Tag Archives: Bathroom Humor

At least he’s a reader?

28 Jul

Alan and I were 12 hours into a roadtrip this spring when – having exhausted all reasonable topics – I asked, “What percentage of people do you think have pooped in a car?”

To his credit, without missing a beat, Alan simply said, “I wouldn’t even know how to begin answering that.”

“Pretend it’s an interview question,” I suggested. “You know – like how Google asks people impossible questions just to understand how they solve a problem?”

After a pause, Alan engaged. “OK. So I think we need to put some parameters around this, because I’ve got to assume that pretty much every baby has shat in a car. Are you specifically asking about adults? Pooping in a car as an adult?”

“Yes. And you raise a good point. I think we need to narrow the age range, because after a certain age it’s probably pretty likely you’re going to start doing it again. So maybe we say between the ages of 16 and 65?”

“You’re talking about people shitting themselves, right? Not using a toilet in the back of a bus or an RV or something?” he clarified.

And with that, we were off to the races. It’s only in hindsight that I realize I was preoccupied with the wrong question. Had I thought to explore something more useful on the topic of cars and poop, I would’ve added four more letters to my question. I should have been asking, “What percentage of people have pooped in a carport?” But those were more innocent days.

…

I live in Richmond’s historic Fan District. The streets are generally lined with some combination of row houses and standalone homes that date back more than 100 years. Unlike many of my neighbors, I’m fortunate to have off-street parking with a covered brick carport in my back alley. Until Friday, I viewed it as a massive asset because – in addition to parking – it provides a nice spot to throw a party if ever the weather doesn’t cooperate for an outside soirée.

While I’ve been viewing it as something of a “bonus room,” apparently someone else had similar thoughts – but in a very, very different direction, as I discovered on Friday morning.

I started that morning with a pep in my step. It was almost the weekend. It wasn’t raining for the first time in a week. It wasn’t miserably hot. I was off to meet friends for pickleball before work. Life was grand.

… Until I swung open the gate from my backyard to my carport and saw pages of a book crumpled up and scattered across the pavers next to my car. Thinking one of the recycling bins in the back alley may have lost its lid, I naively walked over, intending to tidy things before heading to pickleball.

And then the smell hit me, and the penny dropped. This was not some random litter that had blown into my carport. This was makeshift toilet paper and it was covering up a pile of human excrement. Right next to my car.

At some point in the night, someone had ducked into my carport and let loose. I’d like to think it was a case of gastric distress, with someone facing a panicked emergency seeking out a relatively private spot to find relief. I imagine a poor college student with undiagnosed IBS wondering what hit him, as he scrambled through his book bag looking for something to clean up with, finding only his tattered and underlined copy of Camus’s “L’Etranger.”

While I’m clinging to that – dare I say, optimistic? – version of events, my worry is that my carport has just been designated as a public restroom by the people who panhandle at an intersection a few blocks away. Abiding by the “broken windows” theory, I was quick to clean the mess and bleach the floor of my carport.

As I cleaned, I couldn’t escape the harsh blaze of the motion-detector floodlight above me. Which made me wonder: had the person who squatted there waited for the light to time out, or had they been spotlighted as they shat? It seems like illumination would have offset the privacy the person sought – but depending on the level of emergency, perhaps it was a situation where there was no room to adjust the plan once it was underway.

Later in the day I traded notes with the previous occupant of my house for an unrelated reason.

Her: How are you doing?

Me: Great, other than someone taking a dump in my carport last night!

Her: Oh, that happened to us when we lived there too!

Me: Once or multiple times???

Her: Just once. Right before we moved. They wiped their butt on my husband’s car.

Say what?! How is that even possible?

I guess the lesson here is this: it could always be worse. I could now be driving a Prius with pinstriping. I’m just lucky this person had a book in their bag, and that they were willing to part with a few pages, though it certainly brings new meaning to the phrase, “shitty taste in literature.”

…

I bet Alan is already dreading our next roadtrip.

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Paris: Let me talk about eating…

24 Apr

You can’t visit Paris without at least one post about the food.

Our first night in Paris, Kelly and I struck gold when we had dinner at Café Constant. If you’re a foodie, that name probably rings a bell because it’s one of four restaurants in Paris (three of which are in a neat little row on the same street) by Chef Christian Constant. Also worth noting: it was a bargain – dinner was only 16 Euros per person in a city of often over-priced meals.

It was a hopping Friday night and the café had a nice little hustle going on, so the only place available to seat us was at a small table tucked under the stairs. Some diners might not find it desirable, but I enjoyed it, feeling like a little turtle tucked up in its shell as I ate.

Though most people in the café were French, two older, American-sounding women sat at the table next to us. We didn’t try to eavesdrop on their conversation, but when their dessert came, we gathered that one woman had ordered the roasted prunes in some sort of red wine reduction.

“Nasty,” I whispered to Kelly. “I would never think of a prune for dessert, would you?”

