As A Matter Of Fact, I Was A Home Pooper

Many, many posts back I indicated my severe aversion to public restrooms and one of my readers commented back that I was a "home pooper." After reading that phrase I absolutely laughed my ass off because it's true and I never realized there was an actual term for my condition. Ask anyone in my immediate family and they will assure you it's true. Plus, I am always bewildered by people who aren't home poopers. Doesn't it bother them that someone is going to probably have to go right after them?

Can they not smell that smell? Having a seriously delicate stomach, if I walk into a restroom that someone has just fouled, I have to immediately leave. If I'm on the road there is always another gas station down the road, I can hold it. Or, we can travel the Spartan route as I prefer, and that means there is no food or drink for the duration of the drive no matter how fucking long it is. Chew gum if you get thirsty or hungry. No food or drink equals no stops at public facilities, plus we make better time. You'll have plenty of time to use the restroom when we get to our final destination.

It used to be easy for me to travel years ago. From about 1977 through to 1992 I lived on TaB in a can, thus negating any real need to spend quality restroom time. Briefly in my disco years I tried cocaine (don't gasp, if you're my age you probably did too, remember they thought it wasn't addicting back then) until I got a snootful that was liberally cut with baby laxative. Though severe paranoia and talking frentically after days of no sleep didn't bother me, the effects of the baby laxative did. Who knew that TaB could build up in a colon like that?

Then I got pregnant with my son and had to change my unhealthy ways. Eating food entered my life, along with profound morning sickness for all nine months so that I didn't actually enjoy what I ate for very long. Also entering my life was explaining to my unable to smell anything due to multiple broken noses husband why we had to drive from bathroom to bathroom when we were out so that I could throw up in a clean smelling bathroom. I learned just to always carry ginger ale, wet wipes, crackers, and plastic bags every where with me. It was easier to get sick in the bag while driving down the road than to risk public restrooms or hanging out the window. If I threw up out the window on your car around the Lenox area of Atlanta in 1992-1993, I am horribly sorry, please accept this much overdue apology.

On birthing day, despite having read every pregnancy manual ever published, I some how missed the part about what might happen while pushing the baby out.

And it did. I pooped. In public. With about eight strangers watching. So I did the logical thing and quit labor and told all involved that I would no longer assist in the birthing process. I also closed my eyes because if I can't see them, then they can't see me or the poop. Thank God I had banned cameras from the birthing area.

I found out too late that quitting labor was not actually an option and the baby came anyway. I did warn a friend though that was due right behind me and she immediately quit eating until her induced delivery date. Her birthing video was beautiful and she never said "fuuuuuck" or screamed at God once, plus her lipstick made it though until the end.

One divorce and many years later, I remarried. Thus far I have managed through seven years of marriage to my not so new husband to hide any body function I've ever had. I did have to train him though. He had a bizarre habit of standing outside the bathroom door and asking me if I was okay if I was in there for more than five minutes. I had to question him about this curious habit; did he lose a wife or girlfriend once in a restroom? Was there some form of potty trauma that happened in his youth? Was it an obscure military practice? Finally I broke him of this by telling him that when the door was shut it was none of his business what happened behind it, just to assume I am doing some drawn out and private beauty ritual and will emerge when I am done.

But now the silence and mystery are gone.

I got the bubonic plague/strep throat/ stomach virus this week. And every time I thought I was safe to leave the house, I wasn't. I, after many years of colonic discipline and conditioning, lost my cookies so to speak. So apologies are now extended to the following:

My spin instructor who I damn near knocked out of the way last night to run to the locker room. I was back in time to cool down. You think sickness keeps me from my workout?

Anyone who entered that locker room afterward. I ran for my life before anyone could figure out who did it; it is a bonus being physically fit. When I feel better I do plan on writing a comment card out about putting cans of Lysol in every stall and on the restroom counter.

Everyone from Madison to Tallahassee.

Everyone at my gym in Tallahassee. Bless you for the cleaning supplies readily available.

Everyone from Tallahassee to Pinetta. I seriously considered dropping in on a acquaintance in Pinetta, but realized that to poop and run would be quite rude. My home is not too far away and I felt I had violated the great state of Florida enough. I know they have millions of traveling old people everyday that do this, hence the remarkable availability of rest stops (about every 28 to 30 miles), but I really felt it would not be fair to add to the problem anymore today.

Since yesterday I have had miso, bananas, and some lettuce. I would hate to think what a meal might have done. For everyone's restroom peace of mind, I do plan to stay in this evening. If you were planning an evening out in the Greater Valdosta Metropolitan area or surrounding suburbs, you are safe to go out and enjoy yourself knowing I won't be spreading more plague anywhere tonight.

As an afterthought, I do have to do a follow up on the post "The Love Doctor Is In The House". I got an email from S... yesterday thanking me again, but he never heard a word from A... and decided she wasn't interested after all. I did email him back explaining that most women are a little scared of meeting a guy on Craigslist and that perhaps she had no computer to email him with. He agreed with me and decided just to man up and talk to her the next time he stops at her store. You go for it S... and the best of luck to you!