Indian food

Indian food is the bane of my existence.  So tasty, so inexpensive, so wonderful…and yet, an almost certain laxative.  Usually I can manage to get home in time to poop in privacy, but this time was different.  This time, I added the insult of daiquiris at a friend’s house to the injury of the curry brewing in my colon.  The result was the perfect storm.

I started to feel hot and sweaty on my way to the friend’s house with spasms of colon-twisting pain.  I thought I could power through these feelings and sucked down most of a daiquiri.  As soon as the fruity, cold, alcoholic goodness hit my stomach, I can only imagine that the curry tried to stake out its territory, no doubt viewing my drink as a hostile invader.  A turf war ensued, in which something happened that rarely happens in history: the indigenous peoples (in this case, my large intestine) became so fed up with the fighting that they expelled both of the unnatural invaders.  Fortunately, I made it to the only available bathroom just in time.  Unfortunately, my friend’s significant other entered the adjoining room just as my intestines’ assailants were being paraded out to the sound of canon fire.  (In case the metaphor is becoming too murky at this point, I had a prolonged bout of gassy, explosive diarrhea.)  To add insult to injury, even after a good, strong flush, there was a good amount of butt-shrapnel left in the toilet bowl.  Alas, the age-old dilemma–to second flush or not to second flush?  In this case, mainly because it was curry, I braved the second flush.

I left the bathroom red-faced, embarrassed by the knowledge that my friend’s significant other had heard every bit of my anal explosions, but ultimately relieved that the war was over, and I could go back to my daiquiri.

in which I admire my coworker

In the hopes of catching the serial pooper in action, I have been visiting the break room earlier and earlier each day.  I still have not found that special man or woman who leaves behind a fetid dogfood stench, but I did discover a new-found admiration for my coworker, M.

When I came into the break room, both bathrooms were full and locked.  I waited for a while…a loooong while.  I thought perhaps the serial pooper had been to a bathroom and left the light/fan on to help alleviate the smell of carnage, but when I stepped up to the door to listen, I could hear water running and someone moving around.  I stepped back out into the break room to wait.  A few moments later, I heard a flush, then another, softer flush.  I heard the sound of someone washing their hands under the already running water, then the water shut off and the ka-chunk, ka-chunk of the paper towel dispenser sounded.  The door opened, and my coworker, M, came out, blushing slightly.  She nodded a hello to me and made a hasty exit.

And then I was faced with the moment of truth.  Would I finally learn that M was the serial pooper?  M is an older woman with somewhat questionable taste in food, so the chances seemed fairly good.  However, after all her careful preparations (running water, the secondary courtesy flush, the mumbled “hello” and hasty exit), I was second guessing myself.  The serial pooper must be someone without a shred of poo shame, and it was clear that M was definitely embarrassed upon her exit.  I entered the bathroom, at once relieved and disappointed.  The room smelled like eau de older woman, but certainly not like a half-burnt ritualistic slaughter grounds that had been exposed to the July sun.  It was clear that M is not the serial pooper.  I was relieved that I didn’t have to endure another malodrous bathroom break, but was also quite disappointed that the mystery remained.

I am glad to know that my coworker shares my shame.  Perhaps someday M and I can comisserate about our mutual poo shame, but for those of us in the poo shame club, the first rule of poo shame is that you don’t talk about poo shame.

return…of the serial pooper

Let me begin by saying that there are few things worse in this world than smelling someone else’s poop.  I know what my dooky smells like, and it’s certainly not roses.  But at least it’s mine.  I know, and have known, what the general base scent of my poo is and has been for all the parts of my life I remember.  When I take a dump, I know by the smell if it is last night’s garlicky pasta or if it was this morning’s cereal.  And though it’s not exactly a scent I’d like to bottle and sell (or wear), it is at least familiar.  But what do you do when you’re confronted with the unfamiliar odor of someone else’s poo?

There is a serial pooper at work in my office.

First, a bit of background.  I work at a place that has more than 100 people on staff, and more than 1,000 clients who are very often in our offices.  The clients at my office have their own bathrooms that are more like the industrial, anonymous, multi-stall kind that one might find in a movie theater or stadium.  The staff restrooms, located in our breakroom, are one-holers.  The kind that are more like a person’s home bathroom, with one sink and one toilet and a full-sized, real-life locking door.  They also have industrial fans venting the air out whenever the lights are on.  Normally, I love the one-holer arrangement.  The fan masks a lot of noises that are less than savory, and the locking door ensures much more privacy than one of those goofy stall doors.  But yesterday and today had me wishing that I had opted for the client restroom.

I usually take two potty breaks, one in the morning, one in the afternoon.  I go at a time when I know there won’t be a lot of people in and out of the breakroom because of the poo shame issue.  Yesterday afternoon I went a bit later than my usual time.  When I opened the door to the bathroom, a wall of malodorous stench hit me.  It smelled like someone had eaten a whole bag of cheap dog food and six or seven heads of cabbage, chased with a case of Milwaukee’s Best.  The smell was so bad, I began to worry that the issuer of this stench might have mistaken the trash can for the toilet and taken a dump in there.  But as I walked over to the toilet and looked in, I saw two long, gracefully curving brown streaks on either side of the hole at the bottom of the toilet, accented with lots of little brown speckley bits.  These were some of the most extravagant skid marks I’d ever seen.  But I had to pee, so I sat down and did my business.

Then the door to the breakroom opened and someone came in.

I flushed and looked down to see that the skid marks were still there!  I could still smell the processed cabbage/beer/dog food smell!  Whoever walked into the breakroom would think my butt was the butt that had produced that odor and those magnificent skid marks!  But there was a chance that whoever they were, they were in the breakroom for a soda or to get something from the fridge.  Did I risk a second flush and the possibility that my mysterious coworker would think I’d just laid a huge log or did I chance it that they didn’t need the restroom and leave the skids and the stink?

I chose option two.  I washed my hands, ducked my head, and scurried back to my office.  I went unnoticed as I left the breakroom.  My relief was almost palpable.

Until today.  I took a pee break at my usual time, and again walked into a wall of odor upon entering the bathroom.  No skid marks, but the unmistakable smells of dog food and rancid cabbage gave it away.  There is a serial pooper on the loose in my office.  Do I dare go back at my regular time tomorrow?  We shall see.

it’s called poo shame

I hate pooping in public.  Most people hate it.  But I go a step farther with my hatred and have a condition known as “poo shame.”  Simply put, poo shame is what happens to people when they get embarrassed by pooping in public.  I get very, very embarrassed.

Oddly enough, I love talking about my potty adventures with my significant other.  After a long day at work, the “how was your day” conversation inevitably segues into poop talk.  I rarely spare the details, whether I produced the big brown monster that just wouldn’t flush or whether I walked in to a restroom that smelled like the inside of a dead cow.  Because as we all know, and have known since we were three, poop is funny.