She was just shaking her head when we both heard something that caused us to lock eyes, raise our eyebrows and lose ourselves in laughter: The woman had raised her spoon and told her companion, “I might just shit myself at the table after eating this!”

You can take a girl out of ‘Murica, but you can’t take ‘Murica out of the girl.

That gave us one just more reason to split the profiteroles rather than try our luck on the prunes…

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Knock, knock. Who’s there? Barry? Barry, um, in, um, uh?

17 Jul

Confirmation that it's bad: this e-card already existed.

Confirmation that it’s bad: this e-card already existed.

If your day started out as expected and didn’t take a sideways turn when someone surprised you by putting a tube up your ass, I think you can consider it a banner day.

Just, WOW.

Let me back up… This morning I went to the hospital for a CT scan that was scheduled weeks ago, when symptoms led my doctor to believe my intestines might be nearing the point of explosion.

(In case you’re curious, those symptoms are: sustained high fever, stabbing appendicitis-like pains, overall body aches, nausea, and either projectile-vomiting or diabolic diarrhea. So basically, either a Crohn’s flare or the flu.)

To make sure my disease hasn’t progressed to the point of needing surgery, a CT scan was ordered. I was stoked that a colonoscopy wasn’t needed. What’s that saying about asses and assumptions?

This morning I showed up, woefully ill-prepared for what awaited me. I should’ve realized – after handing the receptionist my doctor’s order – that I was in for something special. She looked at it, then turned to a scrubbed up technician walking past the desk to ask, “Have you seen one of these before?”

Not a good sign. He looked at it, then looked up at me, then back at the paper. A doubly-bad sign.

After they whispered for a bit, I was shown back to his office and given two gowns to change into. TWO. Another bad sign.

When I emerged from the dressing room, he said, “OK. I’m going to have you sit right here in my office so I can keep an eye on you. Do you know anything about this procedure?”

Also known as "Radioactive Milk."

Also known as “Radioactive Milk.”

Apparently I did not. The nutshell: I had to drink a 1/2 liter of Volumen (basically a Barium suspension) every 15 minutes for 45 minutes, then hop on the scanner table and roll to my side so they could give me a Barium enema – then squeeze my cheeks while they slid me into the scanner for photos.

Wait. A. Minute. No one warmed me that I’d be getting an ENEMA.

While the idea of a tube jammed up your ass is disconcerting when suddenly sprung on you, the more immediate concerns are: Is there any chance I need to GO to the bathroom? How robust was my toilet paper this morning? Might I accidentally poop on this stranger?

It’s not a great place to be. I said, “Hold up. I can’t believe no one prepped me for this. Do you always get stuck breaking the news?” He shrugged and gave a “what can you do?” look.

“Boy,” I said. “Seems like you get stuck with all the fun stuff.” He cringed and nodded. I had to go out of my way to not use the word “shocker,” because I didn’t want him getting any ideas when he flipped me to insert the tube.

“Well,” I continued. “I’m sorry in advance. For both of us.”

He nodded before he caught himself. Then he tried to save it by saying, “It’s not so bad. I could be in the ER. At least you’re a walkie-talkie.”

“Walkie-talkie?” I asked.

“You’re walking and talking,” he explained. “In the ER, most people don’t have insurance, so they’re homeless or indigent. They aren’t always conscious and they don’t shower often.”

Perfect. That made me feel a bit better. I was pretty sure I could stack up favorably compared to a homeless person. But then again, no guarantees.

When he handed me the first bottle of Volumen to drink, he asked if I’d like a straw. I shook my head, screwed off the lid, and chugged it without pausing for air. I think he was mildly intimidated when I passed the empty back to him. Probably for many reasons. At this point, I began imagining myself played by Melissa McCarthy from Bridesmaids, in the screenplay of my life.

During this 15 minute interlude, he attached an IV to my arm so they could push the contrast dye into my veins easily once I was on the table. To make small talk while he did this, he asked me my age. Turns out we were only a month apart.

I’m here to tell you: the only thing worse than learning that a stranger is going to give you an enema, is learning that he is pretty much your age. Because you can imagine the happy hour he’s going to have, when he tells his friends about the unexpected procedure he had to conduct, and the otherwise professional woman who shat herself on his table.

I tried to block that image and instead chugged the next bit of Volumen.

Around this time, he started to get nervous about the timing. The last bottle of Volumen needed to be consumed in two drinks, with the barium enema occurring in between, and the dye injection happening after. He was using his smartphone to set timers for everything. “Just me,” I asked, “Or is this a bit of a circus?”

He nodded. “We don’t do this that often, so it’s a lot to coordinate.”

We moved to the CT Scan machine and he consulted his phone. “OK. Time to step out of your panties and lie on the table.”

How about you don’t use the word panties during a medical procedure? I thought.

Silently, I complied. I settled in on the table, knees propped over a pillow. And then he said, “OK – roll to your left.”

Before I did, I said, “In case you wonder what’s going through someone’s head at this moment, I think you should know. I am praying I don’t shit on your machine.”

