Me vs. Pooping In Public

So, in a recent rambling post earlier this week I referred to the fact that I have a poop problem.

It’s true. I absolutely HATE to poop in public.

I will literally do anything to avoid dropping the kids off at the pool in a public venue.

I don’t think it has anything to do with OCD tendencies, but has everything to do with the fact that I want no proof that I actually do poop.

Which is ironic given that I’m writing this post.

And, that if you ask me to strip nude and run across a football field, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second.

Dare me to shit in a Wal-Mart bathroom and I’ll quickly opt to slam my head in a door for hours at a time.

True story:

I was the editor of a weekly newspaper, 24 years old, and shooting a triathlon at the YMCA one Saturday morning.

The race was winding down when all of a sudden I got that grumble. Yeah…THAT grumble.

The one where your internal bits-n-pieces flick you in the forehead and say “t-minus 10 minutes ya douche. Find a bathroom pronto or you’ll pay!”

I look over at the beautiful 2-year-old YMCA building and consider walking in to enjoy the elegant lavatory facilities, but pass.

In my psychotic mind I’m all “No….I gotta make it back to the empty newspaper headquarters to unleash the fury.”

Only, I needed to drop off the roll of film I just shot (yes, this was pre digital cameras) and then drive another 15 minutes to the offices.

Jump to 10 minutes later…the film has been dropped off, I’m 6 miles and 18 traffic lights from the office, pounding the steering wheel with closed fists while screaming “I can’t fucking hold it in!!!!” and in my mind seriously considering just letting it go.

I didn’t…..

I held it…..

And

I made it.

And when I sat down…let’s just say I made Niagara Falls look like a rookie.

I’ll save you further details but reveal that six hours later I had visited the doctor’s office and was standing at the pharmacy to pick up suppositories to help with the tiny rip I had from the massive exodus of poo that fire-hosed out of my “exit tunnel.”

In short, my balloon knot had been slightly damaged.

And there you have it…

I don’t like to poop in public. There are so so so many more stories…but for now, I leave you traumatized with that one.

Sweet dreams!



Things I Miss When the Mother-In-Law Visits

For the past week my wife’s mother’s been hanging out at the abode helping referee the kids during their never-ending spring break.

She hopped off the plane direct from North Carolina last week and has since managed to keep our kitchen clean, our clothes folded, and our kids corralled.

Am I about to complain even for a second? Hell no.

But despite the love she’s shown, you can’t help but look forward to getting life back to the way it was, right? I mean, let’s contemplate the top few things I miss when my saint of a mother-in-law is in the hizouse:

• Enjoying a rare 15 min. of semi-interrupted time on the only toilet in the house without having to deal with my insecurities and psychotic thoughts surrounding someone else knowing that I pooped.It’s true, I have serious issues surrounding pooping in public and other’s knowing that I’ve just pooped. But that’s another story for another time.

• Knowing my (men’s underwear + panties = ) manties have not been touched by anyone but myself or the wife.

I’m not gonna lie. I love coming home after work and seeing piles of neatly folded laundry relaxing on top of my made bed.

But what gets me a bit freaked is when I see my manties folded neatly in a perfect square to be kindly put away for safe keeping. I mean, she’s touching where all my dangly bits touch!!

• Yelling at my dog without her saying, “awe, he’s just a puppy.”

My common response is, “you pet him he’s yours Ms. Mother-In-Law person!!”

• OK damn it…I masturbate. There, I said it. Can I do it when the mother-in-law is in the house? Yes! But it’s gotta be strategic, stealthy, and no mistakes can happen. And sometimes that’s just damn exhausting. But I do it anyway… I mean no I don’t!!

• There’s nothing better than walking downstairs completely nude at 5 a.m., fixing a cup of coffee, and just chilling for 30 minutes in the buff before pounding out some miles on the road with a run.

Can I do that with the slightly older Mrs. Wife in the abode? No….it’s just too damn risky. For her sake that is….

• I’m a habitual toucher of the wife. I’m the guy that can’t help myself but to lovingly tap the wife’s buttocks when she walks by or on rare occasions, cop a feel in her upper regions. And, like most women, it usually results in a “can’t I just walk by you without you groping me?” comment.

To which I usually respond, “I’m just celebrating your gorgeous body sweety!”

It’s just not the same when her mother’s watching. You’d think it would be better…but it’s just not.

I could go on…but I’ll save you.

And since my mother-in-law is known to randomly surf my blog, I’ll just end it with:

I love you Nanna!!