Twas late January, and I had just returned to grad school in
California after a six-week winter break in Kansas. Because I
had had a crappy New Year’s Eve (watching rental movies with my
crabby sister, sans alcohol of any kind), the BF and I had
planned a belated New Year celebration upon my return to Cali,
complete with fancy-schmancy dinner, champagne, etc.
We went to dinner at a lovely little place on the water with
expensive food and much ambiance. I ordered pasta with seafood
and a rich, rich cream sauce and scarfed it down gleefully. By
the middle of desert, however, my pasta was beginning to churn
in unsavory ways below my ribcage…
After dinner, we went by a liquor store to pick up champagne,
and by the time we hit the checkout line, I was having so much
intestinal pain that it was all I could do to stand upright. It
subsided after a few moments and, thinking it was gone for good,
I agreed to a moonlight stroll along the bay with my beau.
About a block into the stroll, the pain returned, accompanied by
poots that I swore must be causing 2nd degree burns to my butt
cheeks. I kept reaching back to make sure that a hole hadn’t
been singed in my pants. After awhile, I was so miserable that I
cut the stroll short and convinced my BF to take me home, saying
that I had to pee really badly.
So he dropped me off in front of my building and I ran inside
(praying that the poots I’d injected into the car seat during
the ride wouldn’t rise up and blind him when I got out) while he
parked the car. I was comfortable in the knowledge that my
trauma could still be acted out in secret, because
a) I lived in an area where parking spaces were at a premium, so
I knew it would take him 10 minutes to find a space,
b) said parking space would most likely be a 5-minute walk away
from my place, and
c) he didn’t have a key to my building, and so would have to wait
until I buzzed him in before he could enter.
So I ran upstairs and commenced the horror of expelling all of
that pasta out my back door. When I arrived at the toity and
dropped my pants, I discovered that I’d been releasing more than
just gas during our little romantic stroll!
Not only did my BF luck out and find a parking space 1/4 of a
block away in less than 30 seconds, he also found a nice person
in the lobby of my building who recognized him and let him in,
before he even got his finger NEAR my buzzer.
Meanwhile I, having completed my first round of the shits,
decided that I had to do something about my pants. Thinking I
was safe from intrusion, I hopped off the pot, wiped (alot),
flushed, and began waddling towards my bedroom with my pants
around my ankles, wondering if I should deposit my icky panties
into my laundry hamper (in my closet) or toss them out my 3rd
At that moment, my BF (thinking it would be fun to scare me)
came bursting into my apartment (why oh why didn’t I lock the
door??)! He took one look at me, standing shocked and ass-out
with my shit-stained pants tangled around my feet, and burst out
laughing. At that point I began to try to RUN towards the
bedroom. After a 5-foot trip-and-tumble, I made it to safety.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh so hard.
Reeling in the utter humiliation and sheer hilarity of the whole
scene, I slammed the bedroom door shut. About the time I
recovered, and began getting myself together (I tied the panties
into a plastic shopping bag and threw them in the trash), I felt
a second round of the squirts coming, so I sprinted for the
bathroom once more. As soon as I was settled in for the haul,
the phone rang. My BF answered and, after the initial greetings,
I heard him saying “Cool–we’ll be there in a few minutes!”
WHAT??? Be WHERE??? When I came out of the loo once more, I
learned that my BF had kindly accepted an invitation from my
friend John and his GF to spend the evening with them! Ummm,
hel-LO… did he have NO idea what was going on with my toot
Rather than discuss it with him, I went along. We rented Pink
Flamingo (which is the most horrid movie I’ve ever seen), and I
spent the entire movie dashing into John’s john for squirts of
pasta and gulps of Pepto Bismol (separate ends). I found out later that John and his GF had gotten into a little mutually accusatory tiff afterwards about who drank all the Pepto.
I didn’t even get any champagne.