I should maybe apologize for the content of this up-front. Just know, it's for LiLu.
I was trying to decide whether or not to share this particular story, because one, it's really gross. And two, it’s so much like something that would happen to Ben Stiller in a movie. Except that he’d probably knock himself out and break the sink in the process and be found passed out, ass up, with water from the sink flooding the place.
Which is not what happened. It was a much smaller, less dramatic catastrophe.
For the non-scatological among us - the title says it all. You're warned.
So you know, life is just life, and I’m going to bet that everyone has had a terrible poo situation at one time or another. And it's not like I took a poo in a flower bed with tourists around or anything.
Last weekend, Betty set up a glorious pregnancy massage for me. It was fantastic. But that's not what this is about. Pre-fantastic massage, there was a large amount of disgusting stress.
So I got there on time, but of course had to pee. Because when do I not?
The massage therapist met me at reception, and then asked if I needed to use the bathroom.
So she pointed down the hall (it’s a very small place) while she stayed up front, chatting with the receptionist.
Now, another fact in my life, aside from constantly having to pee, is that I just never have any idea when my body will be all, “Let’s have a bowel movement, shall we?”
I’m no longer constipated, which is awesome, but it’s always a surprise. Oh! Poo!
Which is exactly what happened on this day.
So I had the surprise! Poo!
And I wiped. And it turned out to be the kind of sticky, smeary, oddly tinted, vegetabley poo that your toilet paper glides across with alarming alacrity. Which means that it's suddenly smeared everywhere. I mean, everywhere.
All over my butt, on my hand, everywhere. Except, thankfully, on any of my clothing. Thank goodness I was not wearing, as I so often do, a coat that I’d simply scrunched up around my waist.
So I kept pulling toilet paper and wiping and pulling toilet paper and wiping, while trying very hard not to let my poo-covered hand touch anything else.
And I was thinking, “Crap crap crap!” (no pun) “I am about to be all nakey nakey with some woman smearing oil somewhere very close to this travesty of justice. I have got to clean this up.”
I’m also mindful of the fact that the massage woman and the receptionist are most likely all, “What the fuck is that woman doing in there? Having her baby?”
Frantically wiping. More and more toilet paper. And then I spot paper towels, which I douse with water.
I clean, I scrub, I scrub, I scrub. Soap soap soap. Water water water.
I finally emerged. Flustered, but poo-free. As far as I can tell.
But I definitely flinched when she reached for my poo-hand during the massage, envisioning teeny tiny little poo molecules clinging to it. My nose is constantly stuffed up now, so the smell test? Not totally reliable.
I got home that afternoon and Nick asked how my massage went.
And I was all, “Oh, it was great. But you have to hear about this crazy poo thing that happened.”