Bathroom stories

Everyone loves a little potty humor. Don't lie. You may say out loud that it's entirely inappropriate, but you know you secretly laugh inside when someone farts.

It is in that spirit that I share the following bathroom stories:

1. Squiggle Poop
2. Whistler Mountain Poop
3. Tiny Zoo Potty
4. Human Poop in the Living Room
5. The Flaming Poop

I was reminded of a couple of these stories last week just through innocent unrelated conversation. It's funny how one or two words can remind you of random incidents.

Anyway... here we go.

I don't know what it is about siblings growing up. Perhaps you can relate. My sister and I, when we were very young, were always intrigued by each other's poop. If it was big or funny shaped, we always called the other into the bathroom for a little gander. For some reason, this seemed normal. (I actually can't believe I'm writing about this in my blog... My sister is going to kill me.) Anyway, one day when I was probably 5 or 6 (my sister was 7 or 8), I'm just minding my own business when I hear, "Ky! Come quick! I have to show you something!"

The fervor in which this was declared would tempt any naive child. So, baited, I ran into the bathroom sure to be astonished by the poop that would be exhibited there. To my horror and amusement, as I peered over the top of the porcelain, I practically had to rub my eyes in utter disbelief. What was floating in the water was unlike anything I had ever seen in all my young years. White, squiggly poop. (As an adult looking back, I would swear it was a huge tape worm. That's exactly what it looked like.) It was amazing. I just looked at my sister and said something to the effect, "Something is wrong with you."

Fast forward at least a good 15 years, and after having told this story at least as many times, my sister, one fateful day, confessed the truth. She took me aside and quietly reported that she had, in fact, taken a tube of suntan lotion and squirted it into the toilet. (What would possess her in the first place is truly beyond me.) It all became crystal clear. Why, after 15 years, I still believed that her poop would actually be white and squiggly in and of itself is hilarious. Then, top that off with the fact that it wasn't poop, but suntan lotion...

Lesson learned #1: Never believe a thing your older sister tells you.

As you may know, my husband and I celebrate the anniversary of our nuptuals each November. We typically go some place fabulous,; often times the location is a surprise to me. On our second anniversary, Scott was taking care of all the travel arrangements and just told me to pack warm. I had no clue where we were headed. Such fun!

The surprise: An 8 day vacation to Whistler, BC. We stayed at the Whistler Fairmont Chateau - a gorgeous hotel with all the amenities. The evening we arrived, we enjoyed relaxing facials in the 5-star spa. It was awesome. He done good.

For 8 days, we took long, refreshing walks, all around the Village (lovingly referred to as the Willage) and the outlying areas - golf courses, lakes, beautiful vacation homes, etc. We hiked to our favorite little breakfast place each morning - probably about 3/4 mile from the Fairmont. We usually hiked back to our room for a mid-morning nap, then head out again for a long walk in search of a unique lunch experience. This particular morning, however, we had just finished a fairly large breakfast and felt like we should probably walk it off. So, instead of heading back to the room, we headed in the opposite direction towards Alta Lake (I think - location matters none). It was a long, long walk. We walked through the Willage, to the Whistler version of the suburbs, where we were met with several posted trail maps. We chose a direction that we knew would take us another 2-3 miles, around this beautiful marshy area to a lake. We were about a mile in and I realized, I had to go. So, we kept walking until we found another posted map, which would give us an indication of where the public restrooms were located. (I had some facial tissue in my coat pocket - I never leave on a hike without them!) But, it wasn't like these trails were void of other hikers. So, it wasn't as simple as just hopping off the trail and squatting next to a tree. (HA!)

45 minutes into the walk, I was really needing to go. And not just, "Gosh, it'd be nice to go to the bathroom." I'm talking about the gotta-go that makes you grumpy. #1 and #2 grumpy. And growing more irritated and rather anxious by the minute. Scott was just moseying along, taking in the gorgeous landscape as I was nervously trying to rush (without running) down the trail. Finally, in the distance we saw the restrooms. I was almost as relieved as I would have been actually using the restroom. By this time, I was power-walking. (All I can say is thank God I was blessed with bladder control.) We got about 100 yards when I thought outloud, "Oh, geez, I hope they're open. It'd be just my luck that they'd be locked." Scott assured me that, certainly, they would be open.

Au contraire. To my horror and consistent with my luck, they were closed. I don't remember exactly, but I'm quite certain that at this time, I swore. A lot. There was another little building back in the main park by the lake, just 75 yards or so away. I'd try them. I'd try anything.

Nope. All was in lock down.

Side note. While vacationing in the off-season is awesome for the bank account, it sometimes is not awesome for available amenities. Note to self.

Scott, by this time, was amused by my urgency, but also annoyed that I was snapping at every little breath he made in my direction. He was not helping.

I looked back to where the restrooms were, and noticed a small trail that led to the woods, along the railroad tracks. I just looked at Scott and said, "Let's go." He knew what I meant. He's very intuitive that way.

We hiked several hundred feet into the woods. I was getting my facial tissue ready (which is the very reason I carry it) looking for the lucky tree that would block the view of my back side from the trail. Scott's responsibility was to ensure that no other hikers would unknowingly bump into me.

I identified a massive tree, ran to said tree, dug a quick hole, dropped my pants and squatted.

