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So, dried fruit. Backs you up or gets things moving? I only ask because in the last two days I’ve consumed about three pounds of dried mango and I’d really like to know what I’m up against. Since tomorrow is the fourth and I plan on spending the entire day at the beach, I’d really like to know if I have to dedicate some bathroom time tonight or will be in the clear.
TMI? Sorry, dudes.
Actually, I’ve been living on fruit lately. For weeks. Not just the dried variety. I tend to go fresh as well. Which let me tell you, with ever-increasing food prices I’ve been spending a good chunk of my paycheck on $3.99/pound grapes. Grapes are my favorite summer treat — I freeze them! I get a big bag, split them in half and freeze half at work and half at home. They fill the void when all I want to do is eat and they take longer to eat when they’re frozen. A bride-to-be’s dream.
My dad recently asked me what I did to my diet since he said I looked skinny. (Woot!) Truth me told, I haven’t changed a whole lot. I still eat everything, just a lot less of it. And then there’s the fruit. After breakfast it’s all I consume until dinner, basically.
And up until yesterday things have been going just fine. Going in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.
But now I’m starting to feel a little…stuck. And I’m sure that the six mangoes residing in my stomach is not helping the cause.
If I was a masochist I would make my first visit in 8-ish years to the local Taco Bell. Followed by a giant jug of milk. And a bowl of chili.
Ew. OK, I’ll stop now.
Enjoy your 4th. I’m going to go finish off the last of the mango…
What? I can’t just let it go to waste!
I set the alarm earlier than usual so I could get up and go the gym. Michael did his best to rouse me from my sleep, but it just wasn’t happening. I don’t know why I was so tired, but there was no way I was getting up.
An hour later I forced myself out of bed and groggily shuffled downstairs to feed the dog. After he ate, I began my normal morning routine: shower, makeup, hair and poop.
What? You don’t have a usual poop time? Or better yet, girls don’t poop, right? You’re lying.
As someone who has a stomach so sensitive that if I look at food it’s upset, I know that when I have to go, I better take the opportunity while in the comfort and privacy of my own home.
I repeat: comfort and privacy of my own home.
I plopped down on the seat (wait, sorry. Plopped is a bad choice of word. Sat. I sat down on the seat.) and let my mind wander as I looked out the window overlooking our backyard.
I was suddenly snapped back into reality when I noticed a MAN walking in my yard towards the window.
Omigod! I’m pants-less! On the toilet! Pooping!
I bent myself in half getting as close to the floor as I could and listened. I heard the sound of a hose being dragged over icy snow and realized that it was the gas man coming to fill our tank. (Gas man. Appropriate, no?)
When I heard him walk back towards the truck I jumped up and closed the shade. I sat back down and waited, as things were now not going as smoothly as before, and silently cursed the dog for being in a food coma and not barking at the arrival of a man.
I don’t think he saw me. Or if he did see me, he was polite enough not to laugh.
He did leave a 2008 calendar on the deck, so I guess it wasn’t a total loss.
Dear New Guy,
You’re outnumbered 4:2.
Please put the seat down.
This is a weird topic and not for the squeamish. I’m serious. If you’re easily grossed out, stop reading.
That being said…those of you in a relationship: what are your bathroom boundaries?
Mine used to be very cut and dry. When I’m in the bathroom, he’s not. Period. I didn’t mind if he wanted to brush his teeth while I was in the shower, but anything involving the toilet was off limits until I was done.
As our relationship progressed, the boundaries changed. It started with peeing while the other one was in the shower. Then it was peeing while the other one was brushing their teeth.
The boundaries had been reset. I was OK with them.
And then they changed.
Michael got sick. The kind of sick that makes you go to the bathroom. A lot. Our house is small and there’s only one bathroom. So when someone’s really sick, you know it. Now I worked in a daycare for a year after college. I’ve changed more than my fair share of dirty diapers and went through countless accidents that occur during potty training. Obviously I don’t enjoy other people’s bowel movements, but I can handle them.
Since he would be in there so long, we would end up talking through the door. I’d be playing with the dog, he’d be doing his business. It actually didn’t seem that weird, except for when he would talk about it. Is it all guys or just My Guy that likes to discuss the details of his excrements?
Eventually it started cutting into my routine. I needed to do my makeup before work, but he was occupying the room. So I’d dash in, grab my stuff and dash out. Then finally, he had to go when I was in the shower. What can you do, say no?
Now we did not make a habit of this. That was an emergency situation. He does not have the freedom to do as he pleases on the toilet while I’m in there. I don’t bring in a chair and discuss current events. This will never be a regular event for two. It’s still a private time.
And then this morning, while he was in the shower, it hit me. I had to go. It was my turn to push the boundaries. Was I ready for it? I momentarily panicked. Up until now it had always been him going in my presence. Was I ready to share the most personal of situations, which could potentially included noises or smells?
Turns out I was. Oh he made fun of me, of course. But it wasn’t that bad.
I cannot wait until we have two bathrooms.
Women don’t have it easy. When it comes to the bathroom, that is. Here’s the thing. We were not born with an extra appendage. In all other life situations I am quite happy to be sporting a va-jing and not walking around with something wagging between my legs.
But when it comes to the bathroom, particularly a public bathroom, well, guys just have it made.
All the ladies reading are quite familiar with the process. You go into the public bathroom and assess the situation. You feel slightly deflated because even if the seat looks clean, there is no way you’re going to sit on it. So you squat. Which is why we all have super-strong thighs. Because we have no choice.
Now let’s get to the real issue at hand. The work bathroom. This is one of the bathrooms that I don’t feel all that uncomfortable letting go of the bathroom issues and actually sitting. Because it’s not really a public bathroom. There’s maximum 10 people who use it and seven of them are women. It gets cleaned every day. It’s pretty much safe.
I just went in there and staring up at me, a dark gash against the stark white porcelain, was a hair. One loan hair
“AH!” I thought. “Ahhhhh!!!!”
Because a hair? In the bathroom? On the toilet? Ew, ew, ew, ew.
As I balled up the TP to swipe it into the bowl I tried to tell myself whatever I could to make myself feel better about The Hair.
“It’s from someone’s head/arm/leg….nose! It’s got to be.”
But you know it wasn’t from someone’s head/arm/leg or nose. And I know it too.