing my hands. 

Listen, the last thing I want to do is be the poo-poo po-po, but I am seriously considering some passive/aggressive retaliation. 

DID YOU SPRAY?! DID YOU?!

Perhaps some people really do think their poop smells likes roses.  If that’s the case, let me be the first to tell you that your poop smells very caca-like.  Not like roses at all.

Some may make the argument that air freshener makes the situation worse.  I think I speak for the other helpless victims in the office when I say we prefer the fresh scent of  poo-pouri over Chanel No. 2.   Please spray.

P.S.:  I can also hear the faucet running and am fully aware of whether or not you wash your hands.  We will never again shake hands, hi-five or thumb wrestle.  Ever.

What?! Wednesday- May I Trouble You For a Poise Pad?

This is now a very close second to my recurring nightmare.  If I had to choose between using this de-veel machine or peeing my pants, I’m peeing my pants.  Every time.

Pees Say It Ain’t So

 I recently read this hilarious post about a woman who didn’t realize she’d been sitting on a pee-soaked movie theater seat for 2 hours.  Unfortunately, I can relate.

I was at Summerfest  a few years ago, and decided to wait in line for a fancy public restroom toilet rather than use a disgustingly overused port-a-potty.

I usually go through a public restroom sanitation routine that includes kicking the stall door open, giving the toilet a courtesy flush with my foot, gingerly layering three layers of toilet paper on the toilet seat, and squatting over the seat as low as my underworked quads allow.  However, this was Summerfest.  I was a bit tipsy.  I really needed to go, and there was no time to mess around.  Not to mention, I had  just spent the past twenty minutes drunkenly complaining, with a group of equally drunk women, about how long people were taking to pee, and bragging that I could be in and out in less than two minutes. 

Finally, a stall opened up.  I prepared for the burn in my quads as I squatted as close to the seat as possible.

Feel the burn.

I was in position when all of a sudden a sneeze snuck up on me and knocked me off -balance. What happened next happened slow motion Matrix style. 

With my shorts around my ankles, I frantically tried to regain my balance without falling onto the toilet paper-less seat.  There  I was, bare-assed and drunk, my left foot raised, my arms flayling in really quick, really small arm circles, and my eyes open wide with terror.  As I went down my fingers grazed the top of the feminine napkin waste container (EWWWWWW!),  and the stall walls (GROSS!).  In a matter of seconds I was sitting, bewildered, on a cold, damp, wet toilet seat.  Readers, someone else’s pee was touching my butt. 

 

DIS. GUST. ING.

Although I continued to drink, I didn’t use the bathroom for the rest of the night.  I did end up peeing my pants a little on the way home, but it was my pee.  Not so gross.  Right?