I gaped in awe at the fattest turd I have ever seen. Who even did that?? Their poor butt hole, I can’t even fathom how that thing exited the sphincter.
The blob sat at the edge of the hole in the bottom, threatening to plug it up. My eyes were bulging in amazement. I double-gloved my right hand and prepared to snatch that atrocity out of the toilet bowl with a strong plastic bag.
My hand posied above the bowl, I flushed the toilet to make the water level drop and let me have a go at grabbing the poop. Quick as a flash, it swooshed into the hole and visibly clogged it.
I readied the plunger. Floop, floop, floop. Nothing. Flush. Floop, floop, floop.
Still nothing. Floop.
Eons later, I admitted defeat. My pinky was burning. I took off the gloves and discoveres a blister. A stinkin’ toilet plunger pinky blister.
Oyiee. That sucker hurts.
My kids immediately began complaining about hunger pains the second I emerged from the bathroom. Fine. I santized and fought to open a can of refried beans. My hand slipped and sliced pieces of skin from my knuckles.
Bloody beans, anyone?
My legs quivered as I suspended myself above the toilet bowl. No touching the seat! Just a careful pee session.
Then it happened. Gas slipped out.
Why. Do. I. Have. This. Problem.
I wiped myself and went through the motions of zipping, buttoning, adjusting and flushing. All that time passed and the putrid fart odor remained trapped in the stall.
The door swooshed open to announce the arrival of two co-workers. I stood exposed at the sink, obviously the only culprit.
One of them entered my stinky stall.
My stomach flipped. There was only one thing I could do.
My mom-van finally glistened in the growing darkness. I dropped the dirty blue cloth into my washing supplies and put one hand on my hip with pride. Evening is the only time I am free long enough to clean my vehicle.
My brother pulled up in the driveway at that exact moment. He gave me the usual cursory glance and informed me that I should be doing waterless car washes.
This was my moment to shine. “I just did!” I called out to make sure he heard my accomplishment.
His only reaction was a side glance as he walked into the house.
I huffed to myself. “Pfffft. Whatever.”
He came back out a few minutes later and mumbled, “What are you using, anyway?”
Pushing the bottle into his hand, I took a step back and watched him read it carefully.
“This isn’t a waterless car wash,” he stated grimly. “It’s a detail spray. What you use after your car is clean.”
A look of horror froze onto my face. No way. No no no. I snatched the bottle from him and stared at the words written plainly across the top: “Spray Detail.”
Oh. My. Goodness. Can I please just crawl into the heap of unfolded laundry on my bed and go to sleep? You know what? I still don’t even understand Spray Detail. What I DO know is that I let my kids starve so I could detail my dirty mom-van. All for nothing. Pffffft.
My kids like home lunch. I’m not very good at including a desirable variety of items. It’s not usually a surprise to them about what I might include.
I was caught off guard when my brother noisily searched the remains of my kindergartener’s lunch bag and asked me what the red thing was. He likes to tease me about the “junk lunch” I provide, so I wasn’t paying very much attention… until my daughter asked, “Mom, what’s this red thing?”
My head jerked up and I looked for the alleged red thing. I have no idea what it could be. My brother held up a ziplock bag full of what appeared to be red salsa. But I never ever give my kids salsa. What the heck was that?
I reached for the bag and sniffed at the contents from the outside of the ziplock bag. I nearly retched all over the floor from the horrid odor.
The mystery bag was quickly thrown into the trash as I puzzled over the contents.
Ah hah. I switch out the lunch bags periodically to match the backpack. Sometimes I just can’t find the lunch bag so I use a new one. I apparently neglected to empty the bottom compartment of this particular lunch bag for weeks. The original items in the ziplock bag were tiny wheels of cheese covered in red wax. They must have melted over time.
I felt so badly for my child having brought out the Red Food bag at lunch time, wondering if she had to eat that gross thing in front of her friends. Sometimes, I am absolutely mortified at my horrible mothering skills.
I simply cannot remember. Did I poop yesterday? Or am I constipated? Umm. I was really busy. Every time I had to go, I remember getting interrupted. I think. Or not. Wouldn’t I be extra gassy?
The short path from the kitchen to the bathroom was an endless loop of obstacles. “MOM! She was looking at me!” Or “My neck is dry. I need water. I need water. Mommy. I need water, Mommy!” What was that blob on the wall? A booger? No one confesses.
Midnight arrived. Kids were in bed. Home lunches prepared, kitchen and living room cleaned, paperwork completed and I took advantage of showering with hot water. (Who likes to shower after water hogs?) Brushed my teeth, quickly decided against worrying about tomorrow’s outfit, and sank into bed.
Shit. I forgot to poop.
Poking my head around the corner, I sniffed the air a few times. “Oh.” The tendrils of a slightly putrid odor flew up my nostrils.
My feet took me closer to the door and I called out to my 5 year old sitting on the toilet. “Good job!”
I broke his heart.
I played a dangerous game. I went out with a hopeless romantic when I am an emotionless skeptic. He said he loved me, and I ran for my life. I believe in love but I lost myself with him.
He took charge and made decisions. I was no longer independent. He began to order food and beverages for me without asking and tried to make my usual drink one that he approved. He became agitated with me for not giving him more details about my family in order to impress them with his knowledge. He insisted on pulling my hand and arm over to him as we hung out with my family. He hung all over me and squeezed my shoulders too tightly as we walked. I couldn’t even walk independently.
He spoke ill of others even when informed I liked them. He only wanted the fancy restaurants. Instead of watching a theatre movie, he wanted to spend the time being physical.
He wanted to gaze romantically into my eyes but only managed to make me feel uncomfortable with the stare. He watched me eat like a hawk. He began telling me he preferred me in my stuffy business clothes instead of changing to go out after work.
One day, he said I should gain weight in case it would go to my chest. He softly suggested augmentation. He quickly said I was perfect just the way I am, but it was too late.
He began to show jealous tendencies after claiming that he was not a jealous guy.
He wanted to plan for next year and was disappointed when I admitted that I prefered only to think of next month in terms of our relationship.
I felt like he was lying about his true self to reel me in.
I ended it by claiming I value my independence and just couldn’t be in a relationship. The truth is that he is not the right guy for me.
Now I see him around and can feel him sulking. He carefully avoids me and had admitted he is struggling with not having me anymore.
Meanwhile, I treasure every moment of freedom.
I recently had a boyfriend. It sounds weird to me. Boyieeeeee freeeeend.
I am a grown-ass woman saying I had a boyfriend. I felt like I was either 15 years old or married most of the time.
He wants to know what he did to push me away. He misses me.
What can I really say? You’re a swell guy, but I need to be independent. I cannot really explain it. I am a free bird.
My 15 year old daughter recently reeled in her first boyfriend. I don’t even know why annoying her gives me such intense pleasure, but I make the most out of every opportunity.