Because really, what else are you going to do on a Thursday morning?
Dukay and I spent a lot of time together in the car this past weekend, driving to and from Charleston. And Dukay is not the best little road tripper in the world, because when Dukay is driving, he wants to FOCUS on driving. He is CONCENTRATING on the road. He just wants to listen to his music, man, and he does not want to make boring old small talk with me, whom he sees every day.
This is boring to me. So I basically just bother the fuck out of him whenever we're in the car together, all, "What's wrong? Are you okay? You haven't said a word in six miles. SIX MILES! Do you want to talk about politics? Do you want to talk about art? What's your favorite color?"
And so on. I am really, really obnoxious. But that's okay, because I am also kind of cute. So it balances out!
Anyway. So we were driving forever, and I decide to try to engage Dukay in a conversation about our most embarrassing moments, and he, naturally did NOT bite. But I did! I got snared in my own little trap, and I ended up telling Dukay my most embarrassing story ever, and now that I've told him, and he didn't break up with me on the spot? I figured, well, what the hell. I'll tell y'all, too. Don't judge me.
So here it is. In honor of this nasty, rainy, cold St. Patrick's Day, and the ridiculous amount of alcohol that will probably be consumed tonight, I give you: My Most Embarrassing Moment EVER. And, for the third entry in a row, I'm writing about poop. Let's stop this trend really, really quickly. Just as soon as I finish this story.
Okay. So. Back in college, I was dating this guy we called Lumberjack. Jack lived with a shitload of other guys (oh, it's a PUN! Reread! You’ll laugh!) in this highly-sketchy, crappy (ha!) house near campus. All the guys in the house had girlfriends, and all of us girlfriends found ourselves hanging out a lot of the time, while our boyfriends played video games and got drunk and generally acted like frat guys. So on one of these occasions, I was on the front porch smoking cigarettes with the other “house” girlfriends when girlfriend #2 (Just you wait!), who I kind of knew but not really, felt the sudden urge to “drop the bomb,” if you get my drift. So she went inside, hit the bathroom, and did her thing. And then: TERROR. The toilet. Would. Not. Flush. Of course.
So she came tearing back outside, freaking the fuck out, not knowing what to do, because she had just taken an insanely not-ladylike shit in the boys’ toilet, and it was just a matter of time before the odor of it all overtook them in their Playstation trance, and her boyfriend would realize that she was a HUMAN PERSON who did things like MAKE WASTE and he’d break up with her and tell everyone and she’d never get married and so forth. We other ladies sprang to action, if by “sprang to action,” you mean laugh loudly at the predicament and light new cigarettes. But then when we saw that #2 (see? SEE what I did there?) was really honestly panicking, we stubbed them out and headed inside to find a plunger.
And, y’all. There really was something insane going on in that toilet. I’m just saying.
But we dealt with it. I dealt with it, actually, because of four girls, I was the only one who had mastered the art of the plunger. So there was relief and much thanksgiving and so forth, but #2 was also extremely, extremely embarrassed, and probably thinking that maybe we would run down to the sorority houses and tell EVERYONE about the experience, so she started crying.
Now, at this point, there were four of us. Myself, #2, my best friend Ames, and another tertiary girlfriend. We were all trying to comfort #2, who really kind of needed to just calm down already, but she just wasn't having it. She was, like, BAWLING. So I did what any good friend would do, namely, I told her an embarrassing story of my own. Involving poop.
See, the first time I went home to visit Jack’s family, I was sharing a bathroom with Jack. His parents lived in this old farmhouse, which was very nice, but the plumbing? Not so much in the “advanced” category. The plumbing was from Little House on the Prairie. Possibly the plumbing was Amish.
So anyway, the first night I was there, I used this plumbing. And it did not respond...well. It did that gurgling, water-rising thing. And I freaked out accordingly. And there was nothing I could do -- no plunger, not even a toilet brush, and there I was, staying at a house with random parents I hardly knew and a semi-new boyfriend, and all of them had already fallen asleep. I thought fast. Fast! And this is what I came up with.
1. I opened the window.
2. I grabbed a dixie cup.
3. I scooped out the poo.
4. I threw it out the window.
5. I hid the cup in the trash can.
So...yeah, that’s what I did. And, eventually, the water sort of went down and the toilet went back to normal, and I thought all was right with the world. Until the next day, of course, when it turned out that I had thrown the poo ONTO THE BACK PORCH. But even THAT was okay, because they had a big dog.
I know. Oh, I know. Y'all, this is awful. You can stop reading now if you want to.
And...and it wasn’t until I watched LJ’s dad scooping up my own, personal deposit with the dog’s pooper scooper that I almost died of abject humiliation and shame. At that moment, I decided that this was the exact sort of thing I would take to my grave.
Until I had to deal with an uncontrollably bawling #2.
And told her, and the tertiary girlfriend, and Ames, the whole story.
Everyone laughed, and #2 felt better because she could now be secure in the knowledge that, if I were to ostracize her for the circumstances of her bowel movement, she could respond with equal ammunition. We all swore each other to secrecy. We. Swore. We went on with our lives. Until.
Senior year fraternity formal. Imagine twinkling lights, a fine restaurant. Expensive wine and nice dresses. We actually drove from Nashville to Florida for this event, it’s that big of a deal. And about twenty of us were all sitting at this long table, sipping our wine and playing “I Never.” Which is...always appropriate during a fine dining experience, but whatever. Still, though, it was pretty tame stuff, all things considered (by which I mean “considering how ridiculously drunk most of us already were”), like “I never had sex in the fraternity house,” or “I never threw up on that nasty ass couch and pretended I didn’t.” It was tame, people. TAME.
But then? It was Ames’s turn. Ames. Who is missing that part of your brain that filters things. And also that part that remembers things. Like where she was sworn to secrecy. That part. Because she promptly announced, in the loudest voice imaginable, “I never threw my own shit out a window in a dixie cup.”
Total silence. No one was drinking. I actually wasn’t paying all that much attention, and for some reason, I did not immediately realize she was talking about me. I was thinking car window, road trips, some drunk thing one of the drunk ass guys did on the way down here or something. But no. ‘Cause at that point, Ames pointed her finger at me, and hollered, “DRINK, WOMAN!"
Oh, the mortification. MORT. IFICATION. I died. Right then, I died. I am writing this entry from beyond the grave. I did not survive that experience. And the worst part was that...uh, I had never told Jack about it. And so of course, Ames told him (actually, she told EVERYONE, because everyone was now SPELLBOUND) the whole story, INCLUDING the part about JACK'S DAD having to POOPER SCOOP my POO, and Jack almost lost it, but not so much in a good way. Everyone else DID lose it. And, of course, remembered the whole story, detail for excruciating detail, when we got back to school on Monday. Thank God we graduated the next month.
So, to summarize:
1. I have bad poo experience in Indiana
2. I tell friends about bad Indiana poo experience in Nashville
3. Bad Indiana poo experience is shared with everyone I know while in Florida
4. I feel need to share bad poo experience with Dukay somewhere in between Charleston and Atlanta, and:
5. Now I feel like sharing bad poo experience with everyone in the WORLD, and THANK YOU, INTERNET, for allowing me this golden, golden opportunity.
And, this concludes Miss Doxie's Poop week. From now on, I'm talking about bunnies and unicorns, and I don't want to hear SHIT about it.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
P.S.: Also, a big, non-poop related thank you for the nominations for the Diarist Awards! Y'all nomiated me for best comedic entry AND best journal. That was so nice of you! It makes me feel special and loved, and makes me feel comfortable sharing very, very excruciatingly embarrassing stories with y'all. Aren't you GLAD?
Anyway. If y'all want to vote, here is the main voting page thingy. Now, go drink a green beer!