Ahhhhhh.... Sweet relief. #1 followed by an urgent #2, my senses began to come back to me. As I squatted, I decided to take in the scenery. A beautiful view... Tall pines, fresh air (relatively speaking)... I looked back over my shoulder to make sure Scott was standing guard, when I heard a very loud engine roar past. Gosh, that sounded like a semi... In the middle of the woods? Nah... It was then I realized I just might be taking a poop in someone's back yard. Just several yards away was a huge picture window directly facing my butt. Oh, and that was the highway just several yards past that.... As I was busily cleaning up and burying the evidence, I thought to myself, "I wonder if I ruined someone's morning coffee...."

Lesson learned #2: The woods have eyes... and living room windows.

About 4 years ago, Scott and I flew out to Chicago to visit family - mom, bro & sis-in-law. We headed out to the zoo one fateful day... Five of us all smooshed into a little 4-door sedan (emphasis on the “little”) flying down the highway until… we hit traffic. And lots of it. Not a big deal, really, under normal circumstances. But, I really had to go. It’s one of those things that as time progresses, things stop being funny and start being more serious. That’s because you’re seriously concentrating on not peeing your pants. At least I was.

So we finally made it, and, just my luck, there were restrooms right by the front gate. Wahoo! True to form, there were no lines going into the men’s restroom, but the line for the women’s wrapped around the side. Yea.

Standing in line, doing the pee-pee dance, minutes passed, and I was, at last, next in line. The first stall door opened, and I rushed in…

Now… I had never seen one like this before. In fact, I didn’t even know they existed. But, had it been under normal circumstances, I would have thought, “Whoever thought of this is brilliant!” And not only brilliant, but most likely a millionaire. There before me, was a teeny, tiny toilet. Probably only 12 inches from floor to seat. The thought flashed through one-half of my pee-filled brain, “You should wait for an adult-sized stall…” And then the other half responded, “Do you want to have an accident?” Knowing that my answer was “no”, I decided to use the tot-potty. So… down came the pants, and down I squatted… lower… lower… lower…

Once again, as I was feeling the sense of sweet relief, my cognitive abilities regained strength and I realized… Wow… These stall walls are really high.

As I began to analyze the wall height in relation to the elevation of my tush, I quickly reasoned that, indeed, my butt was lower than the walls. Which meant that everyone standing in line was at this very moment observing an adult butt hovering over a tot-potty. Lovely.

I hurriedly finished my business, washed my hands and fled. I’m pretty sure that I would never see any of these people again in my life.

Lesson learned #3: Tot potties are for tots.

Everyone loves a naked baby. There is something so cute about a tiny little naked person running around the house. Little chubby legs and chubby feet pitter-pattering… Jeffrey LOVES to be naked. In fact, once he gets a taste of freedom, he will stop at nothing to keep from getting captured and forced into a giant cotton-filled pad we call a diaper. It isn’t often that we let him run around like this because, with boys, the mess is more far-reaching than with a girl, if you know what I mean.

Several months ago, just after bath time, I let Jeffrey run unabashed throughout the house. I thought, very naively, that it was safe. Scott, sitting on one couch, and I on another, watching proudly as our son danced and giggled. A beautiful thing.

Until….

I heard, “HE’S POOPING!” My head whipped in the direction of my son. And to my horror, he was now squatting on the floor holding on to the coffee table, as poop, like Play-Doh from the Ice Cream Shoppe, oozed onto my living room carpet. There really wasn't anything anyone could do. It was already there. Too late.

My husband proudly stated, "I never thought there would ever be human poop on my living room floor." As if it's ok to have non-human poop in the living room.

Lesson learned #4: They make diapers for a reason.

This one is a bit of a repeat, but the story is totally worth repeating. Mostly because hardly anyone believes me until my husband confirms that it is true. Because I've told this in a previous entry (November or December 2006), I won't go into the detail that I once did.

In November 2006, my husband and I were blessed to visit my uncle and his wife (who I will call my aunt, but I don't want to confuse you by saying "aunt and uncle" as if they are relating in any other way other than marriage... which they aren't... we're not from Arkansas....) in Santa Fe. They had just retired and sold their home in Los Angeles where they had lived for... well... forever. They bought this beautiful little adobe in the midst of the Pojoaque Indian reservation. Needless to say, when you live off the beaten path in a little po-dunk town, you may or may not have all the amenities of a the city... such as the city sewer system.

This isn't anything unusual. I grew up on a hillside in the country where we had a well and septic system. Not that different other than the occasional pumping and some extra infrequent maintenance.

But, for some reason, my aunt and uncle were taking matters in their own hands. Literally. Rather than flushing the paper with which you use to wipe your nether regions, they would place it in a trash receptacle (with a lid, but without a trash bag, ewww). We were told on our evening of arrival the proper methods of waste. Awesome. (I'll just say that this lasted, for me, one day - then everything was flushed the way that God intended. It lasted for-never for Scott, who refused to do anything but flush everything.)

One particular day, my uncle, having announced that he was experiencing the call of nature, excused himself for... quite a while. Scott and I played computer games sitting in the living room, while my aunt read in a chair next to us. Ahh, peaceful.

Peaceful until my uncle came a-whistling around the corner with a big ol' wad of toilet paper, and chucked it into the fire place to be burned.

Did you hear what I just said? He threw his poopy-paper in the FIRE! TO BE BURNED!!!!

Now, I was always told that you should never pee on a fire because the smell is something else. Ok... so... what about poop? I'm pretty certain that, likewise, poo and fire do not mix. I'm fairly certain that this might have something to do with pollutants and free radicals and global warming.

Lesson learned #5: Don't roast marshmallows at my aunt & uncle's house.

I could probably write all day about funny bathroom stories, but I think 5 is enough... for now.

Happy pottying!