In rare bouts of weirdness (I am delusional- that is not rare) I like to talk about poop. C'mon. It's good for you. And healthy. Two to three times a day, guys. Stop acting like bodily functions don't happen to you daily. And stop acting like you don't LOVE pooping. You do.
Get on the poop train. I have an incredibly pointless and plot-less story. I'm a writer, I've got all kinds of this shit up my sleeve. (That was on purpose. It's like a pun.)
Onward.
One fine day I was house sitting for a man in Seattle. I didn't know him well (or at all, really). I posted myself on craigslist for a place to live for a month and I got an offer from a strangely normal person to watch his dog, George, and his house while Mr. Normal was away doing what he does. We'll bypass that weird story for another time. But yes, I posted myself on craigslist for a place to live and found one. Sketch-free, even.
Once again, one fine day I was house sitting for a man in Seattle. In my morning regularity I made my way to his bathroom and, as a regular person does every now and again, I clogged it. The toilet wouldn't flush. You know that terrifying thing that happens when you flush the toilet and instead of the water going down it just starts coming up so slowly, but sooooo quickly, and then you stare at it kind of squatty and wide-eyed, like a football player ready to block a play (but really you have no idea what you're doing) until you realize that that is not actually going to prolong the raising of the toilet water. It's still comin' atchya. That's when everything on the floor frantically ends up in the bathtub to prevent... soiling, if you will.
Perfect timing for my dad to call. So you know when your dad calls sometimes and you answer with, "DAD! I clogged the toiletandit'sallcomingatme and I don'tknowwhattodowhatdoIdo!?" No? Well, if you did I bet he wouldn't spend many, many precious toilet-water-raising moments to laugh hysterically at you. Mine, on the other hand... did. And then, gasping for air, suggested to call a plumber.
A plumber?! So when Greg gets back in a few weeks I hand him his plumber bill and say, "Hey dude, I took a shit and clogged your shitter. Sorry man. Here's your bill. By the way, thanks for letting me live in your house for free." Nope. Not going to happen. So I grabbed the plunger, which apparently had saliva glands, or something, because it slobbered on me from the knees down before I even allowed it to touch the flooding toilet. Not much in my life would make me kill for a shower. Until I got soaked by a pre-used toilet plunger.
Knees wet, crack free, I fixed it thank you very much. The flood ceased, and other than where the plunger spat on the floor (and me), the bathroom floor was dry as bone.
My poop train day didn't finish. Nohohoho. No there.
So, you know when you go sit at a cafe for seven hours and you drink so much coffee that, a) you're sweating like a pig, and b) after the third cup your bowels are a-churnin'? (Sometimes I am a lady, I promise). Well this was one of those days. Bathrooms at this place are one-holers. And gender-free. They don't discriminate over in Seattle.
So, you know when you suddenly realize that you could be really embarrassed about something, so you stop dead in your tracks like a deer in headlights and want to shrink into a mouse hole? That's what I did when I walked out of the bathroom after... you know, and saw a line of four attractive men waiting in line behind me to get in. Stop. Stare. Almost throw up in my mouth. And then laugh a little while I made eye contact with each of them.
At this point there can be no more shame. At this point I can't see a stinky bathroom with a skidmark behind me. At this point I choose to see four attractive men all here to look at me staring at them like a deer in headlights. Milk it. Smile. And walk away confidently. Bowchickawowow.