He nodded solemnly and said, “I appreciate that.”

I rolled over. Tube inserted. My bowels filled with barium and the feeling was similar to when I flushed a toilet in Australia and saw everything swirl in the reverse direction.

It was go-time. I performed. And I did not ruin the machine.

Is it wrong to high-five a technician when you bolt out of the office? If it is, I don’t want to be right.

And that was my hump day. How was YOURS?

Seriously. They sell this shirt on Zazzle.

Seriously. They sell this shirt on Zazzle.

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Hey Girl: That’s Not Pretty

30 Apr

Image Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4yDNWlvK6s

If you’re friends with me on Facebook, then I apologize in advance: You’ve already had to weather this rant. And yet, it is worth repeating. To make it somewhat more bearable, I’ll try to channel Ryan Gosling. Indulge me.

Hey Girl,

I see you there with your super-firm thighs. Thighs that say “thank you” for attending pilates throughout the week. Thighs that could make Gallagher cry because they can split watermelons like a cashew in a nutcracker.

Those thighs? They got my attention.

But not just because they’re attractive. No.

Girl, I know you’re asking those thighs to do double-duty. That in addition to looking fine stacked up on a pair of Manolo Blahniks, they’re punching the clock doing overtime. Know how I know?

Because of that fine spray of pee all over the toilet seat in your office building’s communal bathroom. That’s right.

I can picture you there, standing like crane ready for construction, feeling the burn as you unburden yourself. 

And Girl, you must be exhausted from that effort. I mean, it is WORK to perch there like a hovercraft.  So no wonder you can’t find the strength to grab a tissue and clean that toilet seat off. Honestly, how could you?

I can’t fault you for that. But Girl, think of all the other ladies whose thighs aren’t as strong, who must sit on that toilet seat to relieve themselves. They end up sitting in a puddle of your pee. And I don’t know if you’ve seen these women, but their reaction to that isn’t one of loving kindness. No, Girl: It’s fury.

They make water cooler jokes about how they’re going to stalk you and hug you and pee on your legs. And these women? They’re a bit off-balance, so I’m concerned they might try. They’ve even gone so far as to use the office printer to make a note to hang in the bathroom, though they got distracted by a box of Girl Scout cookies before locating the tape to hang it. I’m telling you, they’re one step away from psychotic. I’m concerned for you.

But I don’t want to weaken your resolve or your thighs. I’m not proposing something dramatic, like expecting you to – God forbid – wipe the toilet seat after yourself. No, Girl. You’re too precious for that.

I have a better plan: Girl, we gotta work on your aim.

Kisses,

Ryan

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So you thought YOUR Monday was bad?

16 Nov

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I was working from home, sitting in the living room, immersed in a project on my laptop. Curiously, down the hall it suddenly sounded like my shower was running. But with much more water pressure than usual.

After a split second pause in which my thought bubble would’ve said, “Does. Not. Compute,” I hopped up, ran down the hall and turned on the light – just in time to see water pouring through my bathroom fan and on to my toilet. Um.

I raced upstairs and pounded on my neighbor’s (of Mr. Stompy fame) door. As soon as he saw me he said, “We have it under control,” before I could even tell him I had water coming through my ceiling. Then he said, “I’ll be right down.”

I nodded and left. [When telling Alan this story he suggested that I should’ve said, “Control? Your definition of control involves water pouring through my fan? I think we need to revisit your grasp of the word.”]

When I got back downstairs, I was glad to see that the flow had reduced to a trickle, so I started mopping up the water. But although it was clear, it had a certain, suspicious eau de parfum to it that made me think of sewage.

When this dawned on me, I froze and stared at my hands, simultaneously kicking myself for not being the type of person to use yellow rubber cleaning gloves and wondering how scalding I’d have to make the water to feel my hands had been adequately cleaned. About this time, there was a knock on my door.

I opened it and my neighbor came in. “Let me see what’s happening,” he asked, moving  toward my bathroom without waiting for an invitation. “So what happened,” he explained, “Is that Jude clogged the toilet. But he doesn’t understand how things work – I’m the fixer in this relationship – so he freaked out and tried to plunge it but then flushed before it had worked.”

I stared up in horror. “So this is an overflowed toilet?”

Michael nodded, taking it in stride. “Yeah. We just need to give it a minute and let it go back down before we plunge it. This toilet is so finicky. I could flush a BRICK down my other one – and sometimes I practically do – but this one? Not a chance!”

I was still looking at the ceiling, trying to understand how something overflowed so dramatically into my bathroom. And trying to process that I had, in fact, been sopping up my neighbor’s fecal water.

Apparently Michael thought I was staring at the ceiling because of the incessant squeaking come from the floorboards. “I need to get back up there – I can hear Jude pacing,” he gestured. “This has him really upset.”

Really upset? Upset that he doesn’t know how to work a plunger? Or upset that he essentially took a shit in my bathroom? Because I’d be willing to let him feel better if he wants to come down and scrub this joint.